Ruthless: Mob Boss Book One (2 page)

After all, he wasn’t a saint.

3

The first thing she noticed when she woke up was the sledgehammer chipping away at her brain. She had a sudden flash of memory; the man’s voice in her ear, the gun at her temple. It was dark, and she thought the bag might still be over her head, but when she made a concerted effort to open her eyes, everything slowly came into focus.

She was laying on a mattress, surrounded by four nondescript walls. She groaned as she sat up, putting a hand to her head like that might stop the war waging inside her skull. Nausea rolled through her stomach, and she took a few deep breaths, willing herself to pull it together. Someone had kidnapped her, drugged her, brought her to this room. She needed to figure out what was going on.

When the worst of the nausea passed, she slowly stood, bracing herself against the wall with one hand. Then she looked around, taking inventory, trying to figure out where she was and how she could get out of here.

The room was tiny, but surprisingly neat and clean, although there were no windows. A writing desk stood next to a twin size bed, but the room was otherwise devoid of furniture. There were two doors, and she felt a a flare of hope when she realized one of them was open about an inch. She crossed the room, hoping it was a way out, and was disappointed to realize it was tiny bathroom, complete with a sink and shower.

Her gaze was drawn to the closed door, and panic clawed at her chest as the reality of the situation hit her. She had no idea who would want to kidnap her, but it was the why that terrified her.

Were they going to kill her? Worse?

She thought about all the documentaries and news stories she’d seen on human trafficking. Was it possible something like that had happened on the streets of a sleepy, American college town? She didn’t know, but the door might be her only way out. The odds that it was unlocked were slim, but she had to try.

She made her way across the room. Her head still hurt, and she felt a little dizzy, but she got to the door and put her hand carefully on the knob. What would she do if it was unlocked? If someone was on the other side with a gun?

She didn’t have a clue, but instinct told her paralysis would be deadly. She couldn’t afford to freeze. She needed to think. To act.

She turned the knob slowly in case someone was listening outside the door.

It was locked.

She was scanning the room for another way out when she saw something on the floor near the foot of the bed. It only took a second to realize what it was, and she hurried as fast as her leaden limbs would allow and dropped to her knees.

She picked up the lip gloss and held it in her palm. Already it seemed like an artifact from another life. When she ducked her head to look under the bed, she saw the rest of her belongings scattered across the tile, her purse gaping open near the wall. Someone must have tossed it on the floor when they’d brought her to the room.

She reached under the bed and gathered up everything, including the bag, then sat with her back against the bed frame to take inventory.

The first thing she noticed was that her wallet was still there—money, credit cards, and all.
Not a garden variety mugging then
, she thought. She didn’t know if the knowledge was comforting or terrifying.

It only took a minute to realize everything else was accounted for as well—everything but her cell phone.

Damn.

She looked around the room and thought about her options, fighting the urge to curl up on the bed and sleep away the fog in her head. One locked door. No windows. No cell phone. She could wait for what was coming or hurry it along. The thought scared her, but sitting there like a sitting duck, waiting for the other shoe to drop, scared her more.

She got up, went to the door, and started banging on it.

“Hello!” she shouted. “Hello? Is anybody there? Let me out!”

She pounded the door with her fists, yelling louder. The more she screamed, the better she felt. At least she was doing something. It felt so good she forgot to be scared.

A couple of minutes went by before she heard the sound of a key in the lock from the other side of the door. She stepped back, her heart thumping wildly.

The door swung open, and a dark haired man with a thin face strode into the room. His purposeful stride took her by surprise, and a second later she felt something hard and unyielding strike her face.

Her hand went reflexively to her cheek. The bastard had backhanded her.

He was so close she could feel his body against hers. When she looked up, it was into eyes so dark they appeared black. She expected to see anger there, but they were completely vacant. The man’s physical violence—or the anger that had prompted it—was obviously nothing unusual.

“Shut your mouth, bitch,” he snarled. “Or I’ll shut it for you.”

His eyes traveled the length of her body, and she suddenly felt naked despite the jeans and peasant blouse she still wore from her shift at the Muddy Cup.

He shoved a paper bag into her chest, his hands lingering there even after she’d taken hold of whatever it was he was trying to give her. The back of his hand pressed against her breast before he lowered his arms with a salacious grin.

She licked her lips, her mouth suddenly dry. “What... Why are you keeping me here? What do you want?” she managed to croak.

“I’m not keeping you anywhere. I’m just following orders.” His voice was as cold as the rest of him, and he spit out the last word like it tasted foul in his mouth. “As for what I want...” His gaze dropped to her chest, and she had the irrational feeling he could see everything, even though her blouse was nowhere near low cut. “Don’t worry, I’ll tell you what I’m going to do to you ahead of time. That way you can really enjoy it.”

Her step away from him was instinctive, and she felt the bed hit the back of her knees. Nowhere else to go. She was debating the merit of screaming like crazy and hoping for a miracle when someone spoke up beyond the man’s shoulder.

“Dante. What are you doing?”

She dared a look over the man named Dante’s shoulder and spotted another man, this one slightly smaller, although he had the same dark hair.

When she looked back up at Dante, his eyes were still on hers. It seemed like an eternity before he took a step away from her.

“Nothing. Giving the girl food like the boss said.”

The other man folded his arms over his chest. “It doesn’t take five minutes to hand someone food.”

Dante turned around to face the other man. “Fuck, Luca. What are you? My babysitter now?”

“I’m responsible for her, too,” Luca said. “Let’s go.”

Dante looked back at her. She had to fight not to shudder. His eyes were almost reptilian, and a chill slithered up her spine.

“Fine,” he said, turning away and heading for the door. “She’s just a spoiled bitch anyway.”

