Page 45 of Consigliere’s Revenge

Isabella

My heart has just barely stopped racingwhen the van comes to a stop, causing a deep-seated fear to settle over my entire body again. I’m not new to this world, and the things that go on in these warehouses are far from rumors and myth.

They are the essence of brutality and savagery at its finest, and today, the special treatment is meant for me. The blood in my body courses through my veins at unprecedented speed, as the man unties me from the seat and grabs my arm. “Let’s go.”

I manage to put one foot in front of the other but every step, every move of my muscles takes effort on my part. Our natural instincts are not to go willingly into the enemy’s lair, but instead to fight or flee, and every neuron in my body wants to flee. There’s nowhere to run but desolate desert for miles and miles. My captors would find me long before I would happen upon anyone else foolish enough to be wandering around in the middle of nowhere.

Better to save my energy for when it can make a difference and hope like hell they give me just one opportunity to make it count.

The door on the warehouse squeaks on rusty sounding hinges. The man’s hand is still gripping my arm with iron strength as my blindfold is removed. “Move,” he says quietly.

I swallow past the lump of fear as he guides me in the large, empty and dimly lit room until we get to one of the doors in the back. He pushes me through it and sends me landing roughly into a plain hard chair before pulling my arms behind my back and binding them tightly. “Please, not so tight. They’re hurting me.”

He loosens the bindings, but only slightly. A small concession maybe but one that at least may save my fingers and hands from losing circulation as quickly as they could. When he leaves me alone, the door closes, the lock clicks into place, and my entire body begins to shake.

I’ve read interviews from captives taken by men like them. I know what they do, heard it directly from the victims, and corroborated on the streets in dark alley bars. I know what’s coming next if I don’t somehow get out of these ropes.

I slide my hands up and down, but they barely move a half an inch. There’s no sharp object on the back of the chair that comes in so handy for actors in the movies as they gain their release. A tear runs down my face, one that I swore I wouldn’t cry. It seems to crawl down my cheek in slow motion as though taunting me, knowing there’s no way to even wipe the wretched moisture from my face.

This is exactly what Lorenzo warned me of, and now I wished that I had listened. I swallow past a sob because self-pity is not going to do anything but zap emotional energy that I don’t have to give.

Think. I just need to breathe and think about what to do next. The quiet is not calming, it’s like a vacuum of emptiness that threatens to suck every breath I take. I let my mind conjure up memories of the Tyrrhenian Sea off the Amalfi Coast. Breathing in, focusing to inhale deeply before letting it slowly out. Repeating it until I’m in sync with the ocean as it sends swells toward the shore and then draws them back out to sea.

My head eventually finds a place to rest, my chin settling onto my chest as I try to be calm and focused, conserving my energy for what is sure to come when the men who took me decide they want the information that I have or just plain retribution for all the dirty little secrets that I’ve exposed over the years.

My mind drifts, dreams of Lorenzo coming to my rescue. He rides a black stallion as mean as he is known to be, but he’s dressed in white and black. A combination of good and bad. And then the dark-eyed devil rides swiftly toward me, scooping me from a burning building and hauling me to safety in the protection of his arms.

Although Lorenzo hasn’t said the words, he’s shown me that he loves me in so many different ways. Talking with Matteo, following the patterns of these dark-souled men for years, I know that what he’s told me is true. One of the reasons he followed me was to keep me safe and protected. From this very thing…

The sound of the latch pulls me from a troubled sleep. A man glares at me. He doesn’t care that I can recognize the long, jagged scar extending down the side of his face, letting me know that there will be no going home for me. These men don’t leave survivors; they don’t believe in loose ends, and I am certainly that.

He gestures to the other man in the room. “Get her up on the box.” I look at the box, with another one next to it. Two wooden, slatted crates turned upside down. I follow my line of sight up to the ceiling where a big hook hangs.

I’ve written about a room just like this, but it wasn’t this family’s lair…

Do all the families have rooms like this or was the means of torture created just for me as a little payback for what I wrote? Perhaps I’ll never know, and it’s not going to make a difference when I’m gone either way.

I take a deep breath, but it doesn’t calm my nerves when the other man drags me to the box. “Get up.” His voice is as gruff as the hand he uses to yank me onto the box. I survey my chances of getting out the door, even if I could smash the one standing in front of me in the face with my foot.

The chances aren’t good. They both have guns at their side, the other one has a knife, and both of them watch me closely. That doesn’t stop my natural flight instinct from kicking in. I smash the man in the face with the full force of my foot before he has a chance to get my hands above my head.

He lets go of my hands and holds his nose, pulling his shirt up to restrain some of the blood spewing all over his hands. He glares at me with soulless eyes. “You’ll pay for that, bitch.”

“And it will be worth anything you’ve got.”

The other man’s eyebrows go up, but the one with the broken nose looks livid. “Finish tying her up,” he says to the other man. If I was hoping for a looser hold from the man that I didn’t kick, I’m wrong.

In fact, if anything the hold is tighter than when I was in the chair. The red-faced man walks toward me. He doesn’t say a word, instead hits me across the face with enough force to make me sway.

The space behind my eyes burns with blinding pain. I dig the tops of my toes into the box to keep from falling off.

“Did you think you were safe to write whatever you want about our family, Miss Izzy Arden?” he snarls. “Without consequence? Surely you know better than that after following some of the largest crime families around the globe. What are the Larussios having you write next?”

I give him my best glare.

In exchange, he hits me with what feels like the full brunt of his force, although I have a feeling he’s saving the good stuff for later. I run my tongue over my lip and taste the metallic tinge of my blood.

I suck on it for a few minutes and then spit as far as I can, watching it splatter onto his face.

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