Chapter 2 – Vanessa
Chapter Two
Vanessa
“You coming around?” a male voice asks, and my whole body shakes.
I don’t respond, and I’m once again jostled as he gives my shoulder a shove. Only, I have no idea who he is, and that causes my heart rate to pick up.
My eyes ache as they flutter open, and a painful pulse ricochets through my skull. I groan, trying to rub my temple, but the movement makes both arms jerk.
Everything is blurry, and my brain feels like it’s been stuffed with cotton.
It takes way too long to determine my hands are bound in front of me. That’s why I wasn’t able to move just one hand.
My nostrils flare, and I’m not anywhere that I would recognize by scent alone. In fact, I’m lying on my side on an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar room.
No matter how hard I try to put the pieces together, they’re just not fitting.
“Who the hell are you?” I try to ask, but something blocks my mouth.
I’m gagged.
This is bad.
Really not good.
“Yeah, it looks like you’re back with us,” the man says. He kneels on the floor next to the bed, frowning at me.
The long blond hair from the top of his head falls over his forehead as he quirks an eyebrow. He has blue eyes and just a small amount of blond stubble lining his strong jaw.
He’s no one I’ve seen before, and my panic rises. The anxiety only seems to worsen the pulsing in my temples, and I squeeze my eyes shut as a powerful wave of nausea rips through my system.
What happens if I throw up while I’m gagged?
I’m pretty sure that’s how people aspirate on their own vomit.
I binge-watched a medical drama last year, and there was a storyline about how dangerous it can be. It leads to lung infections, and that’s outside of the whole choking to death on your own puke thing.
“I’m going to take this off you,” he says, hooking his thumbs under the material of the gag. He doesn’t have a Southern accent, at least not exactly, but he also doesn’t sound like he’s from Boston. “Be warned, if you scream, it’s going right back on.”
My eyes pop open again, and I study his face.
He’s not wearing a mask.
That has to be a bad sign.
If they believed I’d make it out of here, they’d wear masks to protect their identities. It would prevent me from giving a physical description or being able to pick them out of a lineup.
The car accident comes back in a flash, and I berate myself for not driving straight home. I could have broken down in my bedroom if it was still necessary to do so.
There’s only one man with me now, but there were three or four that climbed out of the black SUV.
“They dosed you with enough sedative to put a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound man on his ass,” he says, pulling down the gag until it rests around my throat. “I’m not shocked you slept for four hours.”
I blink repeatedly.
I was passed out for four hours?
Holy shit.
I focus on my body, trying to determine if anything aches. Outside of my head and shoulders, nothing hurts, and I pray that’s a good sign.
“If you start screaming or make a scene, my president will send someone in to dose your ass again.” He sighs, shaking his head. “Consider that fair warning of what’ll go down if you act up, not an actual threat. I hate threatening women.”
“What are you even talking about?” I choke out, trying to use my forearm to push myself up.
It’s complicated with my hands being tied together, and I have even less coordination than usual, likely from whatever they used to drug me.
I fall back against the mattress, and the jarring movement rips through my skull, making me whimper. “Oh, God. That was bad.”
“Shit,” he mutters, his hand landing on my arm. “Maybe you should give yourself some time before you try to move too much.”
“Yeah, thanks. I’ll take that under advisement.”
He snorts, and little crinkles appear around his eyes. “So, what’s the deal with you and the mafia guy?”
“You’re going to need to be a little more specific.” I groan, trying once again to bring my hands up to rub my temples. Only, I forgot they’re still bound. “Could you untie me? My head is killing me, and I need to pee.”
“You’re awful bossy for a kidnapping victim,” he says, sounding amused. “Tell me about your relationship with Moretti, and I’ll see what I can do to help you out.”
“I’m no one’s victim,” I snap, trying to kick him. That might be counterproductive, but it doesn’t do much since my ankles are also tied, which I hadn’t realized.
“Hey, you might be delusional, but I like the conviction.” He chuckles. “Come on, now. You help me, I help you. I’m sure you know how this works.”
My mind races, but I’m still not clear enough to think everything through with the drug running through my system.
Was I kidnapped because of Moretti?
That probably wouldn’t have crossed my mind—at least, not for a long time. My first assumption would be that my father pissed someone off, and I’m now leverage to get him to do what these people want.
