Chapter 6
I try to swallow,cringing as my throat revolts at the lack of moisture. I’ve had cotton mouth before after a big night out, but this is different. Like my throat is lined in sandpaper.
“Here, have some water.”
The deep voice nearby startles me into forcing my eyes open. Renzo Donati sits with his back against a wall across from where I’m lying on a freezing concrete floor. I prop myself up and survey the small room around me. Not a room. A supply closet, by the looks of it.
“Where are we?” I rasp, taking the half-empty bottle of water, noting that our hands are no longer bound. I down the water in one long drink. I swear water has never tasted so damn good.
“Best guess is an airport hangar.” His weary tone draws my attention. When I look at him more closely, I see shadows under bloodshot eyes. Alarm bells in my head compete for attention over the dull ache radiating through my skull.
“How long was I out?” Drugged. Fucking Albanians.
“Not sure. They got me too. I haven’t been up long, maybe an hour. The bottle of water was here when I woke. No one’s been in since, but I’ve heard voices.”
“We were out for quite a while if my aching bladder is any indication.” I join him against the wall and take another look around the room. Definitely some kind of storage closet. When a rumbling in the distance grows into a thunderous cacophony that rattles the door on its hinges, I understand the reason for Renzo’s airport deduction. The deafening noise retreats into the distance as quickly as it appears until the only thing ringing in my ears is a sense of urgency.
The small room is approximately eight by ten feet in size with rusty metal shelves lining the wall opposite us. A single-bulb light is on above us. I’m glad for the light but a window would have been better. It’s unsettling to know you’ve been drugged but have no idea how much time you’ve lost or whether it’s still night or day.
As the fog lifts in my brain, my sluggish thoughts start to form more quickly. I need to stop worrying about the unknown and focus on what I do know.
Standing slowly, I go to the shelf and assess the contents for anything that might be helpful.
“Most everything on the shelves has French and English on the packaging. I’d say there’s a solid chance we’re in Canada.” Renzo’s words settle like melted tar in the pit of my stomach.
My eyes dance from a package of toilet paper to a box of trash bags to a gallon bottle of window cleaner. He’s right. All have bits of both languages on the packaging.
“What the fuck?” I breathe.
“Yeah, my thoughts as well. This keeps getting better and better.”
When I told them to take us with them, I never imagined they’d go beyond Manhattan, let alone across international borders. This is getting out of hand. It”s time to do something.
I crack my neck and sweep my arms in large circles to stretch my shoulders before going to the door and giving it three solid knocks.
“Shit,” Renzo mutters. “This should be good.”
I consider kicking his booted foot but hold off as footsteps approach.
“What?” a man demands through the door. It’s English but heavily accented.
“I need to go to the bathroom, or I’m going to make a mess in here,” I call out.
A muffled grunt is my only answer.
I lift my hand to start pounding on the door right as it bursts open. I freeze, fist in midair.
A man with a full beard and shaggy dark hair stares back at me with callous irritation. He grabs my wrist and tugs me across the threshold, his eyes fixed on Renzo behind me, who has launched himself to his feet.
“You use bottle,” he orders thickly.
Renzo pays him no mind. Every ounce of his attention bores into me, screaming in warning.
Be fucking careful.
I only have long enough to flash him a quick wink before the foreigner slams the door shut and bolts the lock. A roaring curse bellowing from the closet follows us down the hall away from the main hangar. My escort keeps a firm grip on my wrist until we reach a grimy bathroom.
Sometimes being a woman has its advantages. Even if I didn’t need to pee, I would have done the same thing as a ploy to assess the situation. Anything I can do to help us get back home. But as it stands, I’m seconds from wetting myself.
“You’re seriously going to watch me?” I scoff at my captor when he leans against the open doorway.
His stare is eerily hollow. “You need to piss. Piss.”
I was hoping for privacy—not out of modesty but to give me a chance to search the cabinet under the sink. My waning bladder control prevents me from arguing further. “This is fucking ridiculous,” I mutter as I fumble with my jeans. My relief at releasing those clenched muscles is so great, I hardly notice the icy toilet seat beneath me. I also ignore my audience because fuck him. He’d have to do a hell of a lot more than watch me pee to make me uncomfortable.
As I sit, it registers that daylight is pouring in the small window. If we met at the warehouse Thursday afternoon, does that mean it’s now Friday? Midday, judging by the height of the sun.
