Chapter 31
Lennon
The waif of a woman sitting on my couch has barely said two words today.
I’ve been working with her for almost a month now, and I don’t feel like I’m making progress.
She obviously doesn’t trust anyone, but she’s staying in our safehouse, so counseling is mandatory.
Unfortunately, I can’t force her to talk.
I have calming music playing and decide to lead her in a visual meditation instead. At least that will be good for healing her nervous system.
I ready the room, turn down the lights, add some lavender oil to the diffuser. “Okay, Anya, let’s just do a little visual journey to end our session. Get comfortable and close your eyes for me.”
Her cornflower blue eyes narrow, and she doesn’t move from her stiff position, but she does finally let her eyes flutter closed.
That’s the start of trust. I’ll take it. “Good. Now I want you to imagine a forest. There’s a light breeze, sunlight filtering through the trees. A path is in front of you.”
I watch her for any sign of distress as I lead her to envision walking down the path, deeper into the forest. Her shoulders finally relax. Her breathing grows even. We’re about five minutes into the meditation when her eyes suddenly fly open, her body trembling.
I move to sit next to her. “You’re okay. You’re here in the room with me, safe.”
She’s staring at me but not seeing me. “Anya.” I gently take her hand. “Look at me. What happened?”
Slowly, her eyes meet mine, and she returns to the present. Tears spill from her eyes, down her gaunt cheeks. “He was there,” she whispers. “In the forest. Blocking the path.”
Shit. “He can’t hurt you anymore. You’re safe.”
She shakes her head, her skin blotchy. “I will never be safe.”
And like the universe is intent on proving her right, the door bursts open.
Anya yelps and presses her body against mine.
I’m quickly moving from fear to anger as I stare at a visibly pissed-off Sandro. His 6’4 frame is filling the door, chest heaving with deep breaths, his eyes raking over me.
I leap up. “Sandro, what the hell?”
The front desk receptionist pushes into the room from behind him and glances from me to Sandro, her cheeks bright red. “I’m sorry, Lennon. He just barged in here. Do you want me to call security?”
I wave her off. “No, it’s fine, Vanessa. I’ll handle it.”
His shoulders fall and he rubs his forehead. “Sorry. I had to know you were okay. Can we talk?”
Just as I’m about to toss Sandro out of my office, Anya leaps up and throws herself into his arms. “It’s you,” she cries.
My eyes meet Sandro’s over her head, fury building in my chest.
What the actual hell?
I know this woman’s history and if Sandro knows her from her “work” he’s not the man I thought he was.
He pats her back awkwardly, then grabs her shoulders and gently moves her away from him.
“Te spas menya,” she says. “You saved me.” She turns back to look at me, her face flush with something other than grief for the first time. “This man. He save us from the Bratva.”
I see the moment Sandro recognizes her and his expression softens. He gives her a hint of a smile and a nod.
My arms are crossed. I’m so confused. “Ah, Anya. Let’s go ahead and call it a day, okay?”
“Yes.” She turns before she leaves and smiles at me, and it’s a genuine smile. It feels like I just witnessed a miracle.
I’m speechless as I stare at Sandro, my mind spinning. “How do you know Anya?”
He glances around the room, sees my bag hanging from the corner hook. “We’ll talk in the car, let’s go.” He grabs my bag and then my hand as he pulls me toward the door.
“Sandro, I can’t just leave,” I protest, trying to pry my hand from his. “I have two more clients.”
“Tell Venessa to cancel them. This is an emergency.” He leads me through the door and down the hall. I’ve given up struggling. His fingers are laced through mine and his grip is too tight. He parks me in front of Venessa’s desk and raises an eyebrow at me.
“Bossy much?” I whisper. Then I release a defeated sigh. “Venessa, I have an emergency. Please reschedule my last two appointments.” Before she can respond, Sandro is dragging me out the front door. There’s a black sports car parked at the curb. He opens the passenger door and bundles me inside.
I’m staring at his profile as he hits the gas. His eyes dart to the rearview mirror every few seconds, his jaw clenched.
His anxiety is contagious. “I need to know how Anya knows you.”
“It’s just like she said. We… liberated her and a few other trafficked women from a Bratva whorehouse.” His large hand has a tight grip on the leather-wrapped steering wheel as he takes a sharp right and accelerates.
I bite the inside of my cheek, feeling conflicted. Relief is the dominant emotion. I’m not naive. I know the mafia trafficks women. But it’s a relief to know he’s not involved in that, anyway. But at the same time, I'm not na?ve enough to believe that liberation came without bloodshed.
