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Chapter 1
Sybil
It's not fair that we can't blame the dead since this really is my sister's fault.
I squirm again in the pitch-blackness, but it's futile. There's no movement to be had, shoved back here between the spare tire and who knows what else. It smells horrible, and I try not to think about how many corpses this mobster has probably toted around in this trunk. Instead, I steady my breathing and squeeze my eyes shut.
The bindings on my wrists hurt, and my mouth is gagged. They did all this to keep me from being "problematic"—but I doubt anyone noticed them grab me in the empty parking lot of my workplace. It's not like I could easily fight off two armed mobsters twice my size.
I'm pretty sure they're going to kill me.
Damn you, Angela.
My twin was the one who got involved with the Gatto family in the first place. She was always the one to get mixed up with bad things, and I was the one who got her out.
At least, until four years ago. When Angela's bad choices finally caught up to her.
Then it was just me, twinless and drowning in the mess she had left behind. And now that I'm about to bite the dust, our family will be left basically defenseless. I fight my tears and mentally curse at Angela more because that's easier than admitting that I wish she was still here with me.
Well, maybe nothere, here. I just miss my twin.
Just as I'm imagining all the different ways these dangerous men might kill me, the car breaks hard, and I hear honking. I gasp when I sense the car swerving and careening—and then my stomach flies into my throat at a sudden impact. The sound is deafening, but the crash must have happened at the front of the car because I'm uninjured.
For a moment, I'm breathless and terrified in the dark, claustrophobic cold of the trunk. Did they swerve to avoid an animal or something? What if they're both dead? Oh my God, I'm going to freeze in the back of this car. Or starve to death. I feel bad for whoever finds this wreck and the three corpses.
Then I hear muffled voices. There's a shout, sounds of scuffling, more yelling, and then the unmistakable sound of a gun firing. My heart takes off, almost painful in my chest. Whoever is firing at these guys is probably also involved in the mafia. Which means—
Click. The trunk opens.
I flinch against the bright light that flashes in my face. My eyes can't adjust for a moment, but when they do, I freeze.
The man glowering down at me is all foreboding muscle and fury, blood smeared on his fists and down one side of his gorgeous, severe face. His eyes narrow at the sight of me, and he swears.
Now I wish the impact did kill me.
Because I know my rescuer…and he's probably going to finish the job.
Two other men step up beside him to peer into the trunk. His lackeys, I'm sure. One is almost my rescuer's height but is clearly younger. The other is massive, with a face that's obviously been used as a punching bag one too many times over the years. I feel like a tied-up animal about to be butchered under the eyes of these mobsters.
But mostly underhiseyes. I remember his gaze too well, and I feel heat everywhere in my face when he growls down at me.
The Undertaker.I've heard that's what they call him now. With a glare like that, I'm absolutely sure it's fitting. Nico Attolini is a hundred times more frightening than he was the first time we met. Back then, he showed up as a white knight with questionable connections.
There's nothing questionable about him now. He looks like what he is: the infamously violent underboss of the all-powerful Attolini crime empire. He looks like death itself.
Just another thing that's not fair, because death shouldn't have a face this gorgeous.
"Just a girl?" the giant lackey asks, confused.
"Get her out."
I shiver at the sound of Nico's voice. It's blistering and icy all at once. It's not a tone I've ever heard anyone manage before, but there's no arguing with the intrinsic authority of it.
I flinch but keep myself from fighting as the big one lifts me out of the trunk and deposits me none too gently on my feet. I want to cower, fight back, or just cry, but before I do anything, I need to survey my surroundings. Then maybe I can run.
The car crashed pretty far off the road, surrounded by trees. One of the Gatto mobsters who took me is dead, lying in the fallen leaves beside the car. The other one, Pascal, is kneeling with a broken, bloodied face nearby. He's the one who kept whispering nasty things in my ear as they gagged and bound me—about what they would do to me, to my mom, to Krista, and my brother. Another of Nico's men stands beside him, gun against his temple to keep him quiet.
I have no idea what road we're by or how far we are from New York City, but it can't be too far. If I got away, I could find my way back walking eventually. Hell, I'd take my chances hitchhiking. Anything is better than leaving my fate up to the man now towering over me with dark, merciless turquoise eyes.
