27. Olivia
Iwince from the pounding in my head, and then my heart stops beating as I feel something rocking me back and forth.
My eyelids twitch, and then, very slowly, my eyes open. Everything around me seems blurred out. I flutter my lashes as patiently as I can to help with my sight, but it sends sharp pains to the back of my head, and I have to pause, doing my best to hold still before trying again.
I have been kidnapped.
The pain in my head is still looming, but it’s not as terrible as the hurt in my heart. I had lost Ronan again to one of Cesare’s daughters, and now I don’t even know if I will ever be able to see him again.
I sniff as my view clears out enough for me to see I’m in a container.
My senses kick in, and I feel the cold metal against my butt, then the bind around my hands and feet, and then the stiffness of tape around my mouth. But it is the prickles of salt against my nostrils that I latch on to the most.
Salt. Rocking moves. I strain my ears to listen for sound. Are those seagulls?
I’m on the sea.
I shoot up from the floor, my spine spiking to stretch straight as I dart my eyes around the container, searching for a way out.
I hate the sea. I hate large bodies of water.
I drag my butt on the cold floor until I’m leaning against one side of the wall, then press my ear against it to check for any other sound. I need to know if I’m the only one in here. Those men wouldn’t throw me in the middle of the sea just because they can, right?
I sniff, still wondering what I ever did to deserve being kidnapped. Just when I thought it was all over, here I am again.
I hear footsteps now and as I draw away from the wall, I see the lines in what looks like a rectangular curve. I was pressing my ears against the door of the container.
I kick against it with my sneakers and then start hitting my body as best as I can against it, but I’m not making any progress; in fact, I’m hurting myself mostly.
I scream, burning my lungs, a part of me hating myself for running out on Ronan. I should have given him the chance to explain himself. I needed to clear my thoughts, but… Oh, God. What was I thinking?
The door flies open as I kick again with my feet, almost spraining my ankles from the hard push. I scoot as best as I can to get away from the door and the vicious eyes glaring at me.
I know him. I have seen him before.
I scramble through my memories to place his face.
He steps into the container, which seems even smaller in comparison to his height and dominance. He looks too elegant—wearing a charcoal suit with gold embellishments—to match his cruel eyes. Those glasses could even fool me into believing he could be a nerd, but this man is anything but.
My gut tells me he’s a killer.
Two men file in after him, and he turns his attention away from me. I recognize one as the person who was inside the van with me and the other as the driver.
I scoot further back, putting some distance between me and them. Killer Eyes scoffs before barking out words in Russian to the men.
I try as best as I can to pick up on anything, but I can’t- Then I hear names. I don’t need a translation of those. Cesare. Ferreri. Gallagher. Sofia. Every sentence has either of those names, and the way they are being delivered, I can make no mistake that there is strong enmity between the man and the people he is mentioning.
I want to let my regret for my foolishness take over, but then he mentions Ruth’s name, and it clicks. I have seen him before at Barbara and Ronan’s wedding. He was the man Ronan was talking to before Barbara slumped.
He knows Ruth.
I scream as best as I can through my taped mouth, and he stops talking to shoot fireballs at me. I don’t stop. Instead, I keep screaming, burning my eyes and lungs.
He looms over me and crouches as if to comfort me, but instead, his hand smacks across my face so hard I fear I might lose a tooth.
I grit, the pain so intense I have no control over the tears that slip past my eyes. But I don’t let him win as I continue screaming in his face.
“Ruth?” He curls his upper lip, and I scream some more. “She poisoned the cakes, but,” he lifts a finger, “she didn’t have a clue about Barbara’s allergies,” he stands. “I, on the other hand, did. I needed to ruin Ronan Gallagher’s alliance with the Ferreris, because that nonsense is going to cost me,” he struts away, smoothing out his suit.
I hate his accent. I hate his confidence. I hate his scent. I hate him.
“Ronan is too daring for his own good,” he clicks his teeth, and I get the hint that he would stop at nothing to accomplish his plan.
He must be the they Ruth was referring to. He is the enemy—the mastermind behind it all.
“Oh, naive little girl,” he purrs. “It’s such a pity you won’t be able to tell any of this to anyone.” He lifts and drops his chin in a menacing, dry smile. “You won’t be seeing Ronan ever again.”