Chapter 30 Vin
Vin
I’m halfway to my car when someone grabs me from behind.
My instinct kicks in: elbow back, pivot, reach for my gun. But there’s already a blade pressed against my throat and two more sets of hands pinning my arms as they put a bag over my head. Professional and organized, this isn’t street-level bullshit.
“Easy, Demonio.” The voice is familiar, but I can’t place it. “Just need a word with my boys here.”
They shove me into the back of a car and drive for awhile, my zip-tied wrists in my lap. We don’t drive far, just a few minutes away. I try to map it in my head, but I get turned around. When we get wherever we’re going, they get out but leave me in the car.
“The fuck are you fucking doing?” I yell when the car door slams.
No one answers. I hear them talking but can’t make out what they’re saying. Minutes pass. Then at least an hour. Then more. I’m losing my shit thinking about Sophie, and I kick the back of the car seat in front of me with both feet until I hear the bolts snap.
“Hey hey! You in a rush to get your ass beat, Demonio?” Someone rips the door open and pulls me out, rips off my blindfold and throws me against a rusted dumpster. The metal creaks under the impact, the stench of garbage thick.
When I blink the stars from my vision, I am staring at Rocco’s smug fucking face.
Not Aurelio’s men. Not the Irish or the Albanians making a move. Rocco, Sophie’s worthless piece of shit ex-employee with delusions of adequacy.
Rage detonates through me like a grenade.
“You’ve got 10 seconds to explain why you’re not bleeding out in this alley,” I snarl, testing the zip ties. Tight. Whoever trained these assholes knew what they were doing.
Rocco crouches in front of me, a sneer twisting his mouth. “Relax, Demonio. This isn’t about you.”
“Then what the fuck is it about?” I strain against the restraints, plastic biting into my wrists. Behind Rocco, two guys stand guard, all muscle, no brains, judging by their disinterested expressions. Hired help.
“It’s about Sophie.” He says her name like he has any fucking right to even think about her. “And my job.”
I bark out a laugh. “Your job? You want me to make her rehire your sorry ass? That’s what this is?”
“Make her if you want to.” Rocco shrugs, standing and brushing dirt off his knees with exaggerated care. “My suggestion is to encourage her. Make it clear that it’s in her best interest.”
“Go fuck yourself.” I lunge forward despite the zip ties, and one of his goons slams me back against the dumpster hard enough to rattle my teeth. “Get another restaurant job, you pathetic fuck. Brooklyn’s full of kitchens that’ll take a mediocre sous chef like you.”
Irritation flickers across Rocco’s face. There’s something he’s not saying.
“Can’t do that,” he says flatly.
“Why the fuck not?”
“Not your business.”
I study the tension in his shoulders, the way his eyes dart to his men then back to me, the tightness around his mouth. He’s scared and not of me, though he fucking should be. The pieces start falling into place with sickening clarity.
“Who are you working for, Rocco?” My voice drops low. “Who? Is it Aurelio?”
Rocco’s jaw ticks. Bingo.
“That motherfucker has you planted at the Arsenal?” My mind races, connecting dots I should have seen this weeks ago.
Sophie’s failing restaurant in a forgotten neighborhood.
Rocco showing up out of nowhere, a favor to her father’s friend.
Coming back over and over despite being terrible at his job, despite Sophie firing him multiple times. “How long?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“The fuck it doesn’t!” I strain against the zip ties again, plastic cutting into skin. Blood, warm and slick, starts lubricating the restraints. Good. “You’ve been watching her for him? Reporting back?”
Rocco’s silence is answer enough.
Ice floods my veins. Aurelio knows about Sophie, probably for months based on Rocco’s employment at the Arsenal. And I gave him a reason to fuck with her by staying at her place, by fucking her in her kitchen, by marking her with my cum and my teeth and my—
Fuck. FUCK.
“I just need my job back,” Rocco says. “You tell her to rehire me, and we’re done here. Simple.”
“Simple.” I spit out the word. “You think I’m going to help you spy on her for my father?”
