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It’s what I would do if it were me who needed to keep my captives under my control.
After throwing me kicking and screaming into the back seat of a black Dodge Charger, one that was obviously an old police car, complete with cage and doors that don’t open from the inside, I’m taken to the McKenzie’s headquarters in Beacon Hill. I huffed when I saw how close it is to Boston Common, a mere stone’s throw from the border between our territories. Guess there’s no better way to ensure the enemy doesn’t trample on your grounds.
But there’s no indicator that the place is anything more than a residential building, with the entrance to the underground garage well hidden in the back. However, once we go in and down a level, it’s obvious this is no ordinary home.
At least a dozen more armed men stand at attention as the vehicle my mother is transported in stops in front of a set of elevator doors. Rowan exits the car and helps her out. She glances my way and says something to him. He shakes his head as he replies. With a nod, she seems to accept whatever he’s said to her, and her features soften to show she’s returned to her calm-and-collected self.
The elevator opens and they disappear from sight.
“Let me out.” I shove my body against the car door and rattle its handle, but it doesn’t budge.
The guy sitting in the front passenger seat twists his neck to peer at me through the grate. “Boss says to wait until your mom is all in,” he says through a mouthful of peanuts. “Then yous can go in.”
I sneer at the New Yorker. “Let me the fuck out of this car.”
“No can do. Want some?” He offers me some peanuts, but I simply stare at him. “Suit yourself.” He shrugs, then, without a hint of remorse for keeping a woman against her will, he faces the front again.
For fifteen minutes, I imagine his demise. In my mind, he chokes on the peanuts since I have no way of getting my hands around his throat at the moment. Not that any of this is his fault. And I’ve never been one to make someone pay for another’s sins. The only one guilty here is Rowan.
His cell phone rings and he answers it, “Boss.” Then he nods and hangs up. “He’s ready for her.”
The driver pulls up to the elevator. “Your ride is here.”
I look on in astonishment as five burly men come out of the elevator. One of them, a broad-shouldered bald man, dressed to kill in a black tailored suit, comes to my side of the car and opens my door. “Miss Duran. My name is Declan. Please follow me.”
My breathing accelerates as I hesitate. Part of me wants to dig my heels in and force them to pull me out, just to give them a little hell. But the part of me that wants to see Mom wins. To make sure she’s all right. So I do as they say and get out all on my own.
The five men dwarf me as we step into the elevator. Even with odds being in their favor, I’d fight them to my death if it weren’t for my mother. The thought of her being harmed because of me is the only thing that keeps my temper in check.
The elevator chimes and makes a cushioned stop on the third floor. I’m escorted out into an open circular foyer that reminds me more of a hotel than a house, with thick Persian rugs covering hardwood floors, antique paintings, and occasional tables set at intervals with large vases of fresh flowers. Above us is what I assume is the jewel of the home. A large, domed stained-glass ceiling illuminates the space in a sea of color, all the way down to the black-and-white-checkered floor of the main level.
I peer over the railing of the curved staircase that leads to other landings similar to this one. Staring up at me from them are more armed men.
“You McKenzies scared of something?” I ask sarcastically.
“This way,” says Declan, ignoring me.
I follow him down a long hall, past several doors and more guards. When we reach a door at the end, he stands aside to let me enter.
Where I expect to see some sort of office, or maybe a parlor wouldn’t be out of the question in a house like this, I walk into a large suite.
Frowning at the sight of the king-size sleigh bed sitting between two windows, I take a step back. “Where is my moth—” The door is slammed shut before I can finish my sentence. I whirl and run to it, turning the antique brass knob and rattling the damn thing. “Let me out of here!”
“I’m sorry, Miss Duran. You are to stay there until the boss is ready to see you.”
Slamming my palms against the wood, I growl, “Do you have any idea who you’re messing with?”
“Yes ma’am. You’re Louisa Duran. Daughter of Don Fernando Duran, head of the Boston Mex. Our enemy. Hence, the need for security.”
“Then you know what he’s capable of. When he finds out the McKenzies have us, your security won’t stop him. There will be war,” I hiss.
The threat is met with silence.
I drop to my knees and peek through the keyhole. The dick isn’t even there anymore. As if my name doesn’t even inspire an ounce of fear or respect, he’s just moved on. Or maybe it’s because the threat has no substance, not when my father wouldn’t suspect the McKenzies would dare take his wife and daughter. He’d be looking to his other enemies.
After all, the dispute over territory borders was put to rest years ago after a bloody battle over Roxbury that took out several members of both families. The losses were so high, a mutual decision was made by Bryan McKenzie and my father to cease.
They settled on a volatile truce, one that could have easily ended had my mother not kept what happened between Rowan and me a secret. She, in a sense, saved his life. Because if my father had discovered our midnight wedding plans, Rowan would now be lying six feet under. I have no doubt of that.
