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“Pathetic. I never would have thought you were a don’s daughter.” He kicks the leg of my chair, and I jolt in surprise, making him laugh again. “You have a shit poker face. Anyone with eyes can tell you are terrified right now.”
I want to tell the genius that I was just nearly blown up and then kidnapped, so of course I’m terrified, but he continues talking before I can find the words.
“Does it make you feel better to hear that Luka Volkov will be murdered soon?” he asks.
My heart stops.
“Or does that make it worse?” he continues. “He’s your husband, but none of us have been able to figure out whether you like him or not. Care to weigh in?”
I blink again, and I can finally make out that I’m in some kind of warehouse. I don’t recognize the men around me, so I know they aren’t Furinos or Volkovs.
“Irish?” I ask, looking up at the man standing in front of me. His hair is shaved, making his small head look even smaller compared to his meaty body.
He kicks my chair again, and I’m surprised he doesn’t kick me. I can tell he wants to. He doesn’t look like a diplomatic, talk-it-out kind of guy.
“I’m asking the questions. Answer them, and I won’t cut your pretty face up.” He leans forward, his acrid breath hot on my face. I turn away from him, nose curled.
“What’s the question?” I ask, sounding as disinterested as I can.
He runs a finger along my jawbone. I turn away, but the ropes around my wrists make it hard to move. “Did you enjoy fucking Luka Volkov?”
I clench my jaw, and then look him in the face and spit. It lands in his eye, and he curses and backs away, wiping at his face. His cheeks go red with rage, but the men behind him chuckle.
He is back in front of me in an instant, his face only a few inches from mine. “Be careful, girl. You are only as good as your information. If you refuse to tell us anything about Luka, we’ll kill you. And I’m the one in charge of whether it will be slow or fast.”
A shiver runs down my spine, and I do my best to keep him from seeing it. “Why are you doing this?”
“Where is Luka Volkov?”
“I don’t know.” This is the truth. For the first time in weeks, I’m glad I don’t know anything about what Luka has been up to. I don’t have to lie. I genuinely don’t know. “I ran away from him a few days ago. I haven’t talk to him. I’m not sure where he is or what he is doing.”
The man stares at me, his eyes cold and assessing. Then, he grabs the black bag and pulls it over my face again.
The air is stagnant and stuffy, and I want to ask for him to take it off, but honestly, it is better than being asked questions. Especially questions I don’t know the answer to. I don’t know anything. I may be a don’s daughter and an underboss’s wife, but I don’t know a damn thing that is going on.
I don’t know why I’m here or what the Irish want to do with me. Maybe it has something to do with Cole, but I can’t be sure. I certainly don’t know why they blew up my car.
I can still feel the explosion reverberating in my bones, and I hope it didn’t hurt the baby. I didn’t fall on my stomach, but the ambush was a blur of blows and dragging. Did someone touch my stomach? Did anyone hit me or throw me into something roughly? It’s hard to say. I’m desperate to lay a hand over my stomach, as if that would somehow protect my unborn child, but I don’t. These men might not know about the baby, and I don’t want to give them even more ammo against me.
“Maybe a game of Russian roulette would wake up her memory,” the man says to the crowd of men around me. They all cheer and stomp their feet like they are watching a football game in a rowdy bar.
When the barrel of a gun presses against my temple, I’m grateful for the bag over my head. That way, no one can see the tear rolling down my cheek. He cocks the gun, and I’m not sure if he’d really do it or not. If he’d really pull the trigger and leave my life to chance, but I have no reason to think he wouldn’t.
I squeeze my eyes shut and say a silent apology to my child. If I’d stayed at the mansion, none of this would have happened. I shouldn’t have run away.
The man counts down—three, two, one—and my entire body is shaking with anticipation.
Then, a voice. “Stop.”
It is calm and level-headed. No sense of panic or urgency. And I hear the man with the gun back away. Then, new footsteps approach. When the bag is pulled from my head this time, it is a gentle motion, and it doesn’t take nearly as long for my eyes to adjust to the lights. As soon as I look up, I recognize the shadow looking down at me.
It is my father.
* * *
The first thought I have is that I’ve been saved. My father was at the restaurant a few minutes before my attack. Maybe he heard the explosion and came back to find me gone. Maybe he came after me.
Except, that thought falls apart when I see the way the Irish mob members are backing away from him. My father doesn’t have a weapon or an army of Furinos behind him. The Irishmen are simply…listening to him.
