Depraved Desires (Villains & Vices #2)

Chapter 1 Ghost

GHOST

THE PHONE TREMBLES IN MY HAND AS I SHOVE IT INTO MY POCKET and grip the bars of the cell.

“Guards!” I shout, my voice echoing through the empty corridor. “Get your asses down here. Now!”

The silence is mocking, the usual shuffle of footsteps and the murmur of guards’ voices absent. I slam my fists against the bars, the metallic clang reverberating through the cell block.

“Jennings! Shaw! Barlow! Carr!” I bellow, my throat raw from the force of my shouts. “One of you fuckers need to let me the hell out of here!”

My chest tightens as I replay the feed in my mind. Skinner’s shadowed figure scaling the fire escape, each calculated movement bringing him closer to Geneva. The image of her oblivious pacing, her vulnerability, makes my vision blur with rage.

“Don’t fucking ignore me!” I roar, slamming my palm against the steel bars again. And again. The vibrations rattle through my arms, doing nothing to ease the fire burning in my gut. “If you don’t let me out, I will kill each and every one of you.”

A faint shuffle echoes down the hallway, and relief shoots through me. I strain against the bars, trying to catch a glimpse of movement.

Finally, a guard appears, his baton in hand. It’s Shaw. His expression is a mix of irritation and wariness, like he’s debating whether it’s worth the risk of talking to me.

“What’s going on, Ghost?” Shaw asks, his voice carrying the tone of someone who’s facing death incarnate.

I lean forward until my face is inches from his. “Let me out.”

Shaw freezes, his brows knitting together. His hesitation has me wanting to reach through the bars and break his fucking neck. But I can’t, or the other guards might not let me out despite the Malones’ influence over them. And by “influence,” I mean extortion.

“Open the fucking door,” I snap, my patience hanging by a thread. “You can cuff me, track me, hell, shoot me if you want, but I’m getting out of here.”

Shaw hesitates for a fraction of a second longer before moving toward me. The sound of the lock disengaging is a balm to my fraying nerves.

The moment the door slides open, I’m moving. No hesitation. No second thoughts.

I’m coming for you, Geneva.

Every step feels slower than it should, every second wasted grating on me. I run at a full sprint, heading for the back exit the guards won’t stop me from using.

I yank my phone from my pocket, my fingers flying over the screen as I scroll to one of Malone’s men. The line barely rings once before a gravelly voice answers.

“Ghost.”

“Get your ass to the back lot. Now,” I say, my voice a lethal growl. “You better be there by the time I’m in the parking lot.”

There’s a pause, but only for a second. They know better than to question me. “On it. Five minutes.”

“You’ve got three.” I hang up without waiting for a response, shoving the phone back into my pocket as my boots pound against the pavement.

By the time I burst into the night, the cold air hits me like a slap, but I don’t stop. I can’t. Geneva isn’t a means to an end. She means everything.

The tension in my chest coils tighter with every moment. Skinner, the infamous serial rapist. The thought of his hands on Geneva—the same hands that have left a trail of broken, brutalized women—sends another wave of fury crashing through me. He’s already dead. He just doesn’t know it yet.

As I round the corner of the lot, the gleaming black SUV comes into view, its headlights cutting through the darkness. I stride toward it, throwing open the passenger door and sliding in without a word. The driver, one of Malone’s best, doesn’t bother with pleasantries. He knows the drill.

“Where to?” he asks, his voice clipped.

I give him the address, and the directive to haul ass. The tires screech as he guns the engine, the SUV tearing down the deserted streets. I grab my phone again to check the camera feed. Skinner’s on the final flight, his hand reaching for her window ledge.

I slam my fist against the dashboard, the crack of my knuckles barely registering. “Drive faster.”

The man glances at me, his expression tight, and presses harder on the gas. The SUV roars forward, the city blurring into a mess of lights and shadows outside the window.

Geneva’s phone is still sitting on her coffee table in the feed. Still untouched. She hasn’t seen my warning.

My mind races. I don’t pray, but for her, I might make an exception. Just this once.

God, please save Geneva. I can’t go through that type of loss again…