Chapter Four
Caitlin
A girl doesn’t simply hold a mafia capo hostage on day one.
But it wasn’t day one.
And I was running out of options.
So there I was in a home improvement store, buying zip ties, rope, and duct tape.
Then, realizing just how bad that looked, I added a bunch of random crap to my car: a painting kit, a random houseplant, batteries, and a flashlight.
I already had a set of handcuffs, which I’d purchased at an adult toy store. Along with a very embarrassing clitoral stimulator and a flogger, because I didn’t want it to look hinky to just buy the cuffs.
So this was a several-day-long process.
Along with some light (read: heavy) stalking of this guy’s apartment building. But he just… never emerged. He never went anywhere.
It wasn’t until my fourth day watching him that I realized the only way to get to talk to him would be through a food delivery scheme.
I was painfully aware of how insane my plan was. I was no professional criminal. I’d never even been pulled over. I got myself so worked up worrying that it was illegal to rip a DVD onto my computer so I could have it available on demand that I couldn’t finish the process.
I was, as the girls in my college dorm called me, a goody-goody through and through. I never smoked weed, not even when it became legal. I didn’t speed. I read terms and conditions. I used crosswalks. I brought cash I found in a parking lot into customer service in case the owner came back for it.
I’d never held a gun, thrown a punch, or even raised my voice above a stern tone in my entire life.
I didn’t do crazy things… like break my way into some guy’s house with the plan of handcuffing him to a chair.
But desperate times could drive a woman to things she didn’t think she was capable of.
I double-checked the contents of my backpack before slipping it on my shoulders. There wasn’t much inside, yet it felt impossibly heavy. My shoulders ached.
But not nearly as much as my heart did.
So I forced my wobbly legs to keep carrying me forward toward this Gavino guy’s apartment building as I pulled the baseball cap lower on my head.
I felt like my stomach was up in my throat and my heart was in my gut. Everything was upside down.
From my observations of him, I knew that he ate dinner late. Almost nine at night.
So I leaned against the building, waiting for the nightly delivery person.
“Oh, is that for Costa?” I asked, proud of how light and breezy my tone sounded.
“Ah, yeah, Costa,” he said, checking his phone.
“I’ll take it up.”
“I’m supposed to leave it at the door.”
Gavino, I knew from my research, lived on a high floor.
I winced at the delivery driver. “I mean, you can. But the elevator is out.” His face fell at that. “I know. That kind of thing should be on the app. I don’t mind bringing it up, really. He’s 18D.”
That seemed to serve to both remind him how many steps we were talking about… and that I knew who the actual recipient was.
He handed over the food.
“Did he tip you on the app?”
“Yeah.”
“Great. Thanks!”
“Thank you,” he said, glancing back up at the newer luxury high-rise.
Once I was sure he was gone, I jabbed my finger into Gavino’s intercom, waited to be let in, then dipped into the elevator.
Where I went ahead and treated myself to a little panic attack.
It wasn’t even a mild one, either. I leaned back against the wall, gasping for breath, my hand pressed to the heart that seemed determined to pound its way right out of my chest.
Sweat wet the back of my shirt and hairline under the cap.
My vision went all jumpy.
Then flashed in and out as I tried to force more air through my nose and into my lungs.
I wasn’t sure how long it went on, but by the time it finally receded a little, I felt shaky and cold.
But the door opened again, and I found myself reaching for my gun, walking out into the hallway, making my way to the door.
Where I hyperventilated for another couple of minutes before, finally, lifting my hand to knock.
When he didn’t immediately come, I knocked again.
But some noise had me looking over my shoulder, sure that, I don’t know, the cops were going to come running to grab the suspicious person in the hallway.
Or, worse yet, his mafia friends were going to grab me, drag me to some dungeon somewhere, and torture me before finally putting me out of my misery.
But then the door was open.
And there was Gavino Costa.
Who was nothing like what I expected.
He was younger, first and foremost.
Maybe in his mid-thirties.
And he looked nothing like my understanding of a mafia guy. Though to be fair, my idea of a mafia member was from TV shows from the nineties. So, you know, stocky guys with bad combovers, big chains, bulky rings, and ugly bowling shirts or polos.
Gavino Costa was tall and fit and dressed in black jeans, a white tee that looked expensive and soft from use. There was no jewelry to be seen.
And as for the man himself, well, he was gorgeous. His face was all sharp angles with dark hair and deep, ocean-blue eyes.
But there were plenty of beautiful people who did ugly things.
Like make someone’s only family member disappear.
I wouldn’t pretend to understand what business my father had with someone the likes of Gavino Costa. But I was about to demand some answers.
I cuffed the guy to the chair, put down the gun I was worried I might drop it at any second with how sweaty my hands had become.
I snatched the hat off my head, feeling the sweat on my scalp cool in his chilly apartment.
The two big windows in the living room were yanked open wide, the cool night air spilling into the space.
I took in the apartment itself.
It was smaller than I’d been anticipating. But I guessed these new builds were trying to squeeze as many apartments into one building as possible.
I appreciated that the place wasn’t that black and white, hospital-sterile design you usually found in new apartments and houses.
There were ornate crown moldings and wood accents around the doors in a medium wood color, leaning a bit to the cool side rather than warm. It matched the wood of the floors and in the kitchen.
The dining table I stood at was round, made of reclaimed wood—complete with a pretty hefty chunk taken out of it in one spot. The chairs around it—including the one Gavino was currently cuffed to—were wood and a warm brown leather.
The walls of the main common spaces were an off-white but it managed not to look unfinished thanks to some large art pieces on the wall.
It was a nice, cozy kind of apartment.
It wasn’t something that screamed “A single man lived here.” There were even throw pillows on the couch and drapes on the windows. Not only drapes but sheers too, ones that billowed each time the breeze flew in.
