Page 29 of Royal's Reign
“No doubt, but we have a very talented hacker,” I counter. “First, we get Forger to hack the security system, get visual on Giorgia to confirm she’s there, then we go in and get her back.”
A round of noisy approval fills the room.
“Good work Quarter. Stay put, let us know if anything changes.”
“Sure thing, Prez.” The call drops.
“If Giorgia is there, I’m pretty sure that Daniel Caal is there too.” I lean forward, making sure I have the focus of every man in the room. “I want that fucker alive, because my gut tells me that there’s more to this than a fucked-up infatuation with our girl Gio.”
I want to say my girl, but switching it out with our, makes it clear that Giorgia is family, therefore it’s a call to arms.
Little do they know, not even Grinder, yet. That once I get her back here, safe and in my arms. I ain’t gonna let her go.
Chapter
Eleven
Giorgia
I’m awake but my eyelids are so heavy it’s a struggle to open my eyes fully. But through the slits I see instantly that nothing around me is familiar.
I push myself up to a sitting position. My head hurts, my focus hazy, as I force my eyes open to take a better look at me current surroundings. The first thing that hits me is that I’m no longer wearing the clothes I had on when I’d left the clubhouse. Gone are the shorts and tank, replaced with a sleeveless summer dress, covered in bright red poppies. The fabric is full, and although it has ridden up mid-thigh, its true length must reach my ankles. From what I can also see is that it fits my body perfectly at the top, then flares from the waist down. It’s not something I’d normallywear, not unless I was in England and attending a royal garden party.
Fuck! Someone has taken my clothes off.
I lift the fabric of the skirt higher, checking to see what’s underneath.
Still the same panties. I put my hand between my legs. Warm but not damp.
I let out a deep sigh of relief that despite being undressed, nothing else seems to be untoward. Yet, I still feel violated.
The linen that covers the bed I’m on is soft to the touch. The room is large, bright and airy. Minimal furniture, but what is there is good quality. A light wood dresser with padded stool tucked underneath sits against the wall to my left. To the right, a tall, maybe six feet, ornate mirror rests against the wall. A high-backed, button-cushioned, wing chair sits right beside it. The subtle patterned wall covering in cream, the thick carpet to the floor barely a shade darker. Heavy drapes at the window, again soft cream, are pulled back, defused light seeping through the floaty voile fabric that covers the glass. It all looks very expensive, yet stark. Clinical rather than boudoir. It’s clear that whoever owns this property has money, and lots of it.
Tentatively, I swing my legs over the side of the bed and push up onto my feet, but a wave of nausea rolls over me and I drop my ass back to the bed.
“What the hell have they done to me?” I mumble to myself, swallowing hard, trying to push away thetightness in my throat. I fist the fabric with each hand and take in a deep, lung-filling breath through my nose. I hold it for three before slowly releasing it through my mouth. I repeat the action a couple more times, not only to dampen down the urge to vomit, but my fear too.
While waiting for my stomach to settle, I check out more of the room. There’s a small bedside table at my side that I’d almost missed. A Tiffany lamp, the only thing of color in the whole room, a glass of water and a packet of Tylenol sits on the top. No sign of my phone, but then I remember I left it at the club in my eagerness to get out of there. No sight of a landline of any sort either. I reach for the glass of water, my lips dry, my throat parched, a few sips could help with the nausea. My hand hovers, my sensible head questioning if it could be laced with more of whatever it was that had rendered me unconscious before. I drop my hand back to my side. I need to keep my head clear if I’m going to get out of here. Wherever here is.
A flash of memory hits me. Noah, his accusations, distrust and wrath, the need to get away from the club. I had run. I remember that, and the way Ink had shouted after me. It wasn’t until I saw both him and Nytro at the other side of the road, searching for me, that it hit me. I was being an ungrateful bitch, and no doubt my brother would be going crazy with worry.
I remember waving to them, stepping towards the curb to wait until the vehicle coming down the street had passed before I could cross over to them.
Hands grabbing, pushing me. The smell of swimming pools and winter air as a sweetness hit my lips, followed by nothing.
I’d been taken. The threat that had upturned my day-to-day life had come to pass, and once again, the fear and panic rises, threatening to consume me.
“Breathe,” I coach myself. “Think. Think. You need to get out of here.”
The door across the room, chances are it’s locked, but I’d be stupid if I didn’t at least try. Then, I’d tackle the windows.
I jump to my feet. A rush of adrenaline soars through my veins, and although I’m still a little unsteady, I round to the bottom of the bed and start to move toward the door. I can’t have taken more than three steps before the door clicks and swings open.
“Giorgia,” the man who now fills the doorway speaks, and that one spoken word, the voice of the man who installs fear into my veins, has me time warping back to that night, the alleyway and the horror that I’d witnessed.
“You can drink the water,” his deep voice almost echoes in the open, opulent space of the room, bringing me back to the here and now. “It’s perfectly safe.”
A rushed glance around the room confirms that he’s been watching me. Camera’s the same soft, light color as the walls making them barely visible, sit high up in the corners.
