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However, the diversion provided by her presence is short-lived as the weight of just one of her previously spoken words finally forces its way to the forefront of my thoughts.
Mafia.
The word echoes relentlessly in my mind. This is Portland, Oregon—a city known for its vibrant culture, diverse cuisines, and artistic expression. But a mafia? That seems inconceivable, almost comical.
Yet, the events of last night flood back into my consciousness. The sight of a lifeless body, the shots fired in my direction, and the enigmatic man in the designer suit who stole me away to this underground cell. Panic begins to claw at my throat, tightening its hold with each passing second.
Oh, God.I’ve been kidnapped by the mafia.
The realization hits me like a freight train, and I feel a chill run down my spine. My mind races, trying to make sense of it all, to understand how I ended up in this situation.
Justine’s gaze softens as if she can read the turmoil in my eyes. She takes a step closer, her voice gentle but resolute. “I know it’s overwhelming. But you’re safe here. Luca may be the boss and scary as fuck at times, but he won’t harm you. Well, not unless you pose a threat to his family or the business.”
Swallowing my next bite becomes a meticulous process, each chew feeling like a desperate attempt to grind away the lump lodged in my throat. With trepidation, I summon the courage to utter my next words. “He said I was a liability. Put me in this cell. I’m pretty sure he already thinks of me as a threat.”
Justine’s laughter fills the air once more, carefree and mirthful, and a pang of jealousy stabs at me. “Oh, honey. If that were true, you wouldn’t still be breathing. You’d be in a dumpster downtown somewhere or at the bottom of the Columbia.”
Fucking hell. Her words do nothing to ease the knot of anxiety tightening within me.
She continues, “But don’t repeat that I told you that. I shouldn’t have even mentioned the mafia, but that’s something you could have put together on your own after what you saw. Regardless, even though I love Jaxon and would never turn on him, they forced you here, and you should at least know what you’re dealing with. Plus, I can trust you, right?”
There’s a bit of a darkness that passes over her face at that last question, and something tells me Justine isn’t always as bubbly as she’s portrayed so far. Still, I nod as I consider everything she’s shared, even though she knows she shouldn’t.
The hunger that once consumed me dissipates as I do, replaced by a heavy weight that settles in my chest. Setting the half-eaten plate on the mattress, I realize I no longer have an appetite. “You’re seriously happy here?” I ask, my voice laced with bewilderment.
Justine’s expression grows pensive, her gaze locking with mine in a moment of shared empathy and understanding. “I won’t deny there are risks, and the word ‘mafia’ carries a certain…distaste, but it’s not like they’re prowling the streets every night, searching for people to murder. They’re businessmen, to some extent. They avoid violence when they can and possess an unwavering loyalty. Knowing what Jaxon has done for me and what he would do in the future to ensure my safety... I choose to find solace in that knowledge, not fear.”
I’m left speechless. There’s no understanding the world she’s describing, or perhaps I simply refuse to. I don’t want to be the kind of woman who seeks comfort in the act of taking another person’s life.
“I’m glad you’re happy here,” I manage to say, struggling to maintain a respectful tone. “But I didn’t end up in this situation by choice. My life is...complicated right now. I need to find a way out of here before I lose everything.”
My words carry not only the weight of my own life hanging by a thread but also the burden of my mother’s house. The sole reason I found myself in that damn hotel last night was to earn the money that would secure her home. If I were to lose it all despite my efforts... I can’t even fathom the thought.
“Oh, speaking of,” she says, then reaches into her back pocket and wiggles my phone between her fingers. “I need your passcode so we can make sure nobody calls the police to report you missing.”
I raise both of my brows in surprise. Not only because my phone is supposed to be missing, but because I don’t understand why in hell they would think I’d comply with that request?
Not only would I prefer someone to report me missing, but the phone holds important details of my life that someone like Luca Monroe doesn’t need to be privy to.
Justine exhales wearily, her arm dropping to her side in defeat. “Listen, Olivia. I know we’re strangers, but try to think of me as your friend. I’m here to make things easier for you, to help you escape this cage. But in order for me to do that, you need to trust me.”
That’s the second time she’s mentioned the word “trust,” and while she seems almost too easy to talk to, I don’t know that I can right now. The concept feels foreign in this dim, desolate space. I cast a skeptical glance around, my gaze taking in the walls that hold me captive. Believing in any of these people? It’s a notion seemingly as fictional as the situation I find myself in should be.
Justine’s voice cuts through my doubts, her tone earnest and pleading. “If you refuse, if you yell or threaten, you’ll only prolong your stay here, possibly for weeks or months. I won’t be able to help you. But if you comply, if you show them that you’re not a threat, regardless of what you’ve witnessed, then I can get you out of here.”
Her words hang in the air, accompanied by a sense of desperation and grief that clouds my judgment. Perhaps it’s the turmoil I’ve been hurled into, distorting my perceptions and warping my capacity for reason. How else could I find even a flicker of attraction toward the monster who threw me into this abyss?
I take a moment to contemplate her proposition. Her sincerity resonates within me, and despite the whirlwind of emotions and the fog of uncertainty, a glimmer of hope begins to emerge. Maybe, just maybe, I can find a way to navigate this treacherous terrain.
“Fine,” I concede, extending my hand toward her. “Give me my phone, and I’ll show you my email and texts.”
The grimace that appears on her face tells me everything I don’t want to know.
“I know I just said I’m your friend, but there are certain things I can’t do until I’m told otherwise,” she explains, tone full of sympathy. “You can’t have your phone, but I promise, if you give me the passcode, I’ll be respectful of your privacy and I’ll relay anything you need to know. I can even read your messages aloud for you, if you want. But without the code, they’ll remain locked.”
Damn it. I hope this isn’t a mistake I’ll come to regret.
With a sigh that carries the weight of defeat, I reluctantly reveal, “It’s six-three-eight-seven.”
