“Need a hand, boss?”
My brows pinch together at the unmistakable accent of a New Yorker.Which Seattle rival has East Coast guys in their outfit?
“No,” comes the gruff reply.
A moment later, a third man joins us, speaking to his cohort in a low murmur. They both have New York accents. Strange. They must be contract hires.
Meanwhile, my stalker tugs my arms around the back of the chair and secures them with rope. When he finishes, hedrapes my long hair over the seat, his fingers barely grazing my shoulders. My skin prickles at the sensation.
He moves to the front next, his gloved palms sliding down my calves as he pulls my legs apart. A small, unsteady exhalation escapes me, and he pauses. Did it sound…breathy, or was that just my imagination?
God, how embarrassing.I blame romance books and twenty-five years of abstinence. It only gets worse when I use humor to cope.
“You ever heard of buying a girl a drink first?”
A long, uncomfortable silence follows as he binds my ankles to the chair legs.
“Do you make a habit of propositioning men who abduct you for a date?” he asks.
“Oh, is this a kidnapping? I thought you were flirting with me.”
He cinches the final knot around my left ankle tighter than the last, then rises and leaves. The sound of his footsteps drifting away steals some of my bravery. Because no matter how small and insignificant it may be, there’s a rapport with him. The other men, I’m not so sure of.
“Wait,” I call out, hoping he doesn’t notice the undercurrent of panic in my voice.
For a beat, I hear him pause, but the words die on my lips. What am I going to say to him—please don’t leave me?
He chooses to walk away, his footsteps fading into the backdrop with a haunting finality. I listen for the sound of the door shutting behind him, and I think I hear a click, but it’s difficult to tell over the rustling of the leaves in the garden.
A minute passes before one of the other men approaches, and the uncertainty of what he might do makes me break out in a cold sweat. Time seems to stretch on indefinitely as I consider every worst-case scenario.
Then, without warning, the bag comes off my head.
My eyes water as they adjust to the moonlight and the two figures in front of me. Their faces are obscured with black balaclavas, and they’re both wearing jeans, leather jackets, and gold chains. Without question, they’re eitherCosa Nostra-affiliated or they’re soldiers. They aren’t high enough in the ranks to dress the part, which is never a good indication. They don’t call in the guys in suits when they want a dirty job done.
But would my stalker let them hurt me?
“What’s the matter, sweetheart?” goon one asks. “No jokes for me?”
“Didn’t your mothers ever tell you it’s rude to start a conversation without introducing yourselves?”
“Yeah, sure.” Goon two laughs. “You want our addresses and social security numbers while we’re at it?”
“Fine.” I sigh. “For the sake of simplicity, I’ll call you Marv and Harry.”
The guy on the left sniffs. “Cute.”
“Hey, I liked that movie,” the newly coined Marv pipes up. “It’s a classic.”
“Sure is,” I agree. “Now, can we skip to the part where you tell me what you want? It’s been a long day, and I’m tired.”
“A long day she says.” Harry snorts, his voice raspy like that of a habitual smoker. “What’s a long day for a Mafia princess entail?”
“Shopping, if her little business is anything to go by.”
I roll my eyes. I’ve seen enough of these guys to last me a lifetime. In their minds, anything a woman accomplishes is little more than a hobby—something to entertain them while their husband stays busy with his side pieces.
There’s no point wasting my breath telling them that I’ve built my ‘little’ six-figure business as a stylist from the ground up. In a world where almost everything is out of my control,work has been my one constant, and I’ve thrown myself into it. I’m proud of what I’ve accomplished, and I don’t need validation from anyone who refuses to acknowledge it.
