Page 20 of Captive Vows
Gabriella was a payment. A pawn. Nothing else, no matter how much she captured my interest at this moment.
“Intrigued,” I admitted to my nephew.
But not stupid.
8
GABRIELLA
Waking up groggy and disoriented was the first indication that something was wrong. Feeling the after-effects of whatever drug that thug had shot me up with was another.
My dad never gave me an indication that he was a good guy. I knew he was associated with some sketchy people.
But until now, when I woke up in a locked bedroom after being dragged out of my home, I hadn’t realized he knew people in the freaking Mob.
As in the Mafia.
Like all these suited guards and militant men who entered my room to provide me with cold glares and food. If I were the kind of person to wallow in being a victim, I’d convince myself that I deserved these glowers and expressions of loathing. I hadn’t made it easy for them, fighting each person to come in here for the sake of getting the hell out of this place.
But I didn’t. Iwasa victim. I hadn’t asked to be taken. I hadn’t put myself in any position to warrant being kidnapped like this and held captive.
I refused to wallow and accept it, though.
They had menow. They were keeping me here against my will for the time being.
I’d be damned if I took that as my fate, though.
Every time the locks clicked open, I tensed and braced myself to fight back and figure out an escape. Any chance I could get to bolt, I’d take it. They were quick to realize I was capable of protesting, fighting back, and squirming to get free.
At first, they came one at a time. That one bastard thought that aiming a gun at me would kowtow me into a defeatist attitude.
It hadn’t. I wasn’t stupid. If they’d wanted me dead, they would’ve killed me already.
They hadn’t.
If they wanted me harmed, they wouldn’t have hesitated to beat me and mark me up.
They didn’t attempt to wound me.
Putting a gun in my face was just a scare tactic, and I wasn’t falling for it. Yet, seeing how all these men were packing was no joke. These men were members of a criminal organization. The Mafia. I heard the Dubinin name mentioned, and that alone was plenty to convince me to watch it.
My captors weren’t amateurs. They weren’t imposters. Each and every one of these guards who entered was capable of killing.
So, when on the fourth day of being held here, I tried to fight my way free, I saw how far I was pushing my luck. Luck seemed like a cruel tease. I wasn’t lucky to have been kidnapped without a damn explanation. I wasn’t lucky to have been shoved in here with no weapons, no means of escape, not a single way to contact anyone. And I sure as hell wasn’t lucky to be taken from my life, to be held away from Amy’s studio and the freedom to go to my few dance lessons that were the sole purpose of my life.
They came in threes now, one man to bring water, food, or clothes and then two more as backup. Always packing. Always with their hands on their guns, ready to defend themselves or to remind me that I had no power here.
“Let me go,” I ordered. It was the starting line of a greeting I gave them. No matter which rugged and stone-faced brute it was, I told them all the same thing. Submission wasn’t happening. Not from me. So long as I could breathe and stand, I would fight to get out of here.
This captive bullshit wasn’t the life I was supposed to live. I was supposed to be on stage or learning how to get there. I was powerless and outnumbered. I still didn’t know anyone to save me. But dammit, I couldn’t give up.
“No.” That one-word reply was all the guard said as he set down a pile of brand-new clothing. A short stack of it was accumulating on the narrow side table where the other garments sat untouched.
I’d drunk the water so I’d stay hydrated. I ate some of the food so I could keep my strength up. But I’d be damned if I acquiesced to wearing the clothes they brought in. To do so would be a step toward admitting defeat. It would give them another clue to assume I was accepting the fact that I’d been taken and would be held.
Too many questions pinged in my mind. All day and night, trapped in here with nothing to do but worry and panic, I failed to answer any of them. Why I was taken. What the Dubinin Mafia would want with me. Why my father hadn’t tried to help me. So many questions plagued me during the torment of waiting for answers from these men.
But I knew better than to ask them for an explanation. They were all the low-level grunt men, the soldiers and guards. I needed to speak with someone in charge, and once I did, I’d demand my release.
