Chapter 35
BEA
I wake up in a chair.
That’s the first piece of information my body returns to me. Not where, not when, not what—just chair. The second piece is hands behind my back. The third is rope. By the fourth, I’ve figured out the rope’s probably been biting at my wrists for a while now.
It hurts like hell, but that’s not even the worst of it.
There’s a pain pulsing at the back of my skull that I can hardly comprehend. I keep my eyes clamped shut, trying to will it away.
Slowly, it fades into the background until I have enough clarity to listen to my surroundings.
Silence. Then, the small, soft sound of liquid moving in glass somewhere to my left. The subtle swish of a thumb moving over a phone screen.
I open my eyes.
The room isn’t what I expected. Big. Expensive. There’s a tall window with the curtain pulled, a fireplace that doesn’t look like it gets used, an armchair, a side table with a glass.
A little further back, by the door, a guard, scrolling on his phone.
In the armchair: Victor Moreno Jr. Legs crossed. Glass of whiskey in hand. Looking at me like a painting he’s pleased with.
“Miss Mendez. Finally awake.”
I don’t say anything.
He smiles at me, that smile from the driveway, and takes a sip of his whiskey, rolling it in his mouth before he swallows.
“We met at the gala. Briefly. I doubt you remember.” He sets the glass down. “Allow me to introduce myself properly. Victor Moreno. Head of the Moreno family. And, as of tonight, the most powerful man in this city.”
“Go to hell.”
“There it is.” He smiles wider. “Raffaele always did like them feisty.”
“Where is he?”
“Where is who, Miss Mendez?”
“Where is Raffaele?”
He sets the glass down on the side table and takes a moment to look at me with a small, manufactured sadness.
“Raffaele’s dead, I’m afraid.”
My heart drops through the floor.
“Tragic situation. He and Nico got into it at a warehouse on the west side. Two old rivals. The streets’ll be talking about it for weeks.” He picks the glass up again. “Both of them burned to ashes by sunrise.”
I can’t breathe.
“How-how did he die?” I finally manage to choke out. There’s a darkness rotting inside of me, but I can’t look away.
“Miss Mendez.”
“How did he die?”
“I really don’t think dwelling on the details is going to do anything for you.” He tries a small, sympathetic smile. “I’d rather not— “
“I want to—I need to know.”
He sighs, then shrugs. “Who knows. In the end, though, everyone burned. The whole warehouse set alight. Seems things got out of hand. They were only supposed to shoot each other. And maybe they did, before the fire started.”
He drinks.
The rotting darkness bubbles. I clamp my eyes shut, trying to hold down the bile in my throat.
No. It can’t be. I refuse to believe it. My mind scrambles, desperate to latch onto any hope. And there I find the words: Who knows.
He doesn’t know how Raffaele died. Clearly, there was a fire. But was it bad enough to char the bodies past recognition? Did anyone confirm Raffaele’s corpse?
I nearly vomit at the very thought of Raffaele having a corpse and not a body. But the idea that no one ever got eyes on his body gives me just enough hope to keep from choking on my own puke.
He’s smart enough to get himself out of this. Hell, maybe he started the fire himself. Yeah, that’s what happened…
Doubt creeps in, and I swallow the bile and try to be strong, just in case I need to survive long enough for a miracle.
“If Raffaele’s dead, then-then why am I here?” I struggle to ask.
Tears sting my eyes, but I suck them back in, my nose wet with restrained grief.
“Straight to business, finally.” He leans forward in his chair. “Here’s the situation, Miss Mendez. Both Contis are dead. Raffaele was the legal heir, per Vincenzo’s will. The vault document. The one he carried out of the brownstone two days ago.”
He rolls his eyes and looks me dead in mine. “So, if Raffaele is dead, and Nico along with him, who inherits now?
I don’t answer.
He smiles.
“His next of kin. His wife. His children.” His eyes drop. They go to my abdomen, hover there far too long. “His lover. Whatever she might happen to be carrying.”
The implication rocks me, but—
“I’m not pregnant.”
“I know.” He takes another sip. “But you will be.”
I jerk back as far as the chair lets me. The rope at my wrists tightens. The chair doesn’t move.
Fear is rising in my chest, along with a feral rage.
“Don’t fucking touch me.”
“It’s nothing personal, Miss Mendez. It’s legal. With you carrying what the families will all be quite happy to believe is Raffaele’s heir, the claim to the Conti operation moves through me. A puppet bloodline. Very tidy.”
He pauses. Looks faintly insulted.
“For the record, I’m not some kind of pervert. I have standards. We’ll start with Plan A. The romantic one. Dinner, a few weeks, a little patience on my part. I can be charming when I want to be.”
“Don’t make me fucking puke,” I gag.
He isn’t listening. “Really—it doesn’t have to be me. If you have a type, I can have a man at the door inside two hours. Some model, maybe. All you have to do is shut the fuck up and carry the kid.”
He stands and starts to come toward me, smiling like he’s done me some big favor.
I do the only thing my body has left to do. I gather what I have in my mouth and spit at him.
It lands.
That stops him in his tracks. For a moment, he just stands there, shocked. Then he wipes his cheek, stares down at the back of his hand, then at me.
“That was unwise, Miss Mendez.”
He reaches for my face.
I bring my forehead up into his.
It’s not a good hit. My angle’s wrong, and the rope at my wrists has my shoulders pinned. But the top of my skull catches the soft cartilage of his nose and there’s a crunch—a small, satisfying crunch I feel in my teeth—and he yelps.
“Fucking bitch.”
He stumbles back two steps. His hands are at his face. Blood’s coming through his fingers.
The pain in the back of my skull flares, but I don’t give a shit.
That felt good.
He straightens slowly. His eyes are wet and red, and he’s looking at me with pure hatred.
He turns to the guard.
“Don’t just fucking stand there. Help me.”
The guard looks up from his phone for the first time.
He doesn’t move.
“Did you hear me? Hold her down.”
The guard tilts his head. Like a dog considering whether to come.
“Why?”
Victor stares at him in disbelief. “What? I gave you a fucking order. Do you have any idea how much I’m paying you tonight?”
“Yeah.” The guard puts the phone in his pocket. “And I’m telling you it isn’t enough for this part.”
The room goes very still.
I’m watching this very carefully now.
“Hold her arms? Hundred. Hold her still while you do the thing you’re talking about doing? Two hundred. Look the other way?” He shrugs. “That one’s free. I was gonna do that anyway.”
Victor’s jaw clenches with rage.
“After all I’ve—fuck.” It looks like he’s going to try hitting the guard—a much, much bigger man. But he thinks better of it. “Fine, I’ll find someone else, you fucking bastard. Keep an eye on this bitch, or it’s your head.”
The guard just shrugs, unbothered.
“Sure.”
Victor sneers at him, then back at me. His fist is still cocked, and I can tell he’s thinking of letting his anger out on his captive.
I start gathering what spit I have in my mouth, making my intentions clear.
He sees it.
His hand drops.
Coward.
“Fuck Plan A,” he hisses. “You don’t get that courtesy anymore. That’s the price for the disrespect today.” He sneers back toward the guard. “From the both of you. Now fuck off. I need to go wipe this shit off my face.”
With that, he storms out, slamming the door shut behind him. And despite the pain I’m in, the despair rotting in my gut, the hope fading in my heart, and the swirling images of Raffaele, one thought threads just above the surface, painting the faintest smirk on my cracked lips.
God, what a whiny little bitch.