Chapter 3
Last night I had Geovani’s words rattling round in my head, about not trusting anyone. I left the bar with Sloane, jumped in her Porshe, and had her bodyguard drive us to her apartment about a five-minute drive from her club, on a street that bordered with the more upmarket part of town.
After hearing which shitty motel I was staying in, she refused to let me stay there another night alone, so I grabbed my backpack and got out of there. The thought of going back to that shitty motel alone after what happened seemed like a terrible idea, so I left. But now in the light of day, I’m not sure it was the best idea. I mean, I’m not dead yet, nor am I lock up against my will. But what did I agree to last night by allowing her to help me? All I know about her is that she and her brothers run one of the gangs in this town and she has a passionate hatred for Enzo Moretti. But that doesn’t mean I can or should trust her. Even if we both want the same thing.
This morning, as the sun gently peeked through the sheer curtains, I slowly woke up in a queen bed fit for royalty. Finding my blade still safely tucked under my pillow, I breathe a sigh of relief as I stare up at the ceiling, trying to wake up. Dressed in the most exquisite silk pajamas, I marveled at their elegance, feeling like a true queen myself. Sloane is the classiest biker chick I’ve ever met. Not that I know any of them, or really any.
I should have slept like a baby in the lap of luxury, but I didn’t. Every time I slightly drifted off, I saw that man’s eyes as he choked on his own blood and eventually died. I would wake in a hot sweat then be awake again for way too long. It was a terrible cycle that’s left me feeling on edge and wrecked this morning.
If one of the boys were with me, I would have slept like a baby, safely embraced in their strong protective arms. I can't help but wonder what they’re doing right now. Did they read my text message? And if they did, how did they react? Did Alessandro go postal? Or could they accept it for what it was? Either option makes me feel awful because I already miss them.
Deciding there is no point in lazing about when I have a man to track down, I throw back the covers and pad over the plush carpet. When I open the door to Sloane’s spare room, I’m hit with the tasty smell of what could only be fresh pancakes. My empty stomach growls loudly. I track the fragrance down a short hallway and enter the impeccably designed kitchen. The kitchen is decked out in all black marble; the glossy black cupboard doors shine with their gold handles, adding a touch of elegance. The building on the outside looks to be fairly dated, but this place has been freshly renovated.
“Morning.” I yawn, running a hand through my tangled curls.
Sloane turns toward me, holding a spatula in her hand, her lips painted a vibrant shade of red this morning, and a warm smile gracing her face. When the hell did she have time to shower already and put on a full face of make-up? “How did you sleep?” she quizzes me.
“Not the best night’s sleep I’ve had. It had nothing to do with your stunning spare room and everything to do with my fucked-up flashbacks of last night,” I admit, slouching down onto a stool at the breakfast bar.
She looks me over and purses her lips. “You need to learn how to block all that shit out. It’s the only way to survive.” She turns back to her task, flipping the pancakes.
“How do you do it?”
“Honestly, I have been numb to this cruel world for so long I couldn’t even tell you.” But the haunted look in her pretty eyes gives her away. She’s got plenty of demons just lurking under the surface. She’s just better at hiding them than I am.
“Can I help you make us some coffee or set the table?” I ask, remembering my manners and feeling guilty about relying on her generosity.
“Mugs are on the top shelf, pods in the first drawer. I take my coffee black.”
I chuckle. “Of course you do.”
She looks back at me, like what. But then shrugs like she knows her obsession with the color is over the top.
As I make our coffees, I stretch to reach the top shelf and feel the fabric of my sleep shorts uncomfortably riding up.
“Well, what do we have here then?” comes a male voice from behind me, his voice way too chirpy for this time in the morning.
Startled, I almost drop the mug in surprise, catch it, and spin around quickly. My eyes land on a man wearing faded low-slung jeans. His solid chest is on full display, showcasing an array of inked designs and some sculpted abs. My mouth nearly drops open. Who the hell is he?
Sloane flashes me an apologetic smile. “Shit, sorry, I forgot to tell you last night that my brother lives here as well. This is Jagger.”
Jagger Stryker. He looks different from the images I saw of him in my online research. He’s shaved off his beard, and well, maybe I’m looking at his chest instead of his face, but holy shit, this guy is a lot to take in.
He extends his hand toward me, inviting me to take it. “Hi, and you are?” he asks in a way-too-friendly tone.
“Taken,” Sloane answers for me. “She’s having a little boy drama, so she’s going to crash with us for a bit. Can you go put some clothes on? I’m sure my new friend doesn’t feel like puking while she eats her pancakes.” Unimpressed, she lets out an exasperated huff in his direction.
A little boy drama? Ha, I wish it was all that simple, but it’s as good a story as anything, so why not run with it. I shake his hand tentatively but don’t enjoy the scrutiny in his eyes as they take me in.
He studies me, not making any attempt to hide the way his eyes roam over my mostly bare legs. Then he chuckles softly. “Boy drama, hey, no shit, Sloane. You know you brought home a fugitive? This chick has a two-million-dollar reward placed on her head.”
I pull my hand away from him quickly. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“The Morettis issued it yesterday. Went out to anyone who matters.” He pulls something up on his phone and eagerly extends it toward me. Sloane hops in beside me, her eyes scanning the words on his screen.
We are urgently seeking any information that will lead to the safe return of my fiancée, Harley Havardi, who has been missing for two days. Harley is also pregnant, and every minute is critical. Our hearts are broken, but we will stop at nothing to bring her home.
If you have any information about her whereabouts or know someone who does, please come forward. You can remain anonymous, and a $2 million reward will be offered for any tip that leads to her safe reunion with her family.
Please contact the Morettis immediately.
