CHAPTER 2 – Leona
My head pounds like someone's taken a sledgehammer to my temples. I pry my eyes open, immediately regretting it when light stabs into my retinas. Where am I? The ceiling above me is unfamiliar—pristine white with recessed lighting that glows too bright for my sensitive eyes.
I try to sit up, but the room tilts dangerously. Memories flood back in disjointed fragments. The warehouse. Blood on concrete floors. Marcus Drake, of all people, cutting me free.
And then—the bottle of water he offered me in the car.
"Son of a bitch," I mutter, pressing my palm against my forehead.
The bastard drugged me. I remember now—the slight bitterness I attributed to plastic, the sudden heaviness in my limbs, his eyes watching as I struggled to stay conscious. My last memory is of his voice, low and almost gentle: "Just let go, Leona. It's easier that way."
Nothing about Marcus Drake has ever been easy.
I force myself fully alert, pushing through the cotton-headed fog of whatever sedative he slipped me.
The bed beneath me is obscenely comfortable, the sheets silky against my skin.
I glance down and freeze. I'm wearing clothes that aren't mine—an oversized T-shirt and soft lounge pants.
Who undressed me? Who touched me while I was unconscious?
The room around me is a study of understated luxury. Cream walls, minimalist furniture in rich mahogany, floor-to-ceiling windows with a breathtaking view of Port Hollow's skyline. Morning light streams in, suggesting I've been out for hours.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, pushing through a wave of dizziness as I stand.
My bare feet sink into the plush carpet as I take inventory of my physical state.
No injuries beyond the soreness in my wrists where they were bound and a lingering headache from whatever drug Marcus used.
Even my face feels clean, as if someone washed away the dirt and grime from the warehouse.
The thought makes me shudder.
"Focus," I tell myself.
The obvious choice is the door directly across from the bed—likely leading to a hallway.
To my right, another door stands ajar, revealing glimpses of a marble bathroom.
The windows, while offering a spectacular view, don't appear to open.
Not that it would matter; we must be at least thirty floors up.
I move to the main door first, testing the handle. Locked, of course. I press my ear against it but hear nothing from the other side.
The bathroom is next. Gleaming white marble, a shower big enough for four people, a soaking tub that could double as a small pool.
Everything screams obscene wealth. I check the cabinets, finding them stocked with high-end toiletries—all new, still sealed.
Like this room was prepared specifically for a guest. For me.
How long has Marcus been planning this?
I return to the bedroom, methodically checking drawers and closets. The closet reveals more surprises—women's clothing in what appears to be my size. Casual wear, business attire, even evening gowns, all with designer labels I could never afford on a forensic analyst's salary.
My skin prickles with unease. Either Marcus has remarkable foresight, or this isn't the first time he's kept a woman here. Neither option is comforting.
I continue my search, looking for anything I could use as a weapon or tool. Nothing. No scissors, no letter openers, not even a pen with a sharp enough tip to cause damage. The entire space has been meticulously curated to appear welcoming while offering no means of escape or defense.
A gilded cage, but a cage nonetheless.
I return to the windows, pressing my palms against the cool glass.
Port Hollow spreads out below—a maze of streets and buildings that seems impossibly distant.
I recognize the downtown skyline, which means we're in one of the luxury high-rises on the east side of the city.
Marcus's territory, if the old boundaries still hold.
I've spent years building a life separate from the underworld my brother inhabited. Years pretending I don't know how the city is divided, which corners belong to which kingpins. And now here I am, thrust back into that reality, locked in the fortress of the most dangerous man in Port Hollow.
The sound of the door unlocking pulls me from my thoughts. I turn, instinctively backing toward the window, putting as much distance between myself and the entrance as possible.
Marcus enters, and the room immediately feels smaller.
He's changed since the warehouse—now wearing a crisp white shirt and tailored charcoal pants, not a wrinkle or speck of blood to suggest he slaughtered half a dozen men less than twelve hours ago.
He carries a tray with what looks like breakfast, which he sets on a side table without taking his eyes off me.
"You drugged me," I say, keeping my voice level despite the fury building inside me.
"I sedated you," he corrects, as if the distinction matters. "You were in shock, and I needed to move you securely."
"Without my consent."
A slight shrug. "Consent is a luxury in survival situations."
I fold my arms across my chest, acutely aware of how vulnerable I appear in these borrowed clothes. "Where am I?"
"My primary residence."
"I gathered that. I meant, where specifically?"
