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“Take zis message back to your dear ole dad,” Savin says coldly. His face goes carefully blank, a deadly calm that has my hackles rising in fearful anticipation. “Your fazer better pay us what he owes, or I vill take somezing more precious zan ze money he owes.”
Beside him, the younger man smirks, his eyes slowly traveling down my body. I flinch unwillingly, disgust curling in my stomach. The threat is clear—whatever my father owes, he has to pay. Or the price would be…me.
My last crumbling sense of safety shatters. The Pakhan has already shown how easily he can get to me, even with a bodyguard. He could have sent a message directly to my father, but that wouldn’t have had the same impact as kidnapping me. This is a power play and one I recognize all too well. If I hadn’t felt like a pawn before, I certainly do now.
Savin motions to the younger soldier sitting across from him. The man leans over towards the divider, knocking twice. My body flinches with each knock, each sound as loud as a gunshot inside the quiet car. Seconds later, I feel the limo start to slow before coming to a complete halt. I take a shaky breath, my knuckles turning white as I grip my clutch closer.
“Zat is all.” Savin smiles cruelly as his soldier opens the door. For a second, I feel frozen, unable to believe that he would just let me go without harming me. The man on my other side gives me a sharp nudge towards the door, and I stumble out onto an unfamiliar sidewalk. Savin rolls down his window, eyes narrowing.
“Remember, Ms. Ryan. Give your fazer the message. Or next time, ve vill not be so gentle.” My reflection slowly appears as the window rolls back up.
I can’t move, watching the limo as it drives away. My hands shake, adrenaline coursing through my veins. I feel like throwing up, the alcohol heavy in my stomach. I have no idea where I am or how far they’d taken me. Glancing around, I search for one familiar thing. Failing that, I can’t help but let out a broken sob. All I see are brownstone apartments. There’s a street sign, but tears blur my vision, making it hard to read. My knees feel weak, barely holding me up as I desperately try to open my clutch and retrieve my phone.
It takes me a few seconds to get to my contacts and a few seconds more until my father picks up.
“Dad?” My voice shakes, breaking.
“Cara, where are ye?” he demands, fear lacing each word.
“I…I don’t know. I can send a location. But please,” I beg, “please come get me.” Tears slip down my cheeks as I glance around again. The street is too open, too vulnerable. I back away until my back hits the brick wall of the building behind me.
“Send a location. Stay where you are, lass. Owen’s coming to get ye.” I hear muted voices in the background. “Stay on the line with me, lass.”
I close my eyes, heaving as I try to stop crying. Before tonight, I’d been as safe as I could be being the daughter of the Irish boss. But tonight…any sense of safety I had has been completely shattered. My father hadn’t told me the whole truth about why he so desperately needed this alliance with the Italians—and that was more of a blow than the Pakhan kidnapping me. I’d trusted my father. I believed every word he said.
And now…now I don’t even think I can trust him to keep me safe.
I end the call, fingers shaking as I see a cab pulling around the corner. Hailing it down, I slip inside. Right now, I can’t face my father. I know I can’t. But I don’t know where else to go.
Except…
I give the taxi cab an address, wondering if this is a mistake. I can’t think straight, my mind too rattled from my apparent kidnapping to think this plan out. Holding my clutch to my chest, I watch as the city passes by outside the window. Tonight has been one mistake after another. So what’s one more?
26
KILLIAN
My fingers rap against the countertop in my kitchen as I glare down at the bottle before me. I haven’t opened it yet, forcing myself not to just prove to myself that I can. It’s a brand new bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue Label. I let it sit there, taunting me, trying to tempt me to break that seal and pour me a glass.
I don’t move.
I’d broken down the past few weeks, falling into old patterns, and hate myself for it. Each time I remember saying to myself, ‘just one drink,’ a heavy sense of self-loathing threatens to drown me. I don’t want to drink tonight. I don’t need it. But it still calls to me, promising to take away the stress, the worry, the fear. Feeling nauseous, I force myself to turn away.
I’m so lost in the mental battle that I almost miss the jarring knock on my door. Tensing, my hand immediately reaches for the gun resting on the counter beside the whiskey. Another frantic knock. I can hear a stifled sob on the other side of the door. Unlatching the safety, I slip forward, reaching for the handle.
Throwing the door open, I freeze. The gun locks at my side, my arm unable to move. Cara’s face turns up, her cheeks lined with tears. Her eyes are rimmed red, the makeup below her lashes is smeared, and her hands shake as she grips a small black clutch. I barely have time to process what I’m seeing before I speak.
“Who the fuck did this to you?” I demand. Taking her arm, I haul her into my apartment and slam the door shut behind her.
Cara flinches away from me, a slight whimper escaping her. I hesitate, not understanding. I’ve never seen her like this before. She’s always been so well put together. Confident and in control. But right now, the girl quivering before me is far from the Cara I know.
“Who did this?” I ask again, softer this time.
She takes a shaky breath, squeezing her eyes shut. I click the safety, setting the gun on the kitchen counter as I head towards my bedroom. She’s still rooted to the spot I’d left her in, trembling as I wrap a blanket around her shoulders. As gently as I can, I lead her to the sofa, forcing her to sit.
“Cara, you have to talk to me. I can’t help you if I don’t know what happened.” I take a seat beside her, tense and waiting.
I can’t tell if this is real or if she’s just a better actress than most women. But I know Cara, and she isn’t the type of woman to pull a stunt like this. She’s got too much fucking Irish pride for that. Which means something really did happen. She looks like a complete mess, so far from her usual perfectly poised self. I almost want to feel smug…almost. But an unfamiliar pang of sympathy pierces my chest. Cara is a strong woman. Whatever happened must have been bad enough to finally break her.