I feel the color drain from my face, and I take hold of the marble kitchen counter to stop from passing out. Why the fuck would Alessandro do this to me? Is he so obsessed that he really can’t let me go, even when I tell him it’s what I need?
Sloane gives me a pointed look, her lips pursed. “You’re pregnant? No wonder you ran. I would too if I had a fucking Moretti baby growing inside of me.”
“I’m not pregnant,” I snap. “It’s a lie Alex told Enzo so he wouldn’t hurt me. The engagement is bullshit as well.” My hands tremble at my sides, feeling as though the small amount of control I just found is already slipping away. The tremble could also be from the sinking feeling that I haven’t had a period since I arrived at the boys’ place, and while that can be normal for someone with the implant in their arm, it doesn’t stop the anxiety I feel every time they say I’m pregnant like they really believe it. “Now you see why I had to get out of there. They’ll stop at nothing.” With way too much nervous energy firing through my limbs, I pace the kitchen, not sure what to do. The whole city will be looking for me now. Every fucking thug wanting a quick buck, probably the dodgy cops as well. I’m screwed. So much for disappearing. “Who got that message?”
“My guess is anyone in the Moretti organization. It was passed on to me by Asher.” He shrugs. “We could do with the extra two mil, sis. What do you say we hand her in ourselves.”
In an instant, Sloane plucks a knife from the block on the countertop and hurls it at her brother. It narrowly misses his head and lands in the drywall behind him. An obvious warning.
The room fills with the sound of his laughter, punctuated by the rhythmic slapping of his thigh. “Too early for jokes.” In a defensive gesture, he raises his hands, looking between his furious sister and me on the verge of a panic attack.
“There is no hour in which that would be fucking funny.” She slaps the side of his head as she places a stack of pancakes in front of him. “You know Enzo probably set this shit up; he wants Harley dead.”
His eyes go wide. “Shit, sorry, Harley, I didn’t know. I thought it was just boy drama. You know the overprotective type who have control issues.” He gives me a thorough once-over, and I can’t help but wonder what he’s searching for. I can’t work this guy out. Was he really joking or is he going to kidnap me in my sleep and drag me back to the Morettis for his cash reward?
Sloane places a hand to my back and guides me to the kitchen table where she forces me to sit, a plate full of pancakes set in front of me. They smell delicious, but I’m not sure my stomach can handle food.
She takes the seat beside me. “I’m not going to let him find you. I have already made some arrangements this morning to help disguise you a little better, and even though my asshole big brother doesn’t understand timing, he will keep your secret just as I will. You’re hanging with the Strykers now, and we look after our people.”
They’re people I’m not sure I like the sound of any more than being a Moretti.
As Jagger chews on a mouthful of food, he crosses his heart in a gesture of sincerity. He offers me a lopsided smile, his hair falling over his eyes, adding to his mysterious charisma. His boyish charm has a way of making me trust him without question, even though I know I shouldn’t. He’s their leader, and if he wants something, even Sloane will have to fall in line, won’t she?
An hour later, with my belly nicely full, I find myself seated in Sloane’s luxurious bathroom, the air thick with the scent of vanilla candles. A friend of Sloane’s, who used to work in the entertainment industry but now has a job with Sloane, begins to meticulously apply long-term fake tattoos onto my pale skin, transforming my arms and chest into a work of art.
As she finishes, she pulls out a tray of dramatic makeup. I watch with keen interest as she skillfully demonstrates how to apply it, showing me how to accentuate my eyes so they appear larger than they actually are. No one has ever shown me how to apply make-up properly before. I guess most girls learn from their mother, but I never had that opportunity. I picked up bits and pieces from girls I went to school with but mostly the stuff wasn’t allowed, so I didn’t have much use for learning.
The way she works her magic is impressive, I already look like a new person. With thick dark fake lashes, she even goes so far as to bring a selection of contact lenses to choose from. I went with a pair of brown-tinted ones, carefully inserting them into my eyes, feeling a momentary discomfort before my vision adjusts to the new hue. I blink back at myself with a smile when I realize this plan of Sloane’s might actually work.
Sloane brings over some different wigs and watches me in the mirror as she tries them on. First a long chocolate-brown one, that we both shake our heads to, then a short extra-straight blonde one.
“It has to be this one.” Sloane smirks at me in the mirror as she tries another wig on my head. This one is short in a bob style and platinum blonde.
I have to admit I quite like it. I don’t look like myself at all.
“Just like Vivian from Pretty Woman. She had a head or red curls under her disguise as well.” She smirks.
I can’t help but laugh at her in surprise. “You don’t strike me as the romantic type to have watched Pretty Woman,” I say, playing with the wig, tossing the hair a little to see how lifelike it actually looks. I look like a completely new person. Like if I didn’t know I was under all this, I wouldn’t know it was me. I look badass and tough, and that makes me smile. I’m in a black tank top and a short denim skirt with a pair of heeled ankle boots. All selected from Sloane’s closet.
“Yeah, it’s perfect. Viv’s the one,” she tells her friend over her shoulder.
She hands me a pair of hoop earrings to complete the look, and I slip them in. “You could pass for my little sister,” she says, taking hold of my shoulders and looking directly into the mirror.
I laugh, knowing she’s not far wrong. Same eyes, similar hair except hers is longer. And in her clothes, I look like one of them, alright. It’s scary how much.
“How do you feel about piercings?”
I give her a nervous glance. So far, I only have my ears done; it’s all I was ever allowed to have. “Umm, where?”
She shrugs. “Lip, nose, eyebrow, somewhere that would complete the look.”
My eyes go wide. But I know she’s right, I need to do whatever it takes to really look like one of them. I can’t afford for anyone to know it’s me under all this. Or I really will be a dead girl.