“I think you’re going to do whatever keeps her safe.” Rocco leans in close, breath reeking. “Because if I don’t report back with good news by tonight, there will be consequences. And who do you think will get the first visit?”
My heart hammers against my ribs as images flash through my mind: Sophie kneeling on her coffee table, her ass in the air, her pussy exposed to anyone who walks through that door. The marker arrows I drew on her skin like a fucking roadmap. Her sweet voice saying my answer to you is always yes.
She’s alone, waiting for me, completely defenseless.
“I’m not helping you do shit,” I growl.
Rocco straightens, disappointment on his face. “Wrong answer, Demonio.”
He nods to his muscle men, and they haul me up, dragging me deeper into the alley. One of them produces a length of chain, threading it through a pipe overhead while the others hold me in place.
“Here’s what happens next,” Rocco says, tense, his eyes on the guys stringing me up. “You stay here and think about what you want to do. I go have a chat with Sophie. Now that hasn’t gone so great in the past, so it may take some work to convince her without your help.”
Every muscle in my body goes rigid. “You go near her, I’ll rip your fucking throat out.”
“Tough to do that from here.” He gestures to his men, and they pull on the chain, hauling my arms up until my shoulders scream. My feet barely touch the ground, all my weight suspended by the plastic cutting into my wrists.
The pain is immediate and fucking excruciating. I grind my teeth, refusing to give him the satisfaction.
“Think about it,” Rocco says, already walking away. “You’ve got maybe an hour before my boss starts asking questions. After that?” He shrugs.
He and his muscle leave me in the alley, clanging the metal gate shut behind them. I’m alone, suspended, bleeding, and completely fucking helpless while Sophie waits for me with her ass in the air. And Rocco’s heading for her now?
The image of her won’t leave my mind: kneeling on that table, the spatula between her teeth, butter greasing her ass and thighs. So eager to please.
My answer to you is always yes. Those words loop through my head on repeat. I have no idea why, but she trusts me. And I left her exposed and alone.
FUCK.
I test the chain, pulling down with all my weight. The pipe groans but holds, the zip ties cutting deeper, blood running down my forearms. I barely feel the pain.
The dumpster is five feet to my left, too far to reach. Behind me, broken glass litters the ground, useless when my hands are tied, and I can’t fucking reach it. Overhead, the pipe runs the length of the alley, bolted into the brick at regular intervals.
Bolts. Old bolts. Rusted bolts, judging by the orange stains streaking the brick.
I start swinging, using my body weight to create momentum. Each swing sends fresh agony through my shoulders, but I don’t stop. The chain grinds against the pipe with each swing, creating a rhythm.
Sophie’s waiting.
Grind.
Rocco’s heading for her.
Grind.
The rhythm builds, my body a pendulum. Blood makes my grip slippery, the plastic biting to the bone now.
Grind.
One of the bolts overhead shudders, raining down brick dust. I swing harder, throwing every ounce of my 230 pounds into it. The bolt groans. More dust. A chunk of brick falls, shattering on the ground near my feet.
I picture Rocco walking through Sophie’s door. Her looking up, confused but obedient, still in position like I told her. Him seeing her spread open, marked, mine—and touching her with his filthy fucking hands.
The rage gives me strength I don’t have.
One more swing, harder than before, and the bolt rips free from the wall with a screech of protesting metal. The pipe sags, and I crash to the ground in a heap of chain and agony.
For a moment I just lie there, gasping, shoulders on fire and wrists screaming. But there’s no time. I roll onto my knees, ignoring the glass cutting through my jeans. My hands are still zip-tied, but at least I’m not hanging like a fucking pinata.
I stagger to my feet and spot what I need: a jagged piece of metal sticking out of the dumpster, sharp and rusted. Perfect.
Quickly, I start sawing the zip tie against the edge. Every stroke sends fresh pain through my wrists, but I don’t stop until the zip tie snaps.
My hands are free, bloody and inflamed, but free. I flex my fingers, forcing circulation back into them despite the pain, and break into a run.
“Hold on, princess,” I mutter through gritted teeth, pushing my legs faster. “Just fucking hold on.”