24. Helen
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Flickering light through my lids bid me to open my eyes.
An instant mistake as a ricocheting pain bounced around the inside of my skull.
A coppery tang on my bottom lip and a steady throbbing in my mouth told me I was bleeding.
Judging by the aches in other parts of my body, I doubted a busted lip was my only injury.
Still, I blinked through the pain, swaying against the poorly tied binds around my chest and cinched tight around my wrists.
Fucking amateurs, I internally scoffed.
Once the droning in my ears faded and the blur at the edge of my vision pulled back, I took stock of my surroundings.
Dingy walls, old carpet, a disorganized steel desk sitting beneath a window wall looking down at a darkened space.
A hint of light reflected on the tops of manufacturing tools and a distant thrum of groaning metal and heavy thumping told me I wasn’t alone, at least not in the building.
It burned the inside of my skull to look down, but I needed to assess myself.
Barefoot, naturally, since I’d been accosted at home.
My knees were raw from being dragged across the carpet.
A few bruises dotted my legs, small for now, but I could feel that they’d grow and darken in the coming day.
If I made it another day. That thought brought attention to the panicked rate of my heart and the shallow wheezing breaths I sucked in.
The rope around my chest and arms binding me to the chair hindered my ability to swallow a needed lungful.
The knee-length satin nightgown I’d dressed in for a night of relaxed research in the upstairs office had a few rips and tears.
Shame, really. It was one of my favorites.
Aside from the rumpled fabric bunched awkwardly against my skin from the rope, I appeared and felt untouched, which was a relief.
The office door clicked open, showing off the bastard who’d taken me and a brief glimpse of the metal stairway leading down into the active warehouse.
His off the rack charcoal suit had a few bloodstains down the front, smattered down the length of his emerald tie.
A blossoming bruise around his eye and dried blood around his nostrils gave me a victorious surge of pride.
He ran his hands through auburn curls and ran his tongue over his front teeth as he scowled down at me. “Ah, so she’s awake.”
“How’s your nose, Dougie?” Not a force in the world could stop the smirk from curling my lips.
“Laugh all you want, you’re the one tied to the chair!” He surged forward, clenching and opening his fists. The unsteady rise and fall of his chest, the red flush in his ears and cheeks, paired with the manic gleam in his eyes, should have been warning enough not to provoke him.
“Ugh, don’t remind me. I got kidnapped by someone named Douglas. I’m so embarrassed,” I bemoaned with a dramatic eye roll.
A stinging in my cheeks followed the clap of his backhand. The ring on his middle finger ensured his slap left a bruise. Rude, but I didn’t entirely blame him. If the roles were reversed, I would have least bantered a bit longer before turning to violence.
Again, amateur.
Douglas bowed over me, placing his hands on the armrests and encroaching on my personal space. The smell of alcohol blew heavy on his ragged breaths. I met his stare with a sharp glare of my own.
“You think your little crime princess routine is going to work on me?” he sneered close enough I had to turn my head to avoid our noses bumping together.
His gnarly hot breath dripped over my cheek and down my neck, sending nausea rolling through me.
“You seem to forget crying over some of the things I said to you back in school. Sit there and think you’re better than me all you want; I know the truth. ”
“Oh, bordel de merde,” I said, heated with rage and memories, “you’re nothing but a well-dressed fraud. You think you’re hot shit just because you bought your suit off the rack at Neiman Marcus?”
He pulled back enough to look me in the eye. His face twisted into something beastly. “I think I’m hot shit because I managed to take the Bitch Queen of New York.”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t make it easy for you, you dimwitted piece of shit.
Va te faire foutre!” Collecting all the blood-tinged saliva in my mouth, I promptly spit directly into his face.
He reeled back, groaning with disgust and swiping at his eye.
“The Bitch Queen is my mother, by the way. I’m the princess, as you so aptly stated earlier. ”
Douglas whirled around with daggers in his eyes and red rage staining his pale skin.
He carried the energy of a bull in a china shop, and he was a hair trigger away from destruction.
Should I have been afraid? Yes. Was I? Only a little, but honestly, he really did look so pitiful, all angry and red as he was.
