Chapter 3
KARINA
I’ve been moved.
A black fabric sack over my head. Put into a vehicle.
Driven some distance, twenty minutes or thirty, I’m not sure.
Taken inside a place that smells dank and moldy, maybe a cellar.
It’s cold inside and I’ve no protection against it in my dress, the same soiled funeral dress I’ve been wearing for days.
My hands remain bound behind my back, my wrists raw and bloody. When I’m shoved to my knees, I cry out. The floor is hard, unforgiving, and my calves quickly develop pins and needles, but I can’t move to stretch them. Someone holds me in place with a hand on my shoulder.
I’m going to be murdered. I know it.
The thought is all-consuming, so panic inducing that I start to hyperventilate.
My rational brain tells me I’m worth more to my uncle alive—he wouldn’t have gone through the trouble of bugging my wedding ring if he was simply going to kill me—but the hood over my head and the position that I’m in signals to my primitive brain that I’m about to die.
Isn’t this how they do it? Cover the victim’s eyes, shove them to their knees, and then execute them?
I’m kept in this position for a long time.
Working on slowing my breathing, I fight dizziness, scrambling to keep a clear head.
I’ve never been so scared. This is exactly what my uncle and Pietro want.
They want me to be terrified, panicked, pliable.
They want me to wonder if I’m getting a bullet to the back of the head so that I’ll eagerly agree to all of their demands.
Hate isn’t a strong enough word for how I feel about them.
I have to shift my legs. Whoever is holding me eases up enough that I’m able to lower myself awkwardly down onto my ass and then move my legs in front of me.
It takes effort and a lot of willpower to stay still as painful tingles run up and down my calves.
I’ve been so focused on my misery that I haven’t taken in my surroundings at all. I realize now that it’s eerily quiet.
Something drips from far off. The man beside me breathes in long sighs, like he’s impatiently waiting for orders. I can sense at least one other person in the room, but there’s no talking. Is this the easy rescue my uncle planned? Or is it not a rescue at all, but a trap?
Obviously I’m the bait to lure Marco and the other Bellanti men inside. My uncle’s underlings might not kill Marco, but what about the rest of the rescue party? Did my uncle order his men to leave the Bellantis alive, or did he handpick who to knock off and who to let live?
God, I have to stop. I can’t afford to think like this right now.
Tears well up and threaten to fall, but I clench my eyelids tightly.
I need to be calm and rational. They’d never implant my ring in hopes of getting Bellanti secrets and then kill off the Bellantis before they could take advantage of their intel.
No, they want my husband to walk out of here with me alive so their plan can be set in motion.
Behind my back, I squeeze the ring on my finger, testing how loose it is.
Maybe I can slip it off and leave it on the floor here, let it get forgotten or kicked away in the chaos.
If I’m not wearing it when Marco comes, I won’t have to be a spy when I go home.
My heart lightens at the plan, but then I recall my mother’s battered face.
A bitter taste coats my tongue. She’s never been much of a mother or a protector to me.
Yet some part of me still feels attached to her.
Responsible for her. And yes, sorry for her.
She was born into this family through no fault of her own, just as much as I was.
I can’t even imagine what it must have been like for her, growing up with Sergio as an older brother. The thought makes me tremble.
My uncle knows me all too well. He knows that I wouldn’t intentionally cause my mom to suffer, even though my relationship with her has been shitty my entire life. I’m too soft to be the cause of her pain.
The hood is suddenly pulled from my head.
My eyes struggle to adjust to the dim overhead light.
Squinting, I glance around at my surroundings.
At first all I see are dark objects and shapes highlighted by thin fingers of sunlight spilling through the boarded-over windows.
But slowly my vision adjusts, and I realize I’m inside what looks like a run-down, industrial warehouse.
I look up to find a face glaring down at me.
I don’t recognize the man, but considering his disgusting smile, I know he’s got to be one of my uncle’s men.
“Well, hello there, sweetheart. Sergio didn’t mention you were so pretty.”
“Hands off the girl. You know what happens if you don’t follow orders.”
The voice of reason comes from behind. It doesn’t seem to sway the beast above me. One big hand touches my chin and forces my head back. Then he runs a thumb slowly across my lips.
Crying out, I twist to get away from him, but his hold is too strong.
“That’s okay, sweetheart. I like ‘em feisty.”
“Tauro, knock it off.”
My captor doesn’t get a chance to respond as gunshots blast through the air. I feel a slight breeze ripple my hair and freeze in place at the scent of salt air. It takes a blink to realize that a door has opened to the outside world.
“Shit,” the one called Tauro says, forgetting me instantly.
Dying sunlight filters into the darkened room, then the sound of heavy footfalls and shouts as men pour into the building somewhere nearby.
My two captors raise their guns and stalk silently away, leaving me unguarded.
My heart hammers in my chest. Who are these people breaking in?
It could be the Bellantis, or it could be any of my uncle’s enemies who caught wind of what’s going on here.
Either way, I can’t just stay here frozen like a sitting duck.
Struggling to my feet, I crouch as low as I can and scurry into a dark corner.
Another volley of gunshots and yelling voices startle me so badly that I trip over my own feet, and I skid to my knees and slam into the wall.
My temple is wet with dripping blood, and I’m dazed, but I don’t feel any pain.
Adrenaline pumps through me and the only thing I can think of is hiding.
I don’t see my uncle, or Pietro, but I don’t want their faces to be the last images that flash before my eyes before I get shot to death.
