Chapter Three
ART
“I’m going to enjoy this,” I hear the wacko saying from behind, his voice dips to a deep, rumbling register that spreads through every part of me. I finally succeed in opening the window—it’s not easy with my hands still bound. Swift footsteps ring out behind me, almost giving me a heart attack.
I don’t have a real plan here. I don’t even have a pair of shoes.
I saw the fire escape from the sofa, and I waited for the right moment to follow my flight response.
I hate knives. It was a miracle I stayed put for this long.
Since he got his out, I’ve been crawling out of my skin, my mind flooded with painful images.
I’m halfway out, breathing New York’s wonderful polluted air, when I’m yanked back into the room and tackled.
My chin hits the floor so hard I feel my teeth almost cracking before I see stars.
Then his crushing weight takes all the air from my lungs.
It’s like being trapped under a boulder.
I imagined being crushed by his massive body when I saw him at the club, but not like this.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he whispers darkly into my ear. He pulls away and flips me, gripping my hair tightly, like he wants to rip it out, roots and all.
He’s standing, hovering over me. His lips are curled back into a snarl, showing his teeth.
The cold anger in his eyes has turned icy now.
He’s fucking pissed. I’m trying to regain my normal thought process while at the same time keeping my eyes open when he crouches down, grabs me by the neck, and starts choking me.
“Let me g—” I wheeze. The words sound harsh, grating as my throat is constricted.
He’s staring at me with an eager expression. His excited, avid appearance is the opposite of what I’m feeling right now.
Dear Lord, Jesus and Holy Spirit, please don’t let me die just yet.
“I don’t advise running from me…ever. If you do, I’ll break your neck.” His steel-clasped hand gives my throat a yank, probably to give weight to his words, before letting go.
My lungs are burning like hell. I’m still alive, heaving and coughing.
My scratchy throat protests as I try to swallow, followed by my churning stomach.
When I look up, he’s slowly taking off his jacket.
He drapes it over a chair without deeming me worthy of a look.
The metal of his gun tucked in his pants gleams ominously at me.
I hear him closing the window, before he lifts me up and throws me on the sofa.
A moan leaves my lips. I have only a moment to assess my body before he comes back holding a pair of metal cuffs.
He quickly cuts the ropes around my bruised wrists and handcuffs me to the metal backrest of the sofa—leaving my arm up, stretched at a very uncomfortable angle.
At least my other hand is free now, not that I can do anything with it… yet.
My throat aches like crazy, my hairline and my face feel sore. I’d kill for a good coma right now. I thought I overheard him saying to Fly on the phone that he wouldn’t hurt me much. We must have different pain levels.
Fuck this…wacko! He does look frightening with that huge body, scars, and angry stare. Behind the ice sculpture suit he’s wearing, there must be a frozen heart, but I’ve encountered worse. So much worse.
“Don’t. Fucking. Move,” he rumbles like an angry beast as he starts to unbutton his shirt.
I pull at the cuff to remind him that it’s not possible to even stand for me.
He gives me his back in response and pulls his shirt out of his pants and off his head.
Scars litter his skin. Old bullet wounds, long and jagged pink lines, which anyone would expect on the body of a vicious mobster.
And what a body… I can’t ignore how ridiculously pumped it is, showing more muscles than anyone would need.
But then again, he is a sadist who gets off on inflicting pain—I know that archetype well.
When he turns around, my gaze wanders over his chiseled chest with its smattering of dark hair and his turtle shell abs.
I hate him, but he is a serious treat to the eyes.
If I had ovaries, they would have melted by now.
Sheesh, I’m such a slut for bad boys. But how can I remain unfazed by the generous, very generous size of the bulge in his pants?
I want to cut it right off. He grunts, and I hastily take my eyes off him.
“I’m thirsty,” I rasp out. Fuck, my throat feels like sandpaper. I can just imagine the bruises I’ll have tomorrow.
“Don’t care,” he replies on his way to the bedroom.
“You should take a long, hard look at yourself in the mirror because you know what you’ll see?” Apart from hard, delicious muscles, intense, deep eyes, and luxurious hair? “A sadistic dick!” And I’m not talking about the oversized one in his pants.
It was meant to be insulting, but my hoarse voice didn’t deliver. I hear a whip, the door to the bedroom hits the wall before he slams it closed.
