Brutal Captivity (Saints of the Sinners #1)

one

“You’re not supposed to be here.”- Callisto

Early Tuesday Morning….

My footsteps pad down the floating stairway, the Brazilian Cherry wood cool under my toes as I grip the glass railing in the dark.

I try to swallow, but my mouth is too dry to produce saliva.

I walk into the kitchen, grabbing a glass from the cabinet next to the refrigerator.

I glance at the clock on the oven. It’s the middle of the night.

I rub my eyes. I never wake up in the middle of the night.

I wonder what woke me. I shrug, pushing away the thought, and open the built-in refrigerator.

I glare at the French labels on the water.

If my father hadn't dragged me back to the States by my trust fund the second I finished my degree, I'd be drinking this in Tuscany right now.

The lights flicker. I freeze. That’s never happened before, but maybe it is nothing. I bought this house a few months ago.

I look around the dimly lit kitchen, trying to determine if something is off or if it’s my imagination.

The Baccarat crystal vase sits in the middle of the kitchen island, an arrangement of fresh flowers perfectly placed inside.

The Brazilian cherry wood cabinets are all shut tightly, as I had left them.

I look over at the security system on the wall.

It’s blinking. Blinking. I have never seen it blink before.

“Che significa?” I mutter in Italian. What does that mean? I walk closer to it, leaving the refrigerator open for the extra light. As I approach the device, it stops blinking. I stare at a blank screen, trying to make sense of it.

With a ringed finger, I reach for the screen and touch it, attempting to wake it up. It stays dark, nothing happening. I tap it again.

Nothing.

My fingers trace the sides, searching for a button. I find one on the bottom and press it a couple of times.

Nothing.

I hold it down for fifteen seconds.

Nothing.

The hairs on the nape of my neck stand to attention. With a shaking hand, I reach into the pocket of my robe, but I left my cell phone upstairs.

I turn from the security system, intending to go back upstairs and call my head of security, but I smell something.

It’s the complete opposite of what my house normally smells like, but I know the smell well.

I sniff the air, the distinct smell of cigarette smoke lingering.

While they love their cigarettes in Italy, I never picked up the habit.

It bothers my asthma too much, so no one is allowed to smoke inside the house.

I follow the smell, determined to fire whatever security guard is breaking my rule.

The smell leads to my garage. I stare at the door, trying to decide if I should take a look or run upstairs for my phone.

I take a deep breath and reach for the handle with a shaking hand.

I quietly open it, wanting to catch the person red-handed.

I peek my head into the garage. The smell of cigarettes is stronger here, cutting through the sterile, climate-controlled air.

My cars are all sitting where I had left them, untouched, but there is a chill in the air.

I can’t see the entire garage from my location, so I take another deep breath and force myself to step through the threshold.

My feet freeze on the cold floor, but I take one slow step after another, until the entirety of the garage comes into view.

A cold wind nips at my neck. I pull my robe tighter around my body, stepping closer to my rose gold Mercedes.

I look to the left, finally figuring out where the winter breeze comes from.

The garage door is open. I know I didn’t leave that open.

I turn around and run back into the house, shutting the door firmly behind me.

I take a couple of deep breaths to calm my racing heart.

I’m sure it’s nothing. One of the security guards probably opened it because they wanted to smoke but didn’t want to be out in the harsh wind.

I need to go upstairs, get my phone, and call Gregory, my head of security.

The fifty-year-old man may be a little gruff and rough around the edges, but he seems protective of me.

More so than my own father. I shake that thought from my head and turn around on my heel, intending to go toward the stairs.

As I pass the kitchen, the tightly shut refrigerator door catches my eye.

I didn’t shut it. I left it open for light.

I am definitely not alone. I tell myself not to panic, that it’s probably one of my security men checking on the property since the security system is acting strange.

I freeze at the sound of footsteps behind me.

I wipe my clammy hands on my robe, trying to stop the tremor threatening to overtake my entire body.

I take a deep breath, preparing myself. I slowly turn around as the footsteps draw closer.

I jump as a tall figure, still hidden in shadows, emerges from the direction of my leisure room.

I open my mouth to scream but nothing comes out.

My whole body is frozen in place. The figure puts up his hands, placating.

“It’s me, boss. Nico.” My personal assistant steps into the light, holding his hands up in front of him like he would approach a wild animal. I let out a breath and clutch my chest, bending at the waist as I heave in more breath.

“Nico. Mi hai spaventato,” I finally manage to get out as I straighten my spine.

He looks as frightened as me, his brown eyes wide.

His dark hair, almost the same shade as mine, is messy because he just woke up.

He lives on the property, in my guest house, so that he can be here anytime I need him.

I’m thankful for that at this exact moment.

“You know I don’t speak Italian, boss,” Nico says, a look of worry creasing his features. Nico knows me well enough to know I only speak Italian when I’m upset, exhausted, or under the influence.

