Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
KENNEDY
“You can remove the blindfold now.”
I do, blinking against the sudden brightness. After an hour in darkness, it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust.
I guess I should be grateful. The last time I was blindfolded and snatched against my will, my mode of transportation was the cramped space of a trunk.
At least this time, I’m upright, in an actual seat.
“The precautions are for your protection, Ms. Mullvain,” the driver says, his tone flat and devoid of emotion.
“Oh, is that why I don’t have my phone? For my protection?” Only a total prick would keep my phone. Shit, what if Enzo unlocked it? Saw all the calls to Knox?
He shrugs helplessly as we pull up to a tall gate.
The driver rolls down the window and addresses the guards. “Mr. D’Angelo is expecting her.”
A hornet’s nest erupts in my chest. He’s expecting me. Panic surges through me, and my fingers twitch toward the door handle. As soon as I try it, the driver turns around, his eyes cold. “Mr. D’Angelo wanted me to let you know the doors are locked.”
“Let me guess. That’s for my protection, too,” I mutter. My eyes land on a stone plaque lodged in the guardhouse that reads, “D’Angelo Estate.” I slump back in my seat, seeing my fate carved in stone.
The driver nods, and the tall gates swing open with a heavy, metallic clang.
I cast another glance at the driver, a stranger whose face I haven’t seen before. Come to think of it, most of the people I’ve encountered, I’ve only seen once and then never again.
Why is that?
Are they part of some exclusive subscription service, where heavily armed guards and drivers are delivered monthly like craft beer and book boxes? Or do they simply vanish because they piss off their boss?
Who knows what measures he takes for their “protection.”
The car rolls to a stop at a roundabout, and my heart rate spikes. Someone opens my door with practiced precision, revealing a man who looks more like a valet than a thug. His polite demeanor does little to ease my nerves, especially considering he also has a gun.
He takes my hand and helps me out of the car. “Mr. D’Angelo is waiting for you, Ms. Mullvain,” he announces as I’m guided out.
How do they know my name? A knot twists tight in my gut as I watch the car glide away, along with the last escape plan I dreamed up during the hour-long ride.
The place is swarming with guards, each one more imposing than the last, armed to the teeth and built like tanks. It might as well be a thug convention.
My chances of outrunning or evading them are about as good as winning the lottery, and pretty much guarantee I’ll be shot. Multiple times.
Two men stand at the top of wide stone steps, looking like they stepped out of a Men in Black catalog. They’re thugs, too, but clearly outrank the others with their tailored suits and gold Ray-Bans. As soon as I take two steps up, they open a grand set of double doors.
“He’s waiting for you on the lawn. Straight down the hall,” one of them says.
My feet freeze, doubt anchoring me in place. But then, Da ’s voice cuts through my fear, clear as a bell and so loud, I swear he’s right here with me. “ What are you waiting for? Do it.”
And I do.
The grand double doors lead to a lavish foyer, the polished marble floors reflecting the glow of enormous crystal chandeliers above, all in a row.
Mirrored walls on either side catch my reflection, and I steal a glance at myself, surprised. Ricardo managed to transform me from a haggard mouse to a sultry temptress.
My already full lips are amplified by pouty lipstick. And the black dress I declined twice hugs every curve like a glove, yet comes off as flattering and sophisticated, a far departure from the stripperesque look I imagined from the sketch.
Ricardo was right—the first cut was the hardest. But once the initial shock passed, the straight razor left my hair with just enough length to be full and enough edge to be whimsical and fun .
Thank God he’s actually a world-famous fashion designer and not a maniacal ax murderer. When a box was delivered to Mr. Ricardo Ricci, I finally caught on. Though by his obsession with blade maintenance, he might be both.
“This way, Ms. Mullvain,” a man’s voice echoes from down the hall, as he opens another door.
The instant I step through, I’m hit with the thick scent of roses and the mouth-watering aroma of food. My stomach rumbles in response, a stark reminder that I can’t remember the last time I ate.
Soft music drifts through the air, mingling with laughter and murmured conversations—a symphony of opulence and wealth and rich people living it up.
If this is one of those virgin auctions I’ve read about in my latest shifter romance, these fuckers are in for a rude awakening.
I spot Enzo huddled with a group of men who all bear a striking resemblance to him. Same dark hair, same dominant stance. They seem deep in conversation, and I’m relieved when Enzo doesn’t immediately notice me.
Before I can gather my thoughts, a man approaches me with a tray of champagne. He offers me one.
“No thanks.”
“Take the glass, Kennedy.” It takes me a moment to recognize him—Agent Knox, dressed like the waitstaff and sporting a gun.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, keeping my voice low.
“What am I doing here? I’m undercover. We received intel about a big event—a meeting between two rival factions. Something that could shake up the entire Chicago syndicate.”
“What? ”
“I have no clue. I just got here, grabbed a tray, and spotted you. Barely recognized you.” His eyes flick across my body, lingering for a moment before shifting to the glass. I take it to avoid suspicion. “What are you doing here, Kennedy? Riley has been freaked out of her fucking mind.”
“Where is she?”
“Somewhere safe.”
“Where?” I press with enough urgency that it’s all I can do not to grab him by the collar.
He rolls his eyes. “My place, okay?”
“Your place?” Protective alarms blare, and I narrow my eyes. His eyes dart away from mine, unable to hold my gaze. A flicker of unease crosses his face, like he’s guilty as sin and doesn’t want to admit it. “It’s fine,” he says, but the lack of conviction in his voice betrays him. “I think of her as a kid sister.”
Sure, he does.
His gaze sweeps over me, lingering on every detail of my dress and hair. “Are you trying to get more of D’Angelo’s attention?”
“No,” I say quickly, though I shamefully wonder if I would.
A guard breezes by us, and my pulse kicks up. Nervously, I glance around, suddenly aware that I’m in the middle of enemy territory, talking to a fed. “Aren’t you worried about what happens if they find you here?”
He smirks, his gaze darting among the guards. “The good thing about places like this? The help is invisible.”
His response does little to reassure me, and I feel a surge of anxiety. “Can you get me out of here?”
“I can’t,” he bites out through clenched teeth.
“Why not? ”
“Because Enzo D’Angelo is staring at you like you’re a shiny new Bugatti.” I down my champagne and glance back at Enzo and the men I assume are his brothers, feeling a knot form in my stomach.
Knox leans in. “I don’t know what’s going on with you and Enzo D’Angelo,” he hesitates, “but does this have anything to do with your father?”
Stunned, my eyes snap to his. My father’s death changed the trajectory of mine and Riley’s entire world, and not just because he died. He was killed. Murdered in cold blood, his body turning up like a slab of beef at the medical examiner’s office. “Why would it have anything to do with my father?”
“Shit. I—” he cuts himself off. “Just be careful. Enzo is a wild animal in a three-piece suit, and he’s giving me a death glare. I have to go.”
Panic grips my chest. “You can’t go.”
“Kennedy, listen to me. I’ll be keeping an eye on you. If you need help, two fingers. If you’re fine, one. Got it?”
“Yes,” I squeak out.
With a subtle motion toward the tray, I realize he’s offering me his card. “Take it, Kennedy,” he urges, his expression grave and nonnegotiable.
Reluctantly, and without telling him I don’t have a phone, I slip it under a napkin and take it as I return the empty glass. Knox heads off in the opposite direction, and I feel the weight of Enzo’s gaze on me.
Heat flares along my skin. Buzzed on champagne, I head his way, and straight to the mouth of hell.