I stand up and pull at the cuff around my wrist as hard as I can.
The sofa doesn’t budge even an inch, and the metal chain between the cuffs remains undamaged.
My hand, not so much. I drop back on the sofa and look at the front door.
That is what? Two inches thick, the equivalent of twelve Ritz crackers.
I’m twelve Ritz away from freedom. If only I weren’t shackled to a fucking ancient sofa.
This is not working. My face hurts, my makeup is surely a mess, and I’m in fucking pain.
I need to be smart here. I weathered the storms before—storms plural—that’s why I’m not terrified about this, being kidnapped.
I know Luca’s type, I’ve been surrounded by it all my life—the ruthless, arrogant, dominating mafioso, who does whatever it takes to get more power and money, uncaring of the consequences.
I’ve been in self-sufficient, self-preservation mode since I was a child.
I know what I should do: play along and find the best time to escape.
The problem is that Art Enzino has never been good with choices.
Look before you leap never really registered inside his head…
my head. Hence, being handcuffed to this brick of a sofa with a throbbing throat.
Also, my father decides every single step of my life, so why bother choosing?
Let’s think logically here. Luca wants information.
I can tell him what I know, but not all at once.
The knowledge I possess on the family is the only bargaining chip I have, and it ain’t much.
I’ve always been an outsider. Apparently, I’m too weak to be a member of a club of abusers, murderers, and blackmailers.
Maybe that’s why Mario enjoys hurting me.
Only thinking about my half-brother’s name gives me the creeps.
Jeez, that’s some messed-up shit. I hate him—them—so much.
I’d be inclined to help the Leones in exchange for my freedom.
The problem is that I can’t trust them to follow their promise.
After using me, they’d probably just get rid of my corpse—Fly has almost no power.
Our families have been at war for too long, and the only end to it is for one of them to crush the other.
I need to focus on the now. My eyes move to the closed bedroom door.
“Luca Nero.” His name melts on the tip of my tongue.
I have to find out more about him, and I happen to know the right person for it.
My hand slides under my skirt and inside my panties, grabbing the phone I placed there before, thank fuck for that.
I need to be quick, don’t want Luca to catch me.
I find Rami’s number and send him a text. He’s a hacker I sometimes work with. We exchange information for a price. And he still owes me one for when I hooked him up with Fly’s online lingerie shop.
Me:
What’s up, Ram? How is your grizzly boo? Attacked anybody lately?
He replies straight away.
Rami:
The little tramp resurfaced! Hunter is fine. He’s sharpening his claws as we speak. Don’t give him any reason to come there
Me:
I don’t know where I am so the joke is on him
Rami:
Why is your life always so exciting? Give me two mins
Me:
Ugh. You decided to settle down and make a family with a man bear and his triplets
Rami:
And you didn’t? I heard about your engagement, Princess Bride
Of course he did. Does he also know it’s a business deal kind of arrangement?
Rami:
You are in Washington Heights. At the corner of Main and Carrie St., apartment 3B. The titleholder is a shell corporation. If you give me a day, I can tell you more
He is so fucking amazing at this. While I’m old school, basing my info business on talking and listening to people, Rami is more up-to-date and beyond, using his tech skills. His method is faster, while mine is more fun, and I can get much juicer results.
Rami:
You in trouble?
Me:
I’m not at an anal bleaching party, that’s for sure
Rami:
Is that a thing? Laser removal is the best
I agree one hundred percent, even though a little peach fuzz on the cheeks is nice. No! I need to focus.
Me:
I need info on Luca Nero
Rami:
Luca “Scarface” Nero?
Mobsters and their lame nicknames. Those scars on his face are not that bad. He should see mine.
Me:
Yes, he’s part of the Leone family
Rami:
On it
I keep my eye on the bedroom door. I can hear the shower water running from here. Jeez, this apartment is a hole. The air in here is so tacky! I’m suffocating in middle-class quality. Is that IKEA? It makes me shiver. I have radar for expensive things, and there’s none here.
Rami:
Luca Nero, thirty-eight years old, born in New York, both parents died when he was nine—three months apart.
Lived in a group home for a year until he was adopted by Massimo Leone.
There’s not much in the police files, picked up for assault in his teens and destruction of public and private property, and extortion later on, but it never stuck.
It makes sense since Leone is a powerful family
Rami: