9. Chapter 9
Chapter nine
Sweat soaked the blindfold, and one slow drop slid from my temple, tracked through the day-old scruff along my jaw, and fell from my chin.
Every breath carried the sour stink of piss and sweat beneath the metallic tang of the bleach they’d used to hide what happened down here.
I had no idea what time it was, but enough of it had gone missing that hours must’ve passed since the interrogation ended.
Sleep hadn’t come. Instead, whenever I slipped out of unconsciousness, pain had tightened its grip, dragging me back to my grim reality.
I hadn’t been able to stop every grunt or keep the blows from knocking the breath out of me, but fear never entered my voice.
Every curse and smart-ass answer had earned another hit.
Knowing it would happen hadn’t stopped me.
Letting Ciro hear even a trace of panic would’ve cost more.
The old cellar still held some of the night’s cool in the concrete beneath my boots, but the air had gone stale, and the blindfold trapped heat against my clammy skin.
I let my head hang and took a minute to figure out what hurt, what still worked, and what might slow me down.
Thirst had left my throat raw, and the coughing brought on by the blows only made it worse.
The cut along my cheek had reopened during the interrogation and now burned beneath the dried blood.
My jaw throbbed. My ribs and stomach hurt when I breathed too deeply, and my left thigh pulsed where their weapon had landed.
Nothing felt broken or out of place. I could still move my arms and legs, even if it hurt like hell.
The skin beneath the cuffs was swollen and tender.
I turned each wrist once, testing how deeply the metal had bitten in and whether either restraint had any give.
The right cuff didn’t move. The left shifted a fraction, but not enough for me to get out of it.
Both ankles were firmly locked to the chair’s lower frame but were uninjured.
Brute force wasn’t going to get me out of here, though. I was caught in one hell of a bind.
Alone, I could admit what I hadn’t let Ciro see.
I was afraid.
Not of dying. Men who lived in the underworld accepted that risk long before someone put a gun in our hands and called us family.
I was afraid of what Ciro and the woman from New York intended to do while they kept me alive.
He wanted information and whatever leverage he could wring from me to force Nik and The Syndicate to back off the cartel.
She’d gone to eat and sleep before coming back to break me into whatever sick version of a pet she wanted.
The tracker sat beneath the skin of my upper arm, one of Nik’s paranoid little miracles we’d all mocked when he made us get them.
Whether it had managed to send a clean signal on the jet, during the drive from whatever airport we’d landed at, or before they dragged me into this underground hole, I had no fucking idea.
Down here, beneath concrete and earth, it might as well have been buried with me.
Nik would tear apart the New Jersey house, the tunnel, the flight, and every company tied to Ciro’s plane. He was the best there was.
Lucian would come.
That certainty hurt worse than my ribs.
My brother had fought through hell for Scarlett, finally put a ring on her finger, and barely had time to breathe before I’d been snatched. He’d burn heaven and earth to find me, and every hour without an answer would cut into him.
Nik would find the path, and Lucian would go through anyone stupid enough to stand between us.
Neither meant they’d reach me before Ciro’s people did permanent damage.
I needed an opening inside the compound.
A radio crackled beyond the door, and a man answered in Spanish, too distant for me to catch more than a few words.
Wherever I was, the place had begun to stir. A diesel pickup coughed to life somewhere outside, followed by dogs barking and men calling to one another across the grounds.
It had to be early morning—late enough for the compound to be moving, early enough that the disgusting woman from New York might still be asleep.
Then a quiet click behind me cut through my thoughts. Stone scraped ever so softly, and a cool current brushed the back of my neck.
It wasn’t the door in front of me. No key turned in the heavy lock, and no boots came down the corridor.
Blindfolded, I was much more aware of every sound in the room. This one came from the wall behind me.
I went still.
Fabric brushed against the wall, then came a shallow breath from someone trying hard not to make a sound.
The scent of clean soap reached me, carrying the faintest trace of orange blossom. A woman.
It could still be a trick. Ciro had already used one woman to put me in this chair, and I had no idea who was sneaking up behind me now, but I sure as hell hoped it wasn’t that lying cunt Isabella.
I doubted it was her, because she never arrived unnoticed. Her perfume announced her before the measured click of her heels, and nothing about her was quiet.
The woman behind me moved as though discovery would get her killed.
