Chapter 11
Sabine
I have been gagged,restrained, tied to an airplane seat, then dragged into the back of an SUV, and tied up once again.
Did I mention birthdays are the worst?
We’ve been driving for hours now, well, technically, Cillian is driving, and I’m tied to the backseat. We’re following Astor, who’s in a midnight-blue Aston Martin. Because of course he drives a midnight-blue Aston Martin.
I’m guessing it’s somewhere between 2:00 and 3:00 in the morning. I have no clue where I am or where I’m being taken, only that I’m going there against my will.
I have been kidnapped. Kidnapped.
Never, in my wildest dreams, did I think this day would end up like this.
Over the course of the drive, my view from the backseat window has changed drastically. What started as interstate and suburbia is now a thick, endless forest. Translation: the middle of nowhere.
One thing is for certain. Mr. Billionaire Ass-hat Stone has an army at his disposal, at all times, day or night.
From the moment we boarded the private jet in Vegas to the moment we landed at wherever we are, people were waiting for us, eager to attend to our every need. Correction—Cillian and Astor’s every need. I’m no more important than the discarded champagne bottles in the trashcans.
I have to pee. I’m dying of thirst. My wrists hurt from the zip-ties, and my head feels like it’s caving in on both sides. I’m hypoglycemic and hangry, a very, very dangerous combination—for those around me, to be clear. In short, I am out-of-my-mind livid.
I’ve desperately tried to piece together an understanding of what happened tonight, and more importantly, why. This is what I’ve come up with:
Astor and Carlos have some sort of beef with each other. (Duh).
This beef has led to the horrific death of Astor’s wife, and also the realization (for me) that Carlos has a much darker side than I could have imagined.
I, being in the ultimate wrong-place/wrong-time scenario, have been kidnapped by Astor Stone, taken as collateral until he gets his revenge—I’m guessing, anyway. Basically, I’m bait, intended to lure Carlos to Astor, where Astor will then kill him and likely dispose of me in the same way.
I have not been physically harmed (or worse), which means this isn’t a dark-Mafia torture-the-captive scenario. There’s my bright side.
But in terms of being rescued, I am screwed because the only people who would miss me are my work colleagues. But because I’m technically on “vacation,” they aren’t expecting me back for two weeks. There’s my downside.
The vehicle begins descending a long, paved driveway that cuts through endless trees. Tall wrought-iron lampposts line the driveway. A gentle fog creates an orb around each light, reflecting off the black asphalt, wet from a recent rain. It’s a jarring contrast to the Vegas Strip where I was just hours ago, though it feels like a lifetime.
I sit up in my seat, craning my neck to see what’s ahead. Distant lights twinkle through the darkness. A house.
Finally, the trees open up to a large circular driveway.
A sign reads: STONE MANOR.
I gape at the log cabin beyond the driveway, nestled between towering pines. It’s not large but is stunning, nonetheless.
The entry is an A-frame walkway that leads to a pair of massive wooden doors with brass handles. The home is made of both log and multi-colored stone, blending seamlessly with the nature around it. Sweeping windows are everywhere.
The home is fully lit, which surprises me, considering how late it is.
Standing next to the front door like a sentinel is a tall, muscular man wearing a fitted black T-shirt and khaki tactical pants. His hands are clasped at his waist, next to a gun on his belt. He doesn’t move as we approach, but I have no doubt he knows we’re here.
Security, I guess.
Astor’s car skids to a stop in front of us. He exits it, and strides inside without so much as a look over his shoulder, leaving the front door standing wide open. The guard closes it.
A rush of cool air scented with pine sap and lakeshore sweeps inside the cab as Cillian opens my door.
Goose bumps prickle my skin and, instinctively, I take a deep inhale, my body unable to resist the fresh, earthy scent of real nature. I can’t remember the last time I breathed real air that didn’t smell of motor oil or pot.
The scent of water is strong, and I realize that this is not just a regular cabin in the woods. It’s a lake house.
Cillian helps me out of the SUV while I wrestle with the hem of my teeny-tiny dress. Note to self: Never get kidnapped in a miniskirt.
“Welcome to Lake Tahoe,” Cillian mutters, his first words to me.
Tahoe. I’ve always wanted to visit—but not like this.
Barefoot, I tiptoe across the cold stone walkway, still secure in Cillian’s grip.
The guard eyes me coolly. There’s something inherently lethal about the man, something that tells me he’d shoot first and ask questions later.
Cillian greets him as “Leo.” I make a mental note of the name.
The interior of the lake house is as stunning as the outside.
Unlike its cold, callous owner, Stone Manor is warm and inviting. The aesthetic reflects Nordic architecture with long redwood beams against bright white paint, and splashes of indigo and cobalt to tie it all together. Plush brown leather couches, a massive stone fireplace, and all the upscale amenities. The focal point, however, is the view, illuminated by soft outdoor lighting.
I’m awestruck.
Floor-to-ceiling windows frame sloping pine-covered mountains that disappear into an endless lake. A full moon hangs low in the sky, its glow dancing on the black water below it. I imagine the view is stunning in daylight.
I am guided through the great room and down a hallway to a pair of wooden double doors. Cillian swings them open and clicks on the light.
The bedroom is larger than my entire Vegas apartment. Decorated in the same color palette as the living room, it boasts a four-poster bed and a generous sitting area in front of (yet another) fireplace. A copper soaking tub peeks from behind the cracked bathroom door.
“Make yourself at home.”
The door slams shut behind him and locks from the outside.
I whirl around, my gag still secure, hands still restrained.
What? He’s just going to leave me like this?
Panic jolts me into action. I lunge across the room and kick the door repeatedly, screaming until my throat burns.
It’s no use.
Chest heaving, I turn around and stare at the room.
Are they seriously going to leave me like this?
Claustrophobia begins to mix with anger. My chest tightens, and suddenly it’s hard to breathe.
What the hell have I gotten myself into?
And who the hell does Astor Stone think he is?