I bet this guy even had a headboard.
Possibly even more than two towels.
The bar was in hell, I knew. I mean, I once dated a guy who didn’t have sheets. He slept on top of his clean laundry. Then got up and put one of said outfits on his body.
Was I pleased at being impressed by the man who had my father disappear? No. But I couldn’t seem to shake the thought either.
“Is anyone else here?” I asked, realizing that I was too much in my head instead of the moment.
“No.”
I reached for my gun. “I’m going to check.”
“Be my guest,” he invited, watching me with those dark eyes as I made a wide circle around him. As if he could reach out and grab me.
Down the short hallway beside the kitchen, I found a full hall bath, two generous closets (one full of cleaning supplies, the other completely empty), a primary bedroom color-drenched in a moody gray with linen bedding and a massive en suite bathroom, and, finally, the guest bedroom.
Only it wasn’t a bedroom at all. It was a study.
Or maybe even more appropriately, a library.
The walls were covered floor-to-ceiling in built-in bookcases painted a smoky dark green, all the shelves featuring paper and hardback books. There were even brushed brass gallery lights over each one, casting the whole shelf in a warm, golden glow.
To the side of the room was a single wingback chair with a light and a table.
A forgotten mug of coffee sat on the table.
A book was on the seat cushion, a blue bookmark peeking out of the pages.
One I was familiar with. Because I got the same book subscription box every month.
Though his choice had been one I’d immediately decided wasn’t for me.
Turning my focus, I found a wooden desk in the center of the room with a rolling leather office chair, but the surface was completely empty.
I tried to tamp down my surge of jealousy. Me, with my cheap bookcases from a big box store, all the shelves bowing under the weight of my tomes.
I moved back out into the hallway, watching the back of the man I’d just cuffed to a chair. He was leaned back. Almost casual.
I rounded the table, putting the gun back down, then going into my backpack to grab the bag of zip ties, fumbling with the thick plastic until I ripped it open and pulled out two.
Then I walked over to Gavino, securing each of his ankles to the chair legs.
Finished, I figured he was as restrained as he was going to get. And he hadn’t screamed, so there was no need for the duct tape. Which was good because I needed him to talk. I had to get some answers.
“Am I properly restrained now?” he asked, that deep voice of his shivering over my skin. I’d been too freaked out when he’d been offering me his cash to notice it. But now that I was calmer—as calm as someone could be when you were holding a human being hostage, anyway—I was noticing.
You’d think God would spread the wealth around a bit more. He got to be rich, handsome, and have a panty-melting voice? It wasn’t fair to the rest of mankind.
When I said nothing to his comment (because I suddenly found my mind wiped completely blank of any fully-formed thought), his head cocked. “You know, I was waiting for that food. I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”
“Shut up,” I demanded. “Where is he?” His brows rose. “Where is he?” I said, almost yelling.
“I thought I was supposed to shut up.”
“Not when I ask a direct question. That’s the only time I want you to speak.”
His mouth twitched. “Good to know.”
“What?” I asked, eyes narrowing.
“Nothing. I just get the feeling you’re making these rules up on the fly.”
“You… you don’t need to know the origin of the rules. You just need to follow them.”
“And what happens if I break one?” he asked, a strange light in his eyes. Almost like he was enjoying this. “You do realize that broken rules should have consequences, don’t you?”
“There are consequences.”
Oh, God.
What the hell were the consequences? I mean, I’d seen all the shows and movies. Interrogating someone uncooperative usually came with sharp and blunt objects. Pain. Blood. Screaming.
My stomach roiled.
“And what are these well-thought-out consequences?” he asked.
My gaze cut to his.
“They involve pain.”
“Of course,” he agreed, nodding. “The five kinds.”
“The what?”
“The five kinds of pain. Sharp, blunt, hot, cold, and pressure.”
“Right. Yeah. Obviously.”
“So, what will it be? A lighter up my nostril? Burn the shit out of my sinuses?”
Bile swirled and surged up my throat, making me gulp hard. A full-body shiver worked its way up my spine as my mind tried to show me the mental image.
“Or maybe the tip of this steak knife shoved up under my fingernail?” he suggested.
I whipped away, gagging once hard.
I pressed a hand to my mouth, trying to reason with my very weak stomach that he was just messing with me, that none of these things would happen, that it was okay to stop imagining them.
I took a few deep breaths and turned back, determined to get back on track.
“There are pliers in the hall closet.”
“What?” I asked, confused.
“Pliers. Unless you brought your own in your bag of goodies.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Well, you’re obviously going to want to pull out a tooth or two…”
“Shut up,” I demanded, swallowing hard, trying not to flash back to one particularly brutal scene I’d accidentally seen in a movie once before I could turn the channel or even squeeze my eyes shut. “Shut up, shut up,” I whimpered, but I wasn’t sure if I was talking to him or my own mind right then.
“There’s always an eye, too. They’re basically just attached tissue. All it takes is a surprisingly small amount of force. One finger or even a spoon in the socket and you just start to scoop—”
That would do it.
I flew into the kitchen just quickly enough to lean over the garbage and get sick.
There wasn’t much in my system. I hadn’t eaten hardly anything in days. Everything seemed to make me queasy or turn to lead in my stomach.
So I was just dry heaving for a while afterward before using my hand to cup and sip water to rinse out my mouth.
I bagged up the trash and was on my way toward the door when Gavino called out to me again.
“You know it’s not much harder to carve off a piece of human skin than it is fish skin. If you have a sharp enough knife, you can just—”
“Enough!” I snapped, storming over to my bag, grabbing the roll of duct tape, tearing off a strip, and pressing it over his mouth. “That’s enough,” I said, my voice calmer.