Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Valentina
I wake to a scent that shouldn’t be here.
Clean soap, sharp and unmistakable, power threaded with a faintly citrusy tang.
I know it from somewhere…
Suddenly chilled, I go still.
The smell sharpens as my awareness does, and threads begin to pull together.
Memories surface in out-of-order shards rather than scenes—night air, laughter, celebrating Chaira’s birthday on the rooftop, her teasing me about Mr. Tall, Dark, and Broody.
Walking toward the bar, sliding onto a stool to wait for him. The way a stranger bumped into me and crowded me. The way I turned back to…
The stranger.
God, he was electrifying, offering to buy me a drink, igniting my senses as he leaned in closer, and I breathed in his scent… Of potent masculinity and danger.
The same scent that now clings to me.
My body reacts before my mind can catch up.
There’s a tightening low in my abdomen. A flare of awareness along my spine that annoys me.
I’d been attracted to him, flirting in a way that said I was in charge and knew what I was doing.
And then…
I fight through layers of fog.
What the hell happened after that?
The harder I search for recollections, the farther out of reach they loom.
Something’s terribly wrong.
Time feels wrong, stretched thin, like something slid out of alignment and hasn’t settled back yet.
I feel slightly hungover. But I only had one glass of champagne and two sips of my Sicilian Velvet cocktail.
Then it hits me.
The way my stool had been bumped, but my companion hadn’t reacted. I’d been distracted, talking about the Dallas humidity while the stranger had access to my drink.
And then…
Fighting back a sudden stab of panic, I force open my eyes.
There are bedside lamps filtering light into the room. So what time is it?
I blink as I look around. My clock isn’t there.
And…
I recognize nothing.
Needing to assess my situation, I catalog every detail, memorizing it.
I’m not in a cell or panic room. Instead, this appears to be a room in a house or mansion.
But it isn’t designed for comfort.
It’s designed to function.
The furniture is minimal and solid, expensive and elegant. There’s nothing soft about it.
There are no photographs. No books. No evidence of a life beyond this room. Just space. Control. And the unmistakable sense that this is a place where a man sleeps when he’s too dangerous to be anywhere else.
Then I see it.
High in the corner of the room is a small, black camera that’s pointed toward the bed and me.
My heart misses a beat, but I refuse to look away.
You’re watching me, aren’t you, you bastard?
I have to get out of here before he gets back.
Remembering what my man Santo had taught me, I take in my surroundings, searching for anything I can use as a weapon.
One of the heavy lamps on the nightstand will do, if necessary.
My pulse speeding to hurry me along, I force myself to sit up.
Then cool air hits the bare skin on my chest.
Oh my God.
I’m not in the dress I was wearing when I left the house.
Instead, an oversized men’s shirt covers me. But… Oh God. Oh God. No.
I’m naked beneath it.
Someone took off all my clothes, including my panties and matching bra.
My smart watch is gone, along with the necklace my father gave me for my twenty-first birthday.
Frantically, my hands shaking, I drag the shirt lapels together, as if that can protect me.
Reality hits me like a slap, so hard I can barely breathe.
I was abducted.
As my friends and security looked on.
How long have I been missing? And what’s happened in the interim? Does anyone know I’m gone?
My mind whirls, and I press my fingers against my pounding temple, as if the small action can help me make sense of any of this.
From the moment I was born, my father warned me to be careful, that I was at a high risk for kidnapping.
Because of that, I’ve always been cautious, thinking through my plans, my actions, never trying to ditch my security.
But no matter how smart I was, my abductor was smarter, calculating.
Reminding myself to stay calm, I breathe, forcing myself to think rationally.
I’ve had lessons in what to do in this type of situation.
Obviously the stranger abducted me, and part of me remembers going with him willingly. No doubt his drug of choice ensures compliance. He wouldn’t have wanted to make a scene because my soldiers would never have allowed me to be taken.
So who the hell is he?