His current state varied drastically compared to the man who had shown up on my doorstep.
And that was my first mistake, really. I’d gotten so lost in my asinine theory that it was Julian all along, hunched over historical reports in my office, that I entirely missed the last name Douglas in connection with the Graham family twenty years ago.
In no world would I have imagined the dull, bumbling fool capable of masterminding a new crime organization under the noses of five crime families.
So, I opened the door for the wolf in sheep’s clothing. Though that was a bit too generous. A clown in a mask. A Jester without his bells. I had no warning.
Because why wouldn’t one of Drake’s oldest, closest friends be allowed at my house?
Why wouldn’t I trust him when I had no suspicions directed at him, deeming him too simple for betrayal?
When my guards said Douglas Miller showed up at my gate with an update on Drake, my concern for my husband took over my better instincts.
A lapse in judgement thanks to my personal feelings.
Naturally, I’d permitted him through the gate and opened the front door of my home for him, as worried for Drake as I was. I stepped back and welcomed the bastard in. Offered him a cup of tea and a tray of cookies.
I hated making mistakes. In my life, in my line of work, there was no room for them. That was how you wound up in a stinky warehouse tied to a metal chair that was truly, ungodly uncomfortable.
“How does it feel to have finally dropped the mask?” I asked.
He flinched, snapping his stare to the carpet while trying to bring himself back under control.
“This is who I always was. This was always going to happen,” he replied.
“Everyone always underestimates you. It seems to have played out in your favor.”
“Drake and Julian always looked down on me,” he agreed, tone full of venom.
Douglas began pacing, spilling with a great upheaval I only half-listened to.
“A Graham killed my father on William’s orders.
Over debts. Sure, his debts were high, he owed a lot.
But what did they think killing him was going to do?
That didn’t put the money he owed in their pockets! ”
“Mhm.” The half-hearted murmur encouraged him enough, and I took advantage of his distraction.
Whoever tied me to the chair did a piss-poor job.
My parents ensured I knew how to free myself from dozens of unsavory situations before I’d turned eighteen.
Wrangling my hands free while Douglas prattled on gave me something stimulating to focus on.
Admittedly, I’d made a mistake in welcoming Douglas into my home while Drake was away, and I was researching the other friend.
It was that very mask he slipped back into that had dulled my sharper senses.
He played the part of a fool well. Flying under the radar and letting everyone believe he was the lesser evil among the trio.
Douglas had followed me into the kitchen where I made him a cup of tea, smiling at me with only a hint of concern to drive home that he had something bothering him.
My second mistake was turning my back on him to grab the cookies from the walk-in cupboard.
A tight, enclosed space wasn’t ideal for fending off an attack from behind.
Luckily, I’d taken enough defense classes at school and with Brooke over the years that I managed to twist away from the sudden grip on my arms. The memory of it all caused my heart to stutter with another wave of adrenaline as the rope on my wrists loosened.
Douglas had fallen into the cupboard when I kicked his knee. He’d cursed loudly, pursuing me out of the kitchen. My feet slapped on the hardwood in my rush to the front door. If I could call for Gizmo or Banjo, one of them could intervene.
The sound of silenced gunfire on the yard almost toppled me over.
Shouts echoed from the security team, scrambling to fight off the masked men climbing out of Douglas’ car.
The fucking Trojan Horse of it all might have made me laugh in any other circumstances.
It was stupidly brilliant only because it had been effective.
Douglas almost caught up to me in the entryway.
With my guards facing masked men outside, I’d bolted for the stairs.
Knowing the layout of my home gave me a brief upper hand.
Rough fingers caught my ankle at the stop of the stairs, dragging me down.
I’d slammed into the ground, nails clawing at the wood.
With one bolstering gulp of air, I twisted onto my back, pulled back my free leg and slammed my bare foot into Douglas’ face.
He’d slipped down a few stairs, groaning and clutching at his nose.
Enough time for me to jump to my feet and rush to my upstairs office.
Several objects there could have been used as a weapon.
I hated the thought, if only because I didn’t want to have to clean blood off my clothes or belongings.