Page 77 of The Chameleon

“Okay, can we get back to rescuing my friend?” Ares jumped in impatiently.

“Um, I thought Matteo hated you?” another voice asked. Ares thought it sounded like the guy with the grinning demon-faced tattoo on his chest… was it Arthur? Or Diesel? He couldn’t remember the idiot’s name, but the man kept calling his tattoo Bruno. The guy may have a serious drug problem.

“No. Idiot. They’re fuck buddies on the DL. Try and keep up, Diesel; you’re just embarrassing yourself,” Jared answered.

Okay, so it would seem that Matteo’s entire fleet of deadly strippers was on the call.

“You and Matteo are fucking?” Mickey asked. “Good for you, man. I heard that the guy is a hot piece of ass.”

Jesus, this was getting out of control. By now, the entire world must know that he was a cock-sucking homo who loved to give it hard to sexy-ass Italian men who owned a château and commanded a legion of stripper boys.

“Oh,tabarnak,” Ares huffed, frustrated.

“You’re Québécois?” Chase asked, suddenly intrigued.

“What? No, he’s Greek,” said Isaac.

“No, he’s not. He’s Turkish,” someone corrected.

“I thought he was Spanish?” Seth asked.

“No. He’s half Italian, half Jewish,” Mickey clarified.

“With a French accent?” Patrick noted sarcastically, his left eyebrow raising an inch from where it normally rested.

“Boss, I think you should just end the mystery and tell us all now. Otherwise, we will never save your guy,” Elijah interjected.

Ares shook his head. It was like trying to herd a room full of cats after they had rolled around in catnip.

“Fat chance. Okay, you all know what to do. I’ll see you all at my facility in the next twelve to eighteen hours.”

And with that, Ares ended the strangest video call he had ever hosted.

27

MATTEO

Light assaulted Matteo’s eyes as cool night air rushed in to replace the stench of sweat and stale air.

Matteo took in a deep lungful of the welcomed fresh air.

God, that felt good.

He lay there for a moment, staring up at the peaceful night sky. The moon was out, and several small stars flickered as if welcoming him to the next chapter of his never-ending nightmare.

It was only a few short nights ago that he was staring up at these same stars, searching for solace and thinking of his parents. Tonight, as he stared up at these same stars, he thought only of his family. The crazy, pain-in-the-ass guys waiting for him back at the château, wondering when he was going to return home. What he wouldn’t do for another family breakfast or another birthday celebration.

Matteo tried to move, but his wrists were tied together. He wondered how long he had been trapped inside the human-sized coffin.

The air smelled rank. It was a mixture of dead fish and cold, salty ocean air. He must be at a port somewhere. Considering he had no idea how long he had been kept in the crate, he couldn’t venture a guess as to where they were.

“Andiamo,” a pissed-off-looking Italian ordered, offering Matteo his hand to help him get out of the crate.

Matteo took it, pulling himself up and out of the—yup,body-sized coffin—or crate if one were being literal.

Where were they?

Taking in his surroundings, he felt his stomach drop.

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