Chapter Five
Gavino
My captor was currently sitting on my couch, rocking back and forth and snacking on a sleeve of saltine crackers she’d found somewhere in my pantry, though I had no memory of buying any. Knowing my family, someone had dropped them off with soup when I’d been sick.
I glanced over at her, but her blonde hair had fallen forward, hiding most of her face from view as she let out a little whimper, dropped her cracker onto the coffee table, then cradled her face in her hands.
Yeah.
If there’d been any doubt about her being a novice, the whole throwing up at the mention of minor torture erased it.
So, the question was, what the hell would drive a seemingly normal—if a bit squeamish—woman to put together a whole hostage-taking kit and then take not just anyone, but a mafia capo, hostage?
If I were most of the guys in my family, I’d likely be racking my brain, wondering which woman I might have scorned who had a bone to pick. Or had a big sister or best friend who was holding a grudge on her behalf.
I didn’t inherit that tomcatting gene a lot of them did. I mean, sex was great, but I didn’t see the appeal of going out every other night, finding a woman I found attractive, then chatting her up in the hopes of going home with her.
It sounded exhausting.
I wiggled my mouth, glad I’d been quick enough to wet my lips and press them together so the adhesive wasn’t directly on them.
The adhesive bit into the skin on my chin, cheeks, and under my nose.
I could get out of it if I really wanted to.
Not only were my handcuffs too loose, but the zip ties on my ankles? They were attached to the chair. Meaning that if I just freed my hands and lifted the chair up, the zip ties would slide down and off the legs. Which was kind of fucking hilarious, the more I thought about it.
She had to be the most inept hostage-taker in history.
A little groan called my attention back to her as she toed off her shoes, then curled her legs to her chest. Folding forward, she rested her head on her knees as her arms went around her legs.
At this rate, she was going to give herself a heart attack before she ever got what she wanted out of me.
With another, quieter, whimper, she moved across the couch, burying her face in the back cushions, her legs rocking harder and harder with each passing moment.
I wasn’t going to get anywhere with her for a while, so I turned back to the table, staring at the takeaway bag like I could will it closer and into my mouth.
But there was no way of getting to it without exposing myself. And right now, I had the upper hand. I wanted to keep it unless something went really south very quickly.
When the occasional little whimpering sounds ceased, I shifted to look over at my captor again. She was still on her side on the couch, but her body was still, her breathing slow and even.
Like she’d panicked herself to exhaustion.
Though, judging by how revved up she’d been when she came in, her body had probably been running on fumes for days. Or longer. The actual event being completed—sort of—was what her body needed to finally give in to the need for sleep.
I scooted the chair, making sure it dragged noisily across the floor. I stood and slammed the legs back down.
She didn’t even jerk in her sleep.
Well then.
I slid my hands out of the cuffs, carefully pulled the duct tape off my mouth, then lifted the chair so my “zip-tied” legs were freed.
Finished, I carefully unpacked my dinner, popping it into the microwave, then sitting down to eat while my captor got her rest on the couch.
When I finished and she still hadn’t stirred, I cleaned up and re-set the table, then curled the bag back up like it had been before I removed the food.
I went ahead and took myself to the bathroom, had some coffee, brushed my teeth, and took out the trash she’d gotten sick in.
And fuck if I didn’t get more and more amused with each passing minute.
I mean, really, what a fucking story I’d have to tell at the next family dinner.
Me, who never had anything to contribute unless someone wanted to discuss books or a documentary they saw.
Now I got to tell them that I got taken hostage by someone who didn’t secure me properly, threw up at the idea of torture, then had a panic attack and fell asleep on my couch.
I was actually smiling about it as I slid the door locks—no reason to risk someone else coming in and holding both of us hostage—then walked over to her backpack to get a better idea of her plan.
Inside, there were more zip ties, some rope, the roll of duct tape, and a phone.
Another amateur move. You never took your fucking cell phone to a crime scene.
It wasn’t even locked, and when I opened it, the call log was all to one number.
My old burner.
The one I tossed a few weeks back.
The calls went back months. But there was a big log of them for the past few days. Endless loops of calls. Like a crazy ex-girlfriend level of calls.
Huh.
Interesting.
I set that back in the bag and reached instead for the gun.
