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I race down the driveway lined with hedges and column statues topped with lions. I round the last turn of the winding driveway, a grand colonial revival estate home coming into view. Porsches and Ferraris are lined up outside despite the four-car garage.
I guess my friend at the gate must have been able to alert my arrival because I’m greeted by six armed men, guns raised and pointed at my car. Every single one of them has the same slicked back hair, like they are on set for a hair commercial rather than defending the Don.
“This seems like overkill,” I say, getting out of the car, ignoring all the barrels trained on me. I recognize Renzo among the men, looking obnoxious and arrogant as ever. “Bring her to me now, Luciano”
“Who?” He cocks his head to the side with a snide grin.
“My. Wife.” My fingers flex around the gun at my side. “If something happened to her…” My growl is predatory, ready to tear anyone limb to limb who stands between us.
“Oh, my sister? No, she’s fine.” His lip curls. “But she’s not your wife anymore.”
“The fuck she isn’t—” The front door opens, and her father steps through. All my attention is directed to him when I demand, “Where is she?”
“You’re too late, boy.” He clasps his hands in front of him. “Euphemia is getting married.”
“She’s. Married. To. Me.” I slap my chest punctuating each word.
“Not for much longer,” He straightens his lapels like this conversation is wrapping up, but it’s only getting started.
“I won’t fucking sign.” I shove my gun into my waistband and step up to him, face to face on the cobblestone porch.
“Come on, you’re smarter than that. We don’t need you to sign anything. Hell, we didn’t even need you to sign the marriage license.” He scoffs and my blood curdles. “We paid to get your phony marriage on the books, and we’ll pay to get it annulled. With or without you.”
Venom laces my words as I tower over him. “That will never fucking happen. Now, where is she?” I shout while fisting the collar of his shirt. Multiple pairs of hands grab my arms, dragging me off, but I never stop yelling, my heart raging. “Where ismy wife?!”
A sharp sting hits my neck and my hand flies up to the spot. My vision instantly blurs and my equilibrium shakes. I look over my shoulder and get a flashing glance of Gianni holding a syringe before my knees give out and I slam into the pavement.
My head spins, like it’s stuck in a whirlpool. Everything in my sight becomes fluid, bending and flowing as my surroundings fade into a black current.
I don’t know how long I’m out for, but when I wake up, the sky is a hazy pink. I can see the rising rays of sun through the small square window of the…where the hell am I?2
I smell gasoline and dirt and as I wriggle in my bindings, rough unfinished wood scratches against my cheek on the floor. My head feels like it was stuffed full of kerosene-soaked cotton balls and then lit on fire. Even opening my eyes to the darkness sends blinding pain through my forehead. My muscles are stiff and sore like I’ve been in the same position on the hard surface for hours.
My feet, bound at the ankles, kick out and hit long poles of some sort. They clatter loudly to the ground. One of them falls in front of my face, the dirty head of a shovel, and the pieces come together: I’m in a gardening shed. I laugh out loud in the dark space. Effie’s idiot brothers must have been in charge of my captivity because a shed full of tools doesn’t make the most secure location.
In addition to my ankles, my wrists are tied behind my back. Judging by the scratchy feel against my skin, the rope is crude fiber. Sawing through the ties with the edge of a spade won’t be quick, but it’s not impossible.
I flop around like a goddamn fish out of water until I’m positioned where I need to be and get to work. I drag my bound wrists against the blunt edge of the spade until my wrists are raw, my back is cramping but I’m finally free.
As soon as my hands are unbound, I am ferociously ripping at the ropes around my legs. My fingers feel like I’m fisting ice made of broken glass as circulation returns to my hands. Each tug at the ropes is a sharp pain, but I don’t care about any of it. Don’t care about anything other than stopping that fucking wedding.
My insides are like an inferno as my thoughts fill with her wearing a ring from another man, warming another man’s bed. But what shatters me most is knowing that she’s facing all this alone, thinking I hate her.
I won’t even entertain the option that I won’t get to her in time. I need her to know that I fucked up, I judged her too quickly. I didn’t give up on us. Ihaven’tgiven up on us. I’m going to fight until she’s by my side or I’m six feet under.
I stagger to my feet, my head spinning with the lingering effects of the drug. I reach for the knob, but even though it turns, the door doesn’t open. I try again and again until I come to the conclusion that something must be blocking it from the outside.
I take to ramming my shoulder against the door, throwing all my weight into the cheap wood with so much force I’m surprised I don’t dislocate the joint. At last, I hear the sound of splintering planks and know I am almost there. A few more slams and the boards that were nailed over the door snap in half and I’m stumbling into the cool, early morning air.
I try to get my bearings, scanning the manicured lawn and rose bushes in front of me. I could still be at the Luciano’s, but I can’t be sure, I never spent much time here. I could circle back and if I haven’t left their property, I might be able to get to my car. That poses a larger risk of being seen, my only advantage right now is they don’t know I’ve escaped. And while her brothers are not the brightest, I doubt even they would be stupid enough to leave the keys in the ignition for me.
I creep further out into the lawn and away from the shed until I can get a better view of the house and confirm it is the Luciano’s. Which means that the fence across the grass should border the road. I sprint across the lawn, praying there aren’t motion sensor lights or that I get another dizzy spell that sends me eating shit.
I make it to the iron fence, my shoes soaked by morning dew. I climb over and onto the street below. Of course, in this rich as fuck neighborhood there are no beater cars parked on the street. Nothing I can hotwire and get the hell out of here, so I continue on foot.
No phone, no weapon, no plan—yet—but despite all that, my end goal is crystal clear: I am getting my wife back.
1.Pray for Me—The Weeknd, Kendrick Lamar |