He steps further into the room, and I resist the urge to retreat. "The Archer Building. Penthouse level."
The Archer—one of the most exclusive addresses in Port Hollow, with security rumored to rival federal buildings. Perfect.
"And my clothes?" I gesture to the shirt I'm wearing.
"Disposed of. They were evidence of your abduction." His eyes flick briefly over my form. "A female staff member changed you, if that's your concern."
It is, but I won't give him the satisfaction of knowing how deeply the violation rankles. "I want to leave."
"No."
The flat refusal ignites something in me. I step forward, closing some of the distance between us. "I wasn't asking permission. I'm telling you I'm leaving."
Marcus regards me with the patient look of someone dealing with a mildly amusing child.
"The Delgado Cartel has placed a five-million-dollar bounty on your head.
Dead or alive—though they'd prefer alive for their own purposes.
Every mercenary, hitman, and opportunist in the city is looking for you. So no, Leona, you're not leaving."
"Why do you care?" I demand. "I'm nothing to you."
"You're Cody's sister."
"Cody disappeared five years ago. According to my very limited understanding of mafia loyalty, that should make me less than nothing to you."
Something flickers in his eyes—a cold, dangerous calculation. "The Delgados took you to draw me out. To see how I'd respond. If I let them keep you, it shows weakness. If I rescue you but don't protect you, it shows carelessness. Neither is acceptable for someone in my position."
"So I'm a power play."
"Everyone is a power play in this world. At least you're on the right side of it."
I laugh bitterly. "The right side? I don't want any side. I left this life for a reason."
"Yet here you are." He gestures expansively. "Welcome back."
The casual cruelty of his words makes me want to slap him. Instead, I turn away, moving back to the window to collect myself. "How long do you intend to keep me here?"
"Until the Delgados are no longer a threat."
"And when will that be?"
"When they're dead," he says simply.
I feel the blood drain from my face. He's talking about starting a war—one with me at the center of it.
"I can't stay here," I say, hating the slight quaver in my voice. "I have a job, responsibilities—"
"All taken care of. Your supervisor has been informed that you've experienced a family emergency and will be taking extended leave. Your apartment is being watched. Your bills will continue to be paid."
The extent of his control over my life in just a few hours is terrifying. "You had no right."
"Rights are for people who aren't being hunted." He moves closer, and I can smell his cologne. "Consider this protective custody."
"I never asked for your protection."
"Yet you need it all the same." His eyes—a cold, calculating gray—hold mine. "I don't particularly care if you're grateful, Leona. I only care that you stay alive and out of Delgado's hands."
"Why?"
"Because you're leverage. For Cody, for the Delgados. For me." He steps closer, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. "And I don't let anyone take what's mine."
My stomach twists. "I'm not yours."
"For now, you are." He says it matter-of-factly, as if stating that water is wet. "The sooner you accept that, the easier this will be for both of us."
I step around him, needing distance, needing to think. The room suddenly feels too small, too confining. I pace its length, aware of his eyes tracking my movement.
"I've left food," he says after a moment. "You should eat. Regain your strength."
"Not hungry."
"That wasn't a suggestion."
I whirl to face him. "You don't get to order me around like one of your pet thugs."
A hint of a smile touches his lips, though it doesn't reach his eyes. "Pet thugs. Interesting choice of words."
"What do you want from me, Marcus? Really? Because if this is some twisted way to get to Cody—"
"I told you. I want you alive and out of Delgado's hands." He moves to the door, apparently done with the conversation. "Everything else is secondary."
"And if I refuse to stay?"
He pauses, hand on the doorknob. "Then I'll be forced to take more restrictive measures to ensure your compliance.
" His tone makes it clear this isn't an idle threat.
"For now, you have the run of this suite.
There are clothes in the closet, books on the shelves, and entertainment systems at your disposal.
If you need anything specific, press the intercom by the bed. "
"What I need is my freedom."
"What you need and what you want are very different things right now." He opens the door. "Eat. Rest. We'll talk more later."
As he steps through the doorway, I lunge forward, trying to slip past him. His reaction is instantaneous—an arm across my path, blocking me with effortless strength.
"Don't," he says quietly, and the single word carries the weight of every death I witnessed in that warehouse.
I retreat, fear and fury warring inside me. The door closes behind him, and I hear the decisive click of the lock engaging.
Alone again, I survey my prison. Luxurious, yes, but a prison nonetheless.