This time, there was no stopping it.
The laugh bubbled up and burst out.
Because she didn’t have a fucking gun. Not a real one, anyway.
My best guess was it was a damn Airsoft gun where they’d filed down the orange tip and colored it in with a permanent marker.
The thing was pretty damn convincing if you didn’t touch it.
I placed it back down as I glanced over at the woman, sleeping peacefully on my couch. Her body was curled in tight, her anxiety making her protect herself even at rest.
What the hell was this about?
What could I have possibly done to her to warrant this kind of planning and execution? Knowing full well who I was, what my organization was known for doing to those who crossed us?
This was a different kind of desperation to push a normal person to extremes.
Which meant it was personal.
And since I was relatively sure I’d never seen this woman before in my life, this had to do with someone in her life.
Taking note of the state of things, none of my soldiers or capos had gotten killed recently. So this was no mourning girlfriend. I was relatively sure no one had gotten pinched either.
My life wasn’t exactly expansive.
Did I give her book a scathing review or something?
I had no idea.
But I guess I would figure it out eventually. Once she got her sleep and woke up with a clear head enough to interrogate me.
I went into the bedroom, grabbing an extra blanket and draping it over her before shooting off a text to Leo to come by the day after tomorrow.
If she somehow got smart about the whole not securing me properly thing, I wanted to know someone was going to find out. Without worrying him enough to drop by immediately.
I kind of wanted to see how this was going to play out.
And I clearly didn’t have much to worry about if the sheer idea of trying to torture me had her vomiting.
I puttered around for another hour or two before putting on a documentary, then finally slipped the zip ties into the chair legs, slapped the damn tape over my mouth, and secured my wrists with the handcuffs, careful to keep them as loose as she had.
Then I watched and waited.
The TV was three episodes into a four-episode miniseries when the woman sucked in a quick, startled breath and jerked awake hard.
The blanket fell around her as she sat up and she regarded it with comically pinched brows as she tried to place it, tried to mentally remember it on the back of the couch, even though it hadn’t been there.
I looked away before she caught me watching her.
She took a minute but came over toward me, her hair all bed-messy, her eyes red and dry.
“Well,” she said, trying to inject something like authority into her voice. “Have you had enough time to think about the seriousness of this situation?”
I smiled behind the tape.
You had to admire that she somehow turned giving herself a panic attack and falling asleep into her “giving me time to think.”
Unable to do anything else, I shrugged my shoulders.
“Good. Well. Um. Give me a minute.”
With that, she walked behind me, going into the kitchen. I heard the tap running and a clink of a glass.
When she came back, her lashes and lips were wet. Like she’d not only gotten a drink, but maybe splashed her face with water.
“This is going to hurt,” she warned as she reached for the edge of the tape.”
Even with the warning, though, she carefully peeled it the way you might with a bandage when you were afraid of the sting.
“If you scream, there will be consequences.”
Ah, yes.
Consequences.
That didn’t involve any kind of pain because her weak stomach couldn’t handle that.
I was fucking shaking.
“Do I look like someone who would scream?”
She watched me for a moment. “Maybe not right now,” she said, folding her arms. “But I bet you would with… with a spoon in your… um… eye.”
I couldn’t remember the last time I used this with regard to a grown-ass woman, but that was cute as fuck.
I had to press my lips together to keep a chuckle in.
“Ah, yes, the spoon. And all those eye juices.”
I wasn’t close enough to hear a gag, but I saw the way her chest heaved.
Her hand lifted as if to silence me before I went on. “If you answer my questions, there won’t need to be any spoons or juices or… just anything like that.”
“It’s pretty late.”
“What?”
“Late. Past my bedtime.”
“This is a hostage situation,” she reminded me.
She sounded like a fucking cop show. I covered up the snort with a cough.
“I’m thinking maybe some coffee is in order. Just so I can think straight.”
“Coffee. Right.” She didn’t even question the request.
She just walked back into the kitchen and started knocking around in the cabinets.
“Do you have sugar?” she asked, like we were a couple of old friends catching up.
“Top cabinet over by the fridge.”
“Top cabinet over by… oh, there it is. I guess you don’t use this much.”
“I drink my coffee black.”
“Right. That’s very stereotypical.”