If they think Moretti cares about me, will that make them more likely to treat me better, or will they torture me to get back at him?
“Moretti is an associate of my father’s,” I say, and it’s not exactly a lie.
They just so happen to hate each other, but they are forced to make deals because of how Boston runs.
“My father is Julian Chapman.” I search his face, but there’s not an ounce of recognition. “My brothers are Vance and Victor…”
Still nothing.
Fuck.
This is bad.
Almost everyone knows the twins.
“Are you part of one of the mafia families?”
“Yes.” I nod more vigorously than I should with my head throbbing the way it does. “My family will start a war to get me back.”
If for no other reason than they have plenty of disposable muscle they can sacrifice. I’m worth a lot more alive than I am dead, but I keep that part to myself.
“We kidnapped a fucking mafia princess.” He laughs derisively. “This vacation just keeps getting better and better.” His tone betrays his distaste, and I vaguely wonder if I can use that to my advantage in some way.
If he wants no part of whatever this is, maybe he’ll help me escape if I promise my family won’t punish him.
He leans over the edge of the mattress and holds my legs down, working on the binds around my ankles. “All right. Your legs are untied. I’m going to help you up, slow and steady.”
“Are you going to help me escape?” I blurt out, my mouth working faster than my brain.
I’m never this optimistic, and under any other circumstances, I’d be embarrassed at myself for asking such a dumb question.
“Not a fucking chance, but I am going to help you to the bathroom. You mentioned needing to take a piss,” he says, just as crass as all the other men in my life.
My nose wrinkles. “Fine, but you’re leaving while I use the toilet.”
“Keep telling yourself that, princess,” he says with a snort.
Having an unfamiliar man watch me pull down my panties is embarrassing. It’s not nearly as bad as him refusing to leave the room as I pee, though.
“I feel like I’m about to explode, but I must have a shy bladder. Nothing is happening,” I say, cutting my eyes to where he stands in the doorway. “You could give me some privacy. That might help.”
“Give it a few seconds. It’s probably the drugs.” He shrugs a massive shoulder, crossing his arms over his chest.
My eyes narrow.
This cannot be my life.
“If you’ve changed your mind, I can take you back to the bed,” he says, and it sounds like a threat.
I stare at the wall in front of me, trying to pretend he’s not here. It doesn’t help, even though my bladder is so full that it’s physically painful. Wiggling around the toilet seat also doesn’t force my body to do what it needs to do.
“Let’s see if this helps.” He turns on the water in the sink. “I have orders not to let you out of my sight, but I’ll close my eyes and just stay here in the doorway to make sure you can’t escape. How about that? Will that help?”
“Thanks,” I mutter, checking to make sure his eyes are really shut.
They are, and I’m finally able to pee.
Once I’m done, I reach back to flush the toilet, struggle to pull up my panties, and stand.
But I’m still wobbly.
He strides over, grabbing my hips as I acclimate to being vertical once more. After that, he helps me wash my hands, which is thoughtful.
I guess.
Honestly, it’s more like the least he can do, but whatever.
“Thanks…” I say as he dries my hands with a hand towel. “What should I call you?”
“Magnum,” he says without missing a beat. He tosses the towel on the counter and guides me back into the hotel room.
Giving me a name could be a very bad sign that he doesn’t expect me to make it out of here to tell my family who held me captive. Or it could be a good sign, and we’re building a rapport.
Hell if I know which one.
“Look, I know you’re scared, but if everything goes well, we’ll be trading you back to Moretti within a few short hours,” he says, helping me take a seat on the edge of the bed.
It’s hard to scramble to sit back against the pillows with my hands still tied together. Though it is nice to be able to move my legs independently of one another.
Hopefully he forgets.
If he does, it’ll be easier to run if I get a chance to escape.
He grabs one of the chairs at the small table, brings it over next to the bed, and takes a seat. “Do I need to bind your legs, or are you going to be a good girl and behave?”
My eyes cut to his.
That’s playing dirty.
Omegas crave praise, but it’s unfair to prey on my instincts.
“Damn, I’m lucky your hands are bound. Huh?” He chuckles a low, throaty sound. “You’re looking murdery, princess.”
Well, good.
At least my resting bitch face is coming in handy for something.