Luca held the door open for Dante while Angelica clutched the paper bag to her chest. When Dante was clear of the room, Luca met her eyes.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

She nodded, which was ridiculous since she was nowhere near okay.

“Eat,” he said. “You need to keep up your strength.”

She didn’t have time to say anything else before the door closed. A second later the lock clicked into place.

She dropped onto the bed, exhaling a breath she hadn’t known she was holding.

4

They brought her lots of food after that; cold take-out hamburgers, hot dogs, sandwiches, and once, spaghetti. She stopped eating somewhere around the second day. It was the only way she could protest, the only way she could gain some kind of control over the situation.

She hadn’t tried banging on the door or yelling again. She was too afraid it would bring Dante back into the room. She could still see the dead look in his eyes, feel the hard crack of his hand across her face. Instead, she stayed quiet, trying to strategize another way out. It must have worked, because he hadn’t been back since the first day. She started to feel a little safer. Luca was polite, and she thought she saw something kind in his blue eyes when he entered the room to give her food.

She’s used the bathroom to wash her face and brush her teeth with the toothbrush left there, but she hadn’t dared to shower. The idea of stripping when she had no idea what was going on beyond the walls of her room, no idea who was holding her or why, made her feel vulnerable and scared.

Refusing to eat was a last resort, and she spent the time between Luca’s drop offs sitting on the bed or pacing the room, thinking about her father and brother, wondering if they knew she was missing. She didn’t have many friends, just Lauren, a fellow holdover from college. Would she be worried when Angie didn’t return her texts? Would Angie’s boss, Josh, check up on her when she didn’t show up for her next shift?

Thinking about the few people who might miss her only made her feel worse. She’d been living like a shadow since college. She just hadn’t wanted to admit it to herself. The truth is, she’d had trouble connecting with people since the death of her mother, and while she’d hoped college would be different, it was obvious now that nothing had changed.

When wondering what was going on outside started to make her crazy, she replayed everything that happened the day she was kidnapped, searching her mind for a clue to the question of why somebody would want to hold her hostage. It didn’t take her long to land on the only logical answer.

Someone was holding her for ransom.

Her father wasn’t a billionaire or anything, but he was rich. Really rich. Responsible for the development of half the Boston skyline, he had enough money for limos and private jets, expensive boarding schools, and vacations at private, far-flung resorts usually reserved for celebrities trying to avoid the paparazzi. It was why she’d decided to go to a state school in New York despite her father’s protests. She wanted to be normal for awhile, minus the paranoid eye of her father’s bodyguard and all the people whose only purpose, it seemed, was to make sure she and David had anything and everything they needed.

It was only their father’s presence, his attention, that was out of reach.

But she’d stopped feeling bad about that a long time ago. She wasn’t going to play the poor little rich girl card. She knew they were lucky. Knew there were people who went hungry in every city in America, not to mention the whole world. If the price she and David paid for their security was their father’s absence, well, it seemed like a lot smaller a price than most people had to pay for their survival.

The idea of a ransom gave her comfort. Her father would pay whatever they asked. Despite the recent awkwardness because of the situation with David, they were loved. Her father would do anything to get her back.

The sound of a key in the lock broke her away from her thoughts, and she scrambled to her feet, bracing herself for the door to open. A couple of seconds later, Luca stepped into the room. His eyes dropped to the unopened paper bag on the floor.

“Still not eating?” he asked.

She crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m not hungry.”

His brow furrowed a little while he considered her words. “The boss wants you to eat.”

“The boss?” She uncrossed her arms, surprised by his admittance that there was someone else working behind the scenes.

“You’re going to want to eat.” He glanced back at the half open door, then looked at her, speaking more softly. “You don’t want to make him mad. Trust me.”

“Dante?” she asked.

He shook his head. “The boss makes Dante look like two-year-old throwing a temper tantrum. Just eat. You’ll be out of here before you know it.”

“Tell me why I’m here,” she demanded.

“I can’t,” he said.

She recrossed her arms. “Then I can’t eat.”

He sighed, and she didn’t think she was imagining the concern in his eyes. “I’m trying to help you.”

“Yeah? Well, I’m trying to help myself.”

A wall came down over his face. “This isn’t the way to do it, but it’s your funeral.”

He retreated from the room and locked the door.

She dropped to the bed, his final words ringing in her ears.

It’s your funeral.

5

Nico bounced on the balls of his feet in the middle of the boxing ring on the first floor. He was dripping sweat, although from the looks of things Marco was no better off. Nico read the other man’s body language, trying to determine Marco’s next move, as they circled each other with their arms up.

When Nico got bored, he stepped forward, opening the round with a vicious left hook to Marco’s face. His neck snapped back, and he immediately put his hands up in front of his face, ready to block Nico’s next move. He was on the defensive now, which was exactly where Nico wanted him.

He faked a right hook, then raised his left leg, kicking Marco in the stomach just hard enough to send him flying into the ropes. He recovered quickly and came out swinging, but he was tired. Nico could see it in his gradually slowing movements, his hands just a little too low to really block his face.

Nico was still feeling good, and he circled Marco a couple more times, still bouncing, trying to wear out the other man before going in for the kill.

The sparring sessions—a combination of Muay Thai and conventional boxing—were part of Nico’s initiative to minimize the use of weapons. The family had relied on them long past their usefulness. Guns were noisy and unwieldy, and knives were difficult to control. Nico’s soldiers were mandated to train in street fighting, tactical combat, and at least one martial art. The massive gym at Headquarters—built by tearing down the walls between three rooms—had become a social hub for the organization, and it was almost always full of men working with one of the experts that coached there on a rotating basis. For Nico, sparring with them wasn’t a matter of pride; it was one of leadership. They had to know he could hold his own, especially since he was so young. It was the only way they would respect him.

And he only led by fear when respect didn’t work.