4. Kennedy
“Come on out, little girl,”Rocco chuckles, the sound sending shivers down my spine.
My heart races in my chest as I stumble over leaves and slippery rocks. My eyes strain against the darkness, desperately searching for any sign of hope.
A way out.
A place to hide.
A weapon.
Just to be clear, I am not exactly what you’d call a wilderness girl. My idea of camping involves shoving a stick through a marshmallow’s butt and toasting it over an open burner. So, stumbling blindly through the darkness can only mean one thing: I’m hopelessly lost.
“You’re only making it harder on yourself.” His voice grows louder.
The bastard’s getting closer, and it takes every ounce of willpower I’ve got to shove aside the suffocating fear and muster the strength to keep going.
I try to quiet my hurried steps, attempting to calm the loud, frantic rhythm of my breath, but it’s no use. The snap of a twig beneath my foot assures me there’s no way he can’t hear me.
No way he won’t find me.
Rocco’s ominous voice echoes through the trees. “I’ll just send the dogs in the morning.”
Dogs?
Morning?
I envision a horde of ferocious dogs, their growls and howls echoing through the chilled morning air as they tear into my frozen solid fingers as the dawn breaks.
I shiver again. I’ve got to get out of here.
The ink of night begins to thin as I tread toward what seems to be an opening. Suddenly, my footing slips on a slick, mossy bed of leaves, and I crash down. “Damn it.”
“I hear you, little bug,” he bellows with a chuckle.
To me, this is life or death.
To him, it’s all one sick, twisted game.
I squeeze my eyes shut, gritting my teeth against the pain, and press onward. Another slip sends me tumbling. Gazing up to the heavens, I ask Dad, What do I do, Da?
“Ya fight, darlin’.”Dad’s voice echoes in my head like a mantra. “Fight!”
Fightmy father whispers from beyond the grave, and I nod. Because either I’m listening to him, for once, and somehow surviving this dumpster fire of a night, or I’m joining him.
With a strength I wasn’t sure I possessed, I take a cautious step forward, then another, until I stumble against the rough bark of a tree.
Rocco’s voice slices through the darkness, a sharp and cruel taunt. “Here, kitty, kitty,” he jeers.
I clamp my hand over my mouth, desperate to silence the ragged breaths that betray my hiding place.
His voice fades, teasingly distant. Then, in the next breath, his footsteps shatter the silence, crunching all around, dangerously close.
Fumbling in the darkness, my hand lands on a sturdy fallen branch. Perhaps a swift strike to the head—mirroring the blow to Clive—will buy me the precious seconds needed for escape.
But where to? The soles of my feet scream in protest, raw and shredded from the jagged terrain. And even if I manage to outrun him, it’s only a matter of time before he catches up.
Or the dogs do.
When a twig snaps to my left, instinct kicks in.
I swing, hard. Poised for defense, I struggle, when a powerful hand catches the branch mid-air.
Before I can let out a sound—a scream—I’m trapped against the tree, my mouth is covered, my body wedged between solid timber and an unyielding presence.
The rush of panic ebbs away, replaced by an unsettling calm.
The air is thick with the scent of cigars mingling with the faint hint of cologne. The glimmer of golden eyes stare down, illuminated by stray beams of moonlight.
Enzo?
“Shh,” he whispers low in my ear. My body settles, motionless beneath his hold. I remain still, pressed against him, every muscle tense and motionless.
Another snap of twigs cuts through the silence, followed by the thud of heavy footsteps drawing near. My heart races, threatening to burst from my chest.
Then they pick up their pace, and slowly fade away into the distance.
It’s only then that Enzo releases me. Even in the dim forest light, his stare is piercing. Without a word, he seizes my hand and pulls me along with so much urgency that I’m left breathless.
The next sharp stone slices into my foot, the pain driving me to my knees. I clench my teeth, fighting back a gut-wrenching cry that threatens to escape.
More noises stir in the distance, prompting Enzo to act. He gathers me up in his arms, cradling me against his chest, as he forges ahead through the shadows.
Overwhelmed by exhaustion and crashing through too many emotions to count, my head sinks into his shoulder.
I want to warn him about the rugged terrain and slick boulders, but he maneuvers through them so effortlessly it’s clear he’s using The Force.
In this moment, an odd sense of reassurance floods me. With this mafia king turned mountain man leading us to safety, it’s as if nothing in the world can hurt me.
Not even him.
Then, just as my body melts into his hold, Prince Charming has to open his mouth. “Where are your shoes?” he mutters, annoyed.
My eyes snap wide. Oh, my God, he can’t be serious. “Um, at Dante’s Inferno. Where they were left when I was abandoned by you...and freaking kidnapped.”
“I did not abandon you,” he grunts back. “I”—he thinks on it, finding just the right words—“had important business.” Then he adds, “Family business,” as if that makes it all better.
My anger frayed, I glare up at him. “You mean like the family business of cozying up to your uncle and telling him I’m a two-bit whore? That family business?”
“What was I supposed to tell him?” he asks, as if I’m slower than airport Wi-Fi.
Is that what he actually thinks? That I’m a two-bit whore?
If he wasn’t my lifeline right now, I’d flick him in the forehead.
“For the record, I do not cozy up to my uncle.”
“Strike a nerve, did I?” I ask.