“Okay, so why are you kidnapping me from my work?”
One side of his mouth quirks up as he shoots me a heated glance. A low “hmm” vibrates in his throat and goes straight to my core. “Maybe it’s one of my fantasies. To barge into your life, throw you over my shoulder and tie you up in my bed to use however I wish.”
I squeeze my thighs together. This is a very inappropriate time to get turned on. “Sandro,” I try to sound stern, but my voice comes out as a squeak. “This is serious.”
He chuckles then his smile disappears. “Yes, it is. I’m afraid Giada has given you up to the Bratva. We’ve learned their plan is to take you to control me. So, I have to protect you until we finish this and get them out of Tampa.”
My gut clenches and I begin to tremble. The Bratva. The people who murdered my mother. “Why me?”
He reaches over and lays a large, tattooed hand on my thigh and squeezes. The warmth soaks through my slacks. His voice is raw and low. “Because you are the one thing I would give up everything for.”
The world seems to stop spinning as I stare at him in disbelief. His face blurs as tears well up. “Don’t say things you don’t mean,” I whisper.
I turn away and stare out the window. It’s a lie. If he meant it, he’d give up the one thing keeping us apart. The mafia.
He sighs, understanding. “Everything in my power, angelo mio. The family I was born into isn’t in my power.” His eyes dart to the rearview mirror and his jaw clenches. “Fuck. Have you noticed a black Mercedes following you?”
My heart rate picks up. I turn to look at him and my eyes widen.
“San—” my scream is cut off by the impact of a white SUV slamming into Sandro’s door.
A loud bang and screeching metal. Shattering glass.
The airbag punches me in the face. The car is on its side, sliding, the scream of metal deafening.
It hits a curb and stops. Tips back on its wheels with a severe jolt.
I can hear my breathing in my ears. Voices shouting far away.
The airbag has deflated. Smoke fills the car. I slowly turn my neck and see Sandro slumped in the seat unmoving, blood running down his face. “Sandro,” I whimper. Is he just unconscious? Or… no.
Suddenly, someone is cutting my seatbelt, and two hands are gripping my arms, roughly pulling me through the smashed window like a ragdoll.
At first, I’m grateful. I’ve seen videos of cars exploding after an accident.
Getting out of the car is smart. I turn, trying to see when they pull Sandro out.
If he’s okay. But someone shoves a black bag over my head. I suddenly can’t breathe.
There’s yelling and a scuffle but I’m too panicked to make out what’s happening.
“No.” My hot breath fills the sack as I’m lifted and shoved into a car. The door slams shut. I begin to kick out, scream. My feet hit the door. I kick harder. I almost pass out from the lack of air and the pounding in my head but I keep kicking.
“Nett, perestanjte dratsya.”
I freeze. Russian. Oh god. The Bratva.
I feel the vehicle jerk forward and accelerate.
The bag is ripped off my head, and I’m faced with two sets of cold blue eyes staring at me.
The one in the passenger seat with the red beard and mustache makes a show of raking his gaze over me from head to toe.
“Budet veselo, da.” There’s blood seeping through the sleeve of his gray T-shirt.
The driver chuckles and flicks his eyes to me in the mirror. “Da.” Then he looks over a Red Beard’s wounded arm. “Who the fuck was that?”
He hikes up his sleeve and examines what looks like a stab wound. Then opens the middle console and pulls out a towel. “Ne znaio. Some fucking hero zasranets.”
I push myself upright and wince. Pain radiates across my chest and ribs. My head swims and I have to fight down nausea. But I will not let these thugs see my fear. “You’ve made a mistake.”
Red Beard turns so he can watch me as he presses the towel to his wound. “No mistake, printzessa. Your boyfriend will comply with the Captain’s demands or you will die.”
My blood turns to ice.
“Maybe we will have some fun and you will die anyway,” the driver says, his tone too serious for my comfort.
Is this my fate? Dying at the hands of the Russian mafia like my mother? No. I don’t accept that. I will not. Also… Sandro must be okay. Otherwise, they wouldn’t be keeping me to control him.
The driver says, “Call Miguel. Tell him to contact Don LaRocca and tell him we have his woman.”
I scoff. “I think he knows, since he was driving the car you just ran into.”
The driver slams on the brakes at a red light, and the two men turn to gape at each other.
Is that fear in their eyes?