“Of a mafia capo?”
“Of big, scary guys.”
Scary.
Interesting.
That wasn’t usually a descriptor people used for me. Not compared to crazy fucks in the Family like Brio. But I guess to a very normal girl topping off at, what, five-six, yeah, I was scary.
Another minute later, I smelled the rich scent of coffee drifting over to me.
“Drip.”
“What?” I asked.
“You have a drip coffee machine.”
“As opposed to…”
“Single-serves. Espresso machines. French press. Pour-over.”
“Single-serves are a waste of plastic. Espresso machines are for latte drinkers. French press is a mess to clean. And pour-over is just drip coffee with extra steps.”
“You don’t like lattes?”
“It’s a whole lot of milk. I like coffee.”
“I mean, it is just strong coffee.”
“With three different kinds of syrups, whipped cream, drizzle…”
“Hey, some people like things that actually taste good. Not bean water.”
“I’ve had this exact conversation with my little sister before.”
“You have a little sister?”
“Yep. Though, I guess she’s not so little anymore. She’s married and everything. But she likes all those fancy-ass coffee drinks.” And we spent many a day in line at coffee shops arguing about them. But I paid for her absurd, high-priced concoction every time.
There was a tug at that, a feeling of nostalgia I hadn’t experienced in a long time. Weird time for that kind of sensation.
“Any chance you keep any of those fancy syrups here for her?”
“She’s out in Brooklyn. Doesn’t make her way up here much.
” If she did, maybe I’d have the syrups.
But she didn’t visit much when she lived in Manhattan either.
Nico was her rock, her emotional touchstone, the brother she spent most of the time with.
Cesare was the one who tried to talk her into doing crazy shit.
Zeno fixed her laptop, phone, or e-reader when it broke.
Leo took her out and spoiled her. I was who she hit up when she wanted to go to The Strand to get books, since she didn’t want to go out to the East Village by herself.
And she’d talk me into getting coffee on the way.
She had basically no reason to ever come to my house.
“Not having creamer in the house is criminal,” my captor murmured to herself as she prepared our drinks.
She brought mine to the table, setting it in front of me. When I shot her a look, it took a full few seconds before she understood my meaning.
“Oh. Right.”
“You have your gun,” I reminded her. Her fake, marker-painted gun.
“Yeah. And if you try anything, I won’t hesitate to use it.”
And possibly give me a very nice welt. If there were even any BBs in the chamber.
“Got it,” I agreed, watching her as she carefully moved all her items off the table and onto the extra chairs, out of my reach. Then she spent a solid three minutes fishing around for the handcuff key as I tried not to laugh.
She finally produced it and unlocked my already loose hand. “You just get one hand.”
“You don’t think my ankle restraints are enough?”
God, it was going to be fucking hilarious when she realized just how bad she was at this. But for the moment, I was enjoying playing the game.
This was the most fun I’d had in months.
“I could take the hand away. Then you’d be drinking with a straw.”
“I don’t have any straws.”
“Then you’d be uncaffeinated.”
“Understood,” I agreed, reaching for my cup as she sipped hers, winced, but took another sip. “So, do you have a name, or should I just mentally keep referring to you as my captor?”
Her brows furrowed at that, almost like she’d managed to compartmentalize what she was doing so she didn’t have to think of herself that way.
No one wanted to be the bad guy.
Most normal people were raised from the cradle wanting to be good. It stung when there was evidence to the contrary.
She glanced away, then back, those green eyes of hers tense and troubled.
“I’m not exactly the kind of man who would go to the police with your first name and a description. There’s no reason not to share it.”
“Caitlin.”
“Caitlin.” I liked that. Simple. Not fancy, hard-to-pronounce or spell names. Classic. Did she go by Cait? Caity?
It also gave me one more piece to my puzzle.
I didn’t know anyone named Caitlin.
I hadn’t read a book from anyone with that name either.
So, not anyone’s girlfriend. Not some fling I somehow managed to forget the face of, despite not fucking around much. And not some author driven crazy from a scathing review.
Which only made this all the more interesting.
“So, Caitlin,” I said, pausing to take another sip of my coffee because I liked the way she shifted her feet and reached to tuck her hair behind her ear. “What is it, exactly, that you want from me?”