Water shifted inside a bottle, and plastic crackled softly in her grip.
She reminded me of a church mouse—quiet enough to live inside the walls and frightened enough to bolt if I gave her a reason.
Fear didn’t make her weak though. She’d entered Ciro Delgado’s dungeon carrying water after he’d ordered that I get none.
I kept my head bowed and slowed my breathing. The first move mattered. If I turned too fast or spoke too soon, she’d disappear through whatever hidden door she’d used.
For several seconds, neither of us moved. Her shallow breathing remained behind me while the silence stretched, as though she were studying the blindfolded man chained to the chair and deciding whether coming closer was worth the risk.
One careful step slid across the floor. Then another. She moved around the chair and stopped several feet to my right.
I needed to keep from frightening her away long enough to discover why she’d come.
I waited another beat.
“I know you’re there,” I whispered.
Her gasp cut through the room, and she stepped back.
“Easy, little mouse. I won’t hurt you.”
Her breathing quickened, but she didn’t run.
“Don’t move too far from the door you came through,” I said softly. “It’s not safe for you in here.”
Whatever her place in this compound, she didn’t move as though she had permission to be here.
And she’d come anyway.
I gave her a few seconds to think about her next move.
“Maybe you shouldn’t stay long. The men outside are brutal. I don’t want them hurting you because you came near me.”
She said nothing, but she still didn’t leave.
No guard had spoken outside the corridor since she had entered. She’d timed her visit and used a passage Ciro’s men either didn’t know existed or didn’t believe needed watching.
Water sloshed inside the bottle.
My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. I tried to swallow, but my throat was too dry, and the effort triggered a cough. Pain tightened beneath my ribs. The second cough came rougher, bringing a sharp ache from the places their fists had landed over and over.
I waited for the coughing to ease.
“If that’s water, I’d be grateful for a little.”
She didn’t move.
“Just a mouthful,” I added.
After several seconds, she took one step, then another.
She crept closer, her footsteps nearly silent while her shallow breathing and faint orange-blossom scent grew stronger.
The rim of a bottle touched my lower lip.
Every part of me wanted to chase it and guzzle it down.
But I didn’t. The first thing I had to prove was that I could be trusted to control myself.
I opened my mouth and let her control the angle. The first swallow eased past my raw throat and settled cold in my empty stomach.
She pulled the bottle away.
I waited.
A few seconds later, she offered it again. I took two small swallows and stopped on my own.
“I know you took a hell of a risk for a stranger by bringing me that water. Thank you.”
Her breath caught.
She hadn’t merely brought me water. She’d defied Ciro Delgado, and men like him answered defiance with pain.
God only knew what helping me could cost her.
“I won’t forget it,” I promised.
For several seconds, she didn’t move. Then the bottle returned to my lips.
She’d understood the danger and had chosen to help me anyway.
I took one more swallow. Water escaped the corner of my mouth and tracked down my chin.
Then her thumb brushed it away.
The touch caught me off guard. Giving me water was an act of mercy. Wiping my chin was tenderness she didn’t have to give.
Her thumb lingered on my chin for half a second before lifting away.
Then her fingertips touched the cut on my cheek.
Pain flashed across my face, pulling a flinch from me before I could stop it. She snatched her hand back.
“Easy,” I murmured. “I’m okay.”
The bottle crackled softly in her grip, and the plastic rasped as she screwed the cap back on.
“Thank you for being careful not to hurt me.” I let a little humor into my voice. “Does it look as bad as it feels?”
A soft sound escaped her. Not quite a laugh, but close.
Her free hand returned to my face, and a finger traced the swollen edge of the cut. She followed my jaw for an inch or two before resting her hand lightly on my shoulder.
Kind hands didn’t make her safe. Isabella had already taught me that lesson.
But this little mouse’s hand shook.
She wasn’t playing scared. She wanted to bolt but kept choosing not to.
Two men started arguing in Spanish at the far end of the corridor, their voices rising as their footsteps moved closer. Mouse’s hand clamped down on my shoulder.
“They’re still down the hall,” I whispered. “You’ve got a little time.”
Every warning I gave her was true. The guards would hurt her if they found her here. But putting her safety before my thirst also made it easier for her to believe I wouldn’t use her.
I needed her trust.
The concern was real. So was the calculation behind it. The safer she felt with me, the more willing she’d be to help.