Chapter 2 #2
“I watched her get off the bus, I would say all of an hour, at most.” Cruz laughs like this is all some big game to him.
His words make me shiver like someone has just walked over my grave. He was watching me from the second I got off the bus. Why? Shouldn’t he have been doing whatever dodgy stuff he and his brother were up to with those guys in the alley?
“She’s Valentine Moretti’s wife,” Jagger huffs, sounding angry about it, but what’s it to him.
I can’t help but flinch. The mention of my husband’s name sends a tremor down my spine. They better not be buddies of his and about to send me back to him. I will die before I ever have to see that vile human again.
“Fuck!” Cruz growls, taking a step back from me, his fists balling at his sides. And I wonder what he knows about my husband that just put that look of anger on his face.
“Yeah, fuck!” His brother flicks him in the forehead. “Good work, fucker, now we have to deal with this.” He motions to me. Like I’m this.
With the extra space Cruz has finally allowed me, I get to my feet, finding some inner strength; no idea where it comes from, maybe the fear of being sent back to my husband, maybe the fear of being stuck here with these thugs.
Who cares where. “You don’t have to do anything, just let me go free and you will never hear from me again. ”
“Oh, if only it was that simple, flower. If you really are Valentine’s wife, you know how this shit works. We can’t just let a witness go free, especially not one on the run from her powerful husband.”
I shift from foot to foot nervously. That’s just it, I might have been married into the mafia, but I never saw anything like I did tonight.
It was all hidden from me. I was to be seen and not heard, and most of the time not even seen.
He kept me locked away from the world, sheltered from the reality of his life, and I never complained, not once, because the reality would have been more than I could handle.
I’m not tough like my big brother; I have always been squeamish with anything icky and averse to anything remotely violent.
He would never have told me anyway. The one time I asked questions, it ended with me regretting it.
I lock eyes with Jagger, deciding he’s the more reasonable one. “I won’t tell anyone, I swear. Please, just let me go.”
His face is a cold, uncaring mask. “Get her stuff,” he growls to his brother, motioning to all my items on the sofa.
I recoil when his large hand lands on my arm, trying to squirm out of his grip.
His fingers dig into my flesh tighter than Cruz’s; I can’t escape him.
He drags me through the apartment with him, past the kitchen, down the hallway.
“Hey, what are you doing?” I struggle against him desperately, searching for an escape.
He opens a door and shoves me in with so much force I fly across the plush carpet. I blink back up at him, my body trembling all over. Beside me is an oversized bed covered in white linen, also not a torture chamber, but that doesn’t mean I’m not terrified of what’s coming next.
“It’s late, get some sleep,” he replies, a no-shit tone to his voice.
Cruz follows us in with my bag, my clothes spilling out over the top from where he’s shoved them back in. He places it on the bed, a cruel smirk twisting his lips as he looks me over, like a predator with my body all sprawled out on the floor.
Jagger glares at him. “You’re on the sofa,” he snips in his brother’s direction, then leaves us alone together, his heavy boots stomping back through the hardwood floors of the apartment.
I suck in ragged breaths, not sure what the hell is about to happen.
Cruz kneels beside me, the back of his hand brushing gently down the side of my face, then he runs his thumb over my bottom lip like he did in the car earlier.
I’m not sure why, but I don’t flinch away, even though I know I should.
But his touch is soft, caring, and slightly sensual.
It wakes something up in me I thought was long dead. Desire.
I have no idea why, but I press my body closer to his.
It’s as if I’m drawn to him, aching for him to satisfy a need I never knew existed until this very moment.
The way he looks at me with so much heat in his eyes makes my stomach flip-flop and a pool of arousal coat my panties instantly.
Who the hell is this guy? I swallow the lump in my throat.
“Get your hands off me,” I finally snap, my brain winning the battle.
“Sweet dreams, little darlin',” he sing-songs like he’s taunting me, then moves away, leaving me staring at the back of his imposing figure as he closes the door, locking me inside the bedroom alone.
I wait a minute, too frozen to the spot where I was thrown to move.
What on earth was that, and why do I want his hands back on me?
I shake my head, trying to get rid of the strange sensation now coursing through me.
I pull myself up to standing using the bed for support, then check the bedroom door.
Sure enough, it’s locked. I’m trapped in this bedroom.
I scan the room, looking for a way out. The window is an obvious choice, but as I approach it, I can already see it’s one of those that doesn’t open, just like in the living room. And when I look down to the street, I see why; we are at least six stories up. There is no way out of this hell.
I slide down the wall and bury my head in my hands, trying to suck in deep breaths.
A weight bears down on me, compounded exhaustion from the flight and bus ride mixing with the mental fatigue from the ordeal I stumbled upon in the back of that alleyway.
All I wanted was to have a fresh start, to have a life of my own, but I have gone from one prison to another.
Fresh tears spill from my eyes. I don’t bother to stop them; what’s the point? For five years I prayed for a better life, begged for a way out of my horrific marriage. The past week, I had a small sliver of hope that I might have just found my way out. How wrong I was.