“I know. I’m sorry. I just said that you scared me.” My thundering heart is now slowing down to a somewhat normal speed. I swallow dryly, wishing I had poured a glass of my sparkling water after all.

“I apologize, sir. I woke up to a loud banging sound coming from the house. I thought maybe you had fallen or something, so I rushed over to investigate. I noticed the refrigerator was open and panicked,” he explains, gesturing toward the refrigerator.

“Yeah. I left it open for some extra light. I smelled smoke and went to the garage. I saw the garage door was open. I don’t know what’s going on, but something feels off, Nico,” I say, glancing around, getting the feeling we aren’t alone.

I look over at the security system. It is still blank.

It hasn’t rebooted. Goosebumps erupt on my arms and my stomach does a somersault. I feel ill.

“I messaged Greg after I saw the fridge.” Nico holds up his phone.

“Did he respond?" I ask anxiously.

“Oh. I forgot to look. I got distracted when I saw you.” Nico unlocks his phone and taps the screen. His brows crease in confusion. He looks back up at me, alarm written all over his face. “It says it’s unread.”

We both jump when we hear footsteps come from the hallway on the other side of the leisure room. Somewhere deep in the house. Please be a security guard. Please be a security guard. I pray to no god in particular. The footsteps get closer, each one measured and sure.

I grab Nico’s arm, pulling him down into a crouching position behind the kitchen island. “What do we do?” I whisper, feeling completely out of my element. Not even in my worst nightmares has something like this happened.

“Look for a knife,” Nico whispers.

“You know I abhor violence,” I respond, completely taken aback by the suggestion.

“We can’t just hide here. We’re sitting ducks. Do you have a better idea?” he asks. I huff and do as he instructs. As quietly as I can, I start opening drawers on the island, desperately searching for anything that could be used as a weapon. Nico opens more drawers, helping me search.

We both freeze when the lights flicker again.

This time, they go off and stay off. We are plunged into darkness, the only light coming from bright moonlight filtering through the kitchen window.

With the lights went the sound. The silence presses down on me until everything else becomes deafening.

My heart thuds in my chest. Blood rushes through my veins.

A bead of sweat glides down my neck. The generator should kick on at any moment.

I hold my breath and wait… and wait… and wait… .

Nothing. No whir of the generator. No lights coming back to life. In the silence, all I can focus on are the footsteps as they get closer. No thud. No scrape. Just quiet, measured steps. As if the person is taking a leisurely stroll and not echoing off the walls of my fear.

They are almost in the kitchen now. They pause for a second. I strain my ears. What are they doing? Why did they pause? Maybe they will go around us completely. Maybe they will leave.

The footsteps start up again. They come closer. And closer. My eyes prick with tears. I hold my breath. I need to make as little sound as possible.

“I’ve been trying to call the police, but my phone isn’t working.” Nico’s voice is so low, I barely hear him. I look at his phone screen, the “no signal” icon clear as day in the dark.

They’re in the kitchen now. My heart beats frantically in my chest and my hands shake as I open one drawer after another, feeling around blindly, finding spoons and spatulas and even mixing bowls. I can’t incapacitate this intruder with a mixing bowl. What am I going to do, whip him into a meringue?

A sudden click cuts through the air, so I swallow my fear and turn around. Shrouded in darkness is a man with a gun trained on Nico’s temple. Nico is frozen, the phone still in his hand.

“Callisto Santos. You aren’t supposed to be here,” comes a raspy voice to my right.

How does he know my name? And what does he mean?

Something hard and cold presses against my temple.

My heart and my stomach leap in opposite directions.

My heart is in my throat, beating so rapidly it feels as though I may choke.

My stomach, on the other hand, falls through the floor, seeking the safety of the earth below.

“It’s my house. You’re not supposed to be here,” I say before I can think better of it. His responding laugh is rich and gravelly, as if it is pulled from the earth instead of his lips.

“Oh… you’re a feisty one,” he responds, and I can still hear the humor in his voice. That makes my hackles rise. Feisty? Feisty? That’s how one would describe a cat, not a grown man who is being held at gunpoint.

Despite the cold barrel of a gun against my temple, I slowly turn, and my eyes trace up the silver metal of the gun pressed against my head.

The hand holding the weapon is encased in black leather, steady as stone.

He wears a tactical mask with cutouts for his eyes and mouth.

His eyes catch the moonlight; they are the same color as the gun he has held to my head.

I look up at him from my knees on the floor.

From my angle, he doesn't just look tall; he looks like a mountain.

Looming and daunting as it watches the city below.

His body presses into mine, strong thighs forcing me against the kitchen base cabinets.

I swallow. This man doesn’t need a gun. He could break me in half with his bare hands.

His large black boots step even closer to me, the toe nudging my knee, but I have nowhere else to go. Nowhere else to hide. His large, muscled chest rises and falls evenly with every breath. He holds the gun steadily, an effortless extension of his arm.

“Well… looks like we have a change in plans,” he smiles down at me, like I’m a problem he already solved.