His steps turn to stomps. “Do not push me, Kennedy.”
So now I’m Kennedy again. A big, blaring, Do Not Kick the Hornet’s Nest warning sign, I guess.
And he’s right. I really shouldn’t push him. The sane part of me knows this. That this broody, living god is rescuing me.
Despite his hardened jaw and steel behind his eyes, his grip on me tightens. It’s like watching an irate toddler stomp through the forest, protecting a precious toy.
Then his frustration snaps. “This isn’t working for me.” It’s as if he’s come to a decision. One that suddenly doesn’t include me.
What?
My jaw would’ve hit the ground if Enzo hadn’t been hauling me through the woods at a breakneck pace. Like a bull at a rodeo, my Scottish side charges into the fray, full force.
“News flash, Mr. D’Angelo. This—I gesture to my bashed-up body and his ridiculous blazer as my only article of clothing—“isn’t working for me either.”
Our words hang between us like a challenge, each of us daring the other to back down first. But deep down, I know there’s more between us than angry words and pent-up frustration.
And enough raw heat blazing between us to power the sun.
Tension escalates, thick and palpable, as we try—and fail—to keep our voices low. Out of sheer exasperation, I poke the bear. “Why didn’t you do what you mobsters normally do?”
“Criticizing my work?” He smirks. “And what is it you think we mobsters normally do?”
“I don’t know. Shoot him? Like, in the kneecaps or something?”
With the grace of a panther, Enzo effortlessly sidesteps a low-hanging branch, guiding us forward through a pitch-black patch of forest.
“I assure you, Bella, there’s nothing I’d love more than to put a bullet in his kneecap. Or something,” he huffs, his hold on me tightening. “Look around,” he prompts.
I do, feeling more lost than ever.
“It’s dark. If I fire at him, I might hit you,” he adds, adjusting me in his arms as he considers our next move. “And even if by some miracle I managed to hit him, chances are he’d fire back. Which means one of us would be dead. Possibly me,” he says, with a touch of sarcasm.
At least, I think it’s sarcasm.
Who knows?
There’s so much raw tension knotted between us, I’m not sure of anything anymore.
Except that he’s rescuing me. And I need to be more grateful and less dumping all my pent-up shit on the man carrying me out of the bowels of hell.
I let out a soft breath. “Thank you,” I utter.
“For not killing you myself when you got yourself kidnapped?” I swear, this man needs Jesus.
“Hey.” I brush a hand on his cheek. His footsteps slow as his eyes meet mine. “I’m thanking you. For rescuing me, Enzo. Don’t be a dick about it.”
The slightest grin tugs at his lips. “Don’t tell me what to do, Bella. And don’t thank me yet.” After a long moment of huffing and deliberation, he resumes his stride.
We hit a clearing where a car is idling ,and a man rushes up to us. He looks so much like Enzo that I’m momentarily stunned.
“Striker?” Enzo asks.
The man checks his watch. “Returning from the deepest part of the ravine about now.” They share a chuckle, and I catch the hint of some inside joke slipping past me.
Enzo nods, pure satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. “I take it back. Striker’s not worthless, after all. He makes excellent bait.”
They talk as though I’m not even there, and honestly, I’m fine with that. Perfectly content to fade into the background in Enzo’s arms—especially since I’m buck naked under the oversized blazer.
But my brief respite from the spotlight is short-lived.
The man shifts his attention to me and speaks. “So, this is her.”
I blink. “This is who?” I question.
The man’s gaze leisurely drifts over me, a smirk playing on his lips. “The woman causing all this trouble,” he drawls out, his voice oozing allure.
The growl that rumbles from Enzo’s chest is primal. Possessive. “That’s exactly what she is. Trouble. More than she’s worth if you keep eyeing her like a prize cut of steak.”
Really? He’s claiming me now? Because I’m pretty sure if we stick around much longer, Rocco will find us. Especially with these two going at it like five-year-olds playing tug-of-war over a blanket.
Exasperated, I shake my head. “You can put me down now.”
“Considering it looks like your feet have been mangled by a cheese grater, I don’t think so.”
In truth, he has a point. But what’s he going to do? Piggy back me back to Chicago? “I’m a dancer. My feet know pain. Now put me down.”
“Fine,” he concedes, signaling for the other guy to open the car door, which he promptly does.
But instead of setting me on my feet, he slides me into the back seat of the car. The door shuts behind me, and after a few minutes, neither of them gets in, leaving me to wonder what we’re waiting for.
Finally, a man emerges from the woods—someone unfamiliar, with an almost military bearing and reddish hair. He’s wearing strange goggles on his face, which he promptly removes.
After a brief exchange, he climbs into the front seat while Enzo’s lookalike slides in behind the wheel.
Instead of joining us, Enzo remains behind. As soon as the engine fires up, alarm bells blare in my head. “We can’t just leave him.”
“He said to go,” the military-looking one says.
Enzo’s doppelg?nger nods. “He said to go.” He puts the car in gear and we’re off. “Rule number one: Don’t argue with Enzo.”
Who’s he telling?
The car pulls away, and all I can do is look back and watch, helplessly, as Enzo disappears into the woods. We round a dense thicket of trees, and a distinct sound jolts me in my seat.
A loud clap in the dark.
Gunfire.