The door to the hotel room slams open, and Magnum hits his feet. It makes his scent burst in the air, and I don’t know how I’m just getting the first hints of it.
Do alphas use scent-blocking soap?
Does that even make sense?
I take suppressants to block my heats, and they deaden my sense of smell considerably. I’m still normally able to pick up traces of a person’s scent, so maybe the drugs have affected more than just my thought process and balance.
Magnum smells like lemon with sweet tinges of honey. There are other notes, and my nose desperately wants to find out what they are, but an unfamiliar man comes into the room.
Waking up to find Magnum was disturbing, but I would have been terrified if the new guy was the one watching over me. A shiver runs down my spine. He has a gnarly scar on the front of his throat and chest that disappears into the top of his T-shirt and others on his jaw and the sides of his neck.
Someone fucked him up to the point I’m surprised he was able to heal from his injuries.
“She’s finally awake,” the newcomer says in a raspy tone that grates on my eardrums.
Whoever attacked him had a good reason. I don’t know what the justification was, but something about him makes my skin crawl.
Magnum crosses the room, meeting the guy near the end of the bed. He leans close, whispering something I can’t hear.
The new guy eyes me with a little too much interest, and I lean deeper into the pillows behind me, trying to get farther away from him. I should have begged Magnum to help me get out when I had the chance.
If I have to be stuck with one of them, it’s not a question—I’d pick Magnum.
Please tell me this isn’t a shift change.
If that other guy plans to take over watching me, I will legitimately beg Magnum to stay. It probably won’t do anything, but I’ll still try.
An even scarier thought crosses my mind. Thank God Magnum was the one who watched over me while I slept. I would not want the new guy anywhere near my unconscious body.
Magnum’s hand lands on the man’s shoulder, spinning him toward the door. They step outside the room, but one of them stops the door from clicking closed by shoving their boot in the way.
Dammit.
Why couldn’t they have been stupid enough to leave me completely unsupervised?
This hotel room has a phone. This would have been my perfect opportunity to use it.
My stomach tightens, and the few minutes Magnum is gone feel like an eternity.
He comes back inside the hotel room alone.
I exhale, nodding.
Jesus Christ.
The Stockholm syndrome is strong.
He grabs the chair and angles it more toward the door. It leaves us facing the same direction.
“Who was that?” I ask, keeping my voice low.
“Blade.” He kicks his boots up, resting them on the edge of the bed as he stretches out.
“He’s the president of our motorcycle club.
It’s his bullshit that led to why we took you.
We needed a backup plan in case the original didn’t pan out.
” Something in his tone tells me he’s not pleased with the way everything is playing out, but that doesn’t mean he’ll flip on his friends to help me.
My father’s men don’t like every order. They still follow his commands without question.
“Looks like we’ve got a few hours to kill,” Magnum says, scratching his jaw. “I’m bored. Come on, fill me in on the gossip. We caught you leaving Moretti’s mansion. You got something going on with him? I promise not to tell anybody.”
“I already answered that question once,” I say, rolling my eyes. My head throbs, and it ends up being a bad move.
“Nah, you sidestepped it hard.” He chuckles.
“My fathers made a deal a long time ago. They promised me to one of the other families. Not Moretti, just to be clear.” I sigh, snuggling back against the cheap pillows.
“I finally got myself out of that mess, but I actually made it worse. Now my family owes theirs a penalty for breaking the contract. My father doesn’t want to pay, so he’s shopping around to see who else might want to buy me. ”
“Buy you?” he scoffs. “You’re a grown-ass woman.”
“Yeah, and as it turns out, who’s interested now is worse than the guys I was betrothed to. That’s an ironic turn of events that I should have seen coming.” My stomach wobbles as Grigoryan pops into my mind.
I refuse to be tied to that disgusting man.
I don’t care if he hasn’t been charged for it, I’m convinced that he killed at least one or two of his wives. No one has bad enough luck to outlive three wives at sixty.
“He’s like two-and-a-half times my age, and he goes through wives like they’re dessert spoons.”
“Damn, that’s fucked up,” he says.
“Yup.” I nod. “But it’s not like Moretti was actually going to help me. I was just desperate.”
“And then you got kidnapped for your trouble. Sorry, princess. It sounds like you’re having a worse day than me.”
That’s an understatement.