I’m the daughter of a powerful don, a man with plenty of enemies. Is my abductor one of them? Or is he nothing more than a hired goon?
Instantly I reject that idea.
He was too smooth, too damn appealing, to be a hired gun.
No. The man was lethal in his own right.
A boss?
Quickly I shake my head, discarding that idea also. At the recent gathering of the Four Corners Alliance in Las Vegas, I met all the dons in the region.
And because the idea was to broker peace between the four families, my guess is that none of them are suspects.
So who the hell are you? The stranger’s gorgeous image sifts through my memory. And why did you take me?
Money? Revenge? It has to be one or the other.
Despite the fact I was undressed and am now wearing his shirt, I know this isn’t personal. Because I know I haven’t had sex.
So there’s a bigger purpose here. I’m a pawn in a game I don’t yet understand. And that terrifies me more than the idea of some man wanting a night of sex with a compliant woman.
I draw another shaky breath. Freaking out is a luxury I can’t afford.
Needing to control something, I fasten the buttons on the shirt, one at a time, all the way to the throat.
Then I do a quick inventory.
My clothing, shoes, purse, and jewelry are gone.
There are two nightstands framing the bed.
A water bottle is waiting for me.
I lick my lips, suddenly realizing how parched I am.
I stare at it for a long moment, suspicious of everything. He drugged me once. Which means there’s nothing to stop him from doing it a second time.
Still, I need to rinse the slightly metallic taste from my mouth.
Erring on the side of caution, I lift the bottle and turn it slowly in my hand. The seal is intact, and there are no puncture marks on the plastic. The label is one I know, and it’s in pristine condition.
Satisfied—barely—I twist the cap just enough to hear the faint crack as the seal breaks.
I take a careful sip.
The water is cool and clean. It doesn’t burn. Doesn’t taste like anything at all.
Except for drugging and kidnapping me, the man—whoever he is—apparently wants me alive and unharmed.
Taking hope from that, I set the bottle back down.
The room is too quiet after that, like the air itself is holding its breath.
Feeling slightly more human and grounded, I throw back the sheet covering me and climb out of the bed, using the headboard to steady myself until I’m sure of my balance.
Hyperaware of the camera’s blinking eye watching my every move, I take a tentative step away from the bed.
Cool air wraps around my bare legs as I make my way toward the door. I keep my movements slow, unhurried—no reason to give whoever’s watching a reaction they can catalogue.
I wrap my fingers around the handle and turn it once. Then again, harder. The mechanism doesn’t rattle. Doesn’t budge. It’s solid, as if it’s been deadbolted from the other side.
I don’t waste time testing it once more.
Instead, I pivot and cross the room toward the windows.
They are framed with curtains heavy enough to block sound as well as light. And beneath them are wooden blinds.
Above me is a blinking red light. I know without touching the window that it’s alarmed and likely reinforced. The glass is thick—too thick. Not decorative. Defensive.
So this isn’t an ordinary house, despite what part of me wanted to believe.
It’s a controlled environment. Built to keep people out. Or keep them in.
Cautiously I nudge aside the blinds, just enough to peer out.
I’m not on the ground level.
That’s immediately obvious from the way the property sprawls beneath me instead of meeting my line of sight. A courtyard spreads out a great distance, with a glistening pool with a waterfall beyond it.
Strategic lighting illuminates palm trees, banana trees, oleanders, hibiscus, and broadleaf plants that appear to be carefully cultivated and tended.
I’m somewhere in the south.
Maybe I’m still in Dallas, but I doubt it.
It’s dark out, but I’m not sure how much time is unaccounted for. Hours at least? But an entire day is possible, I suppose. Clearly he planned the abduction, so he could have moved me to another state or even out of the country.
When that thought threatens to drown me, I shove it away.
Off to the side, movement grabs my attention.
There’s a man—a security guard?—staring up at me.
Quickly I drop the blinds.
Of course he’d have me and the house watched.