Panting, I draw my legs up to my chest and will my breathing to slow down, trying to stay as silent as possible.
I don’t want to make too much noise and draw attention to myself.
Wiggling my hands behind me, I try to work free of my bonds.
My fingers are going numb, and I can’t do anything to protect myself without my hands.
I’m not sure how I manage it, but finally one end of the rope comes free.
A few more tugs and the tie falls to the ground.
My hands and fingers scream in pain as circulation resumes.
Holding back tears, I lightly work my fingers and rub them together but all it does is make the pain worse.
Bullets whiz through the building, chunks of wood and concrete flying.
Men seem to be running everywhere, their shouts interrupted by grunts and the breaking of glass.
I cover my eyes, shaking uncontrollably.
If I’m going to get shot, I don’t want to see it coming.
I just want it to be over. There’s nothing I can do to block out the sounds of violence and bloodshed, the heavy thumps of bodies falling to the floor, the cracking of skulls or splintered bones.
Bile burns in the back of my throat. Suddenly, boots clomp toward me, and then I’m roughly dragged up to my feet.
I don’t get a good look at my new captor before I’m thrown over his shoulder.
I’m jostled as he runs, but I cling to him as tightly as I can—because regardless of which side he’s on, this guy is my only chance at getting out of here.
Gunshots echo all around us, the burnt smell of spent ammunition souring the air.
A streak of heat flashes along the side of my leg, instantly followed by a shower of wood splinters.
That bullet barely missed me. I can still feel its phantom kiss against my skin.
The metallic scent of blood mixes with mildew as we rush through the building.
There is so much noise, voices ringing out in rage and agony.
This is a warzone. I get just a glimpse of gore and unmoving bodies before my eyes squeeze shut, my brain on overload.
I go into survival mode, blocking out everything except my shallow breathing and my death grip on the man carrying me.
And then a flash of sunlight washes over my face, fresh air reaching my lungs at long last. I blink against the brightness as I’m lowered to the ground and my heart stutters as I recognize the boots on the ground. I look up.
“Marco!”
I throw my arms around him. He squeezes me back in a one-armed embrace, his other hand still curled around his gun. He places a quick kiss on the top of my head.
“Come on, Karina. We have to go.”
Armani and Clayton and a few other men I don’t recognize come pouring out of the building, which I now recognize as a warehouse of some kind, grimy and in poor shape.
I lock eyes with Armani for the briefest moment. The coldness of his gaze is enough to send a quiver of fear down my spine. I might be in my husband’s arms, but this nightmare isn’t over yet. And if my uncle was right about Armani arranging Jessica’s murder, I might be next.
I nearly melt with relief as Marco helps me into a waiting SUV.
The sharp report of weapons has ceased and the men around us are tucking their guns away, which tells me that the fight is over.
I half expected to see my uncle racing after us in a fit of rage, bullets flying, but he’s nowhere to be found.
And then a slight weight on my left hand reminds me: I’ve been rescued because he arranged for it to happen.
Because I now have a greater purpose to fulfill.
Glancing down at my wedding rings, I shove my left hand under my thigh and sit on it.
No, Uncle Sergio won’t be coming for me.
At least not yet. He’s probably sitting back in his armchair right now, throwing back a whiskey, listening in on the sound of my jagged breathing and the erratic beat of my heart.
He probably listened to the entire gunfight like it was some radio show put on purely for his entertainment, complete with the very real sound effects of his men’s dying breaths. Damn him.
Marco slides in beside me and pulls me into his arms. Leaning into him, I burst into quiet sobs. It’s not just the relief spilling out of me. It’s guilt, too. For what I’m being forced to do.
Without a word, Marco lightly strokes my hair. Someone hands me a tissue from the front seat, and I take it gratefully. I can’t stop crying and shaking.
The drive home feels like it takes forever. I must doze off, because when Marco gently shakes me, I realize we’re parked outside the Bellanti estate, the rest of the car empty, the engine still ticking as it cools.
“You’re home,” he murmurs, looking at me with deep concern in his eyes.
Gently cupping my face with his hand, he draws me in for a soft, gentle kiss. It brings tears to my eyes all over again.
He draws me against his body and holds me tightly for a long time. My mind cycles through everything I’ve been through since my uncle took me. All the horror, all the panic, only to be spit out back into the life I had hoped would be a fresh start. Here I am to dirty it. To lie.
“You’re safe now, okay? You’re safe. That’s all that matters,” he says soothingly.
I nod, and Marco gets out of the SUV and then helps me out, his eyes locking with mine. But he doesn’t look happy or relieved. He looks…tense. A little red flag waves inside my brain. Something is wrong. His jaw is clenched, as if he’s anticipating something unpleasant.
As we head toward the house, I see Armani standing on the front steps. Waiting for us.
“You’re coming with me,” he says, grabbing my wrist.
“What? No!” I try to pull away, but it’s no use. “Marco?” I yelp, panicking.
Marco just shakes his head with a grim expression and moves out of the way, allowing his brother to pull me to the side.
“You need to go with Armani,” he says.
“Marco?” He won’t look at me. “Marco! What the hell is this?”
My husband turns his back on me and goes inside the house.
I only get an instant to look after him before Armani is pulling me away.
Dragging me toward a small stone building that’s built into a hill at the edge of the property, a heavy black iron security fence all around it.
The place has no windows. It looks almost like a small prison.
“Where are you taking me?” I demand, my voice sounding more scared than imperious.
He smiles as he punches a code into the keypad at the entry gate.
“This is the Deep Cellar.”