“Where are we? Somewhere in Canada?”
No answer.
“Is it Friday? Surely, it’s not already Saturday.”
Still no answer. Thank goodness persistence has never been an issue for me.
“What does it hurt for me to know the day of the week? It’s not like I can use that to escape.”
He sneers. “Finish and get dressed, or I toss you back in the room without pants.”
“Well, that’s rude,” I grumble as I wipe and pull up my jeans. “What exactly is the plan here, chief, because this has gone on long enough. You guys are out of the city. Our families aren’t a threat—what good will it do to keep us any longer?”
He steps inside the tiny bathroom, filling up the space with his hulking animosity and the lingering scent of cigarettes. “I hear many things about you, Shae Byrne.” He overexaggerates my last name as his cold stare drifts lasciviously down my body. “But they must be fairy tales. You are not so tough as they say, I think.”
His words bother me infinitely more than his wandering gaze ever could. I’d had my phone and wallet on me when they took us, so it’s not surprising that he knows my name. It’s the familiarity in his tone that doesn’t sit well. I get the sense he wouldn’t have needed an ID to know exactly who I was.
“How did you know where the guns were?” I go for the direct approach, hoping to catch him off guard.
He flashes a yellowing grin and pulls me into the hall.
“Jesus.” I grimace. “Don’t they have toothbrushes in Albania?”
He whips around, intending to backhand me across the face, but I evade, grabbing his arm in the process and swinging him around to press his chest against the wall. I bend his arm back at an angle I know hurts like hell to prevent him from struggling and keep my body close to his. “Who the fuck told you about the guns?” I hiss through clenched teeth.
He yells for help, and I’m quickly yanked away from him and slammed against the opposite wall.
“What the fuck going on out there?” Renzo’s voice booms through the closet door.
“Jesus, not the hair,” I fuss. I could get out of his hold thanks to my short cut, but there’s too many of them now. And besides, I’d prefer not to show them how capable I am until the moment is right. I’m better off de-escalating the situation and trying again later. “Okay, okay. I’m done.” I hold up my hands to signal my surrender when Renzo bursts through the closet door, ripping the lock out of its wooden frame.
“Get your fucking hands off her.” His words seethe with violence. He’s impressively intimidating when he wants to be.
The hand releases my hair and moves to my arm. I’m tugged farther into the main hangar and away from Renzo. The masked foursome who captured us is now a crew of eight men, all surrounding us with disdain carved onto their hardened faces.
Knowing what we’re up against is helpful, though I’d hoped for fewer numbers. Even at our best, the two of us would be hard-pressed to take on eight men.
“Now that we have your attention,” Renzo slices through the sweltering tension. “You need to know what you’re getting into by keeping us captive. You will start a war with not only the Irish Byrnes but with the entire Italian Mafia. No one kidnaps a boss without becoming a target of the entire Five Families.”
I catch sight of several men exchanging worried glances. They knew who I was, but did they know Renzo? Would it change things if they did, and if so, for better … or worse?
A man lingering in the back casually pushes to the center of our little party. His short brown hair is greasy with a sheen that highlights the evil glint in his black eyes. No one’s eyes are truly black, but I swear this man is an exception.
His unrushed movements shift effortlessly into a punch when he levels a mean right hook square into Renzo’s jaw. The guy is big, and he knows how to hit, yet Renzo takes the hit as if doled out by a child. He’s not even set off balance.
When he brings his malicious blue stare back to the man, his tongue swipes a tinge of crimson blossoming on his bottom lip as though savoring a drop of ice cream. “One last chance, or I promise this will end very badly for you,” Renzo says in a tone so calm and even that goose bumps tease the back of my neck.
I don’t get the sense threats will work on these men, but I’m not sure Renzo got that memo. He’s the type who’s used to people withering beneath a simple glare from his direction. I have to fight back tendrils of envy. I could be the deadliest person in a room and never garner the respect Renzo can command simply by virtue of his size and stature. That sort of disparity would normally frustrate me, but in Renzo’s case, I think he may actually deserve the respect. He’s levelheaded, strategic, confident, brave, and more than a little tough.
Shit. I think I may actually like the guy.
I don’t get the chance to ponder my revelation when Mr. Black Eyes barks orders in a foreign tongue. His men shift into action, securing our wrists with a new set of zip ties and scurrying about the room with renewed purpose. Something is about to happen, and I have no goddamn clue what.