Around me, the room feels suddenly smaller, as if the walls have closed in.
I glance at the camera again and deliberately turn my face away from it, denying it whatever expression it’s hoping to capture.
Still unsteady, I force myself across the room to another open door.
I pause at the threshold of the massive ensuite bathroom, taking in the beautiful marble and glass. He has a shower big enough for four, and soaker tub that makes me want to sink in up to my neck and forget my problems.
When I flip on a light, my reflection stares back from the mirror above the double sinks. My hair is wild. My lips are bare of color. But my eyes are sharp despite the lingering haze.
The men’s shirt hangs loose on me. The sight of myself in his clothing sends a fresh wave of fury through me.
I turn on the cold tap, cup water in my palms then splash it on my face, letting droplets run down my neck and beneath the collar.
My mind is starting to clear, and more fragments float to the surface of my consciousness.
The man carried me.
I have the vaguest impression of weightlessness, of strong arms, and the steady beat of a heart beneath my cheek.
The sway of movement. A vehicle, maybe? Then being cradled as I was carried up the stairs.
Soft murmurs. And firm commands.
I recall the zipper of my dress slowly sliding down. Then the whisper of silk as the material floated down.
There’s the sensation of gentle hand movements.
I shake my head. None of this makes any sense.
The man who took me is a stone-cold bastard.
Anger floods me, along with determination so powerful that it sharpens every sense.
How dare he?
I dry my face on a towel that smells slightly citrusy.
I’m in his room?
His bed?
I will make him pay for this.
Teeth gritted, I glance around. There’s another window, high up. I stand on my tiptoes to check it. Unsurprisingly I notice the same, familiar blinking light next to it.
With my shoulders pulled back, resolved to find a way out of this, I leave the bathroom.
There’s no visible phone. No intercom.
Knowing there has to be something here, I slide out each one of his dresser drawers, rummaging through his belongings, looking for a knife or maybe a gun.
There’s nothing.
And dear God, the man doesn’t own a single pair of underwear.
Blowing out a breath but undeterred, I walk into his massive closet.
Not that I’m surprised, but every hanger is the same, and they’re spaced the exact same distance apart. Each of his tailored suit coats face the same direction. His shirts are stacked in perfect, sharp-edged, color-coordinated columns—white, black, a couple that are blue.
My kidnapper’s leather belts are hung in a straight row, with the buckles aligned. Ties rolled or folded, not draped. A watch case sits on a shelf, each slot filled, each face dark and severe—tools, not jewelry.
Even his shoes are lined heel-to-toe, and they’re polished so well I can see the blur of my reflection in the leather.
It hits me then—he isn’t just tidy. He’s a man with a compulsive need for order. For control. My captor is someone who can’t stand evidence of mess, of softness, or even humanity.
And there’s nothing personal here that will give me a clue as to who he is. There’s not a single branded hoodie. There’s no sentimental junk shoved to the back. Instead, there’s cold precision.
A shiver runs through me, and I tell myself—lie to myself—that I’ve been in worse positions. I have sat across from men who wanted me dead and smiled while I calculated how quickly Santo could draw. I have walked into rooms where the air itself felt hostile and emerged untouched.
No matter what, I am my father’s daughter, and I am not helpless.
He and his men will be looking for me. And they’ll turn the world upside down to find me.
I won’t be held captive by this monster for very long.
Shamelessly I continue to root through his clothes until I find a pair of gray sweatpants that has a drawstring. They’re ridiculously big for me, but they’re better than being half naked.
And I shrug into a maroon-colored sweatshirt.
Texas?
So I’m still in my home state?
Feeling less vulnerable, I return to the bedroom.
That’s when I hear it.
A muted sound on the other side of the door.
I grab hold of one of the lamps, yanking the plug from the outlet. Then I tiptoe to stand behind the door.
Heart pounding, I wait. I may only have one chance to escape, and I sure as hell intend to make the most of it. And I don’t care if he dies in the process.