“Bring him,” said the goon, ignoring me.
A fist drove into my left kidney, and my knees buckled. I tried to get my feet back under me as the two paid grunts supporting me dragged me forward, but I only succeeded in reeling drunkenly within their grip.
‘Drunk’ sounded pretty nice right about now, actually.
“What’re we supposed to do with him?” one of my captors asked.
“Gotta check with the boss,” said the one who seemed to be giving orders. “Get him some cement shoes and dump him in the lake, maybe.”
“No one actually does that,” muttered another goon. “Takes too long for the cement to dry.”
I had a confused glimpse of Head Goon pulling out a phone and raising it to his ear as I was dragged into an elevator car.
“Hey boss?” he asked, as the door slid shut. “We captured some asshole that was bothering your mate at the party. An alpha. Hair and beard like a fire engine. He was pretending to be a waiter. What d’you want us to do with him?”
There was a pause, then unintelligible buzz of the answer came. The elevator slid smoothly downward, threatening to send the meager contents of my stomach on a final farewell tour as we headed for the basement.
Fuck, I was dense. I’d been in such a hurry to get away from Gage’s fucking bedroom—and the omega sleeping in it—that I’d delivered myself straight into Lorenzo Vozzina’s hands. No oneknew I’d come here. No one except Vozzina and his goons would have any clue where I ended up next.
No one was coming after me, and Vozzina had every reason to want me gone. After the way Adrian—orPaolo,rather—had reacted to Jez’s name, it was pretty obvious that he and Vozzina had orchestrated Knox’s attempted murder. Gage and I would be the next obvious targets on the list.
Lead Goon put his phone away. “Take him to the hotel’s loading dock. The boss wants us to throw him in a van and take him to that warehouse where they film all the shit with the omegas.”
I growled and braced myself, struggling as the doors slid open to reveal the hotel’s dark underbelly—utilitarian concrete full of clanking machinery and hissing boilers. The goons dragged me out, cursing under their breath. I was manhandled toward a large overhead door surrounded by carts of laundry and crates of god-knew-what. Head Goon pushed a big yellow button on the wall, and the door began to slide up, revealing the darkness of the city night beyond.
A heavy blow came out of nowhere, impacting my temple, and I crumpled like a ragdoll as my consciousness fled.
When I woke up, I’d been dumped on a metal table in an unfamiliar room. My wrists were still zip tied behind me, and now my ankles had been bound, too. I groaned, trying to roll sideways to get the strain off my trapped arms, but my muscles wouldn’t cooperate.
The voices that had been buzzing meaninglessly around me went silent. I blinked into the glare of an overhead light, trying to bring the dark blobs leaning over me into focus.
“He’s awake.” Not-Adrian’s light tenor came from somewhere on my right.
“Yes, we can see that.” The deeper rumble, laced with a permanent sneer of disdain, set off alarm bells in my head. I blinked several more times until one of the blurs resolved into a pock-marked, olive-skinned face topped by greasy, overly coiffed hair fashioned into fussy little finger waves.
Lorenzo Vozzina.
He waved impatiently at someone. “Get the stim shot into him before he starts flopping around too much. Are the cameras set up?”
“Yeah, boss,” said another voice. “We got ’em set up on the ceiling so he won’t be able to get at ’em.”
A big hand grabbed my skull, the thumb digging into my bruised temple. I hissed and bucked as the grip jerked my head to the side, forcing me into a position like a scared omega showing throat. An instant later, a sharp prick in the side of my neck made me go still. Something cold pushed into my vein, only to start burning like acid as it spread.
“What thefuck?” I slurred, sounding drugged and stupid to my own ringing ears.
The needle pulled out, and Vozzina leaned over me again.
“Heath Dawson,” he said. “Age twenty-nine. Born in Belfast, Northern Ireland. Emigrated to Chicago at the age of three with your parents, now deceased. Former alcoholic; former card-sharp. Now in the employ of one Matthew Knockley, soon to be deceased.”
“Go fuck a razor blade,” I snarled.
“You know, your pack has caused me no end of trouble, these past few years,” Vozzina went on.
“No idea what you mean,” I grated out. “Who are you supposed to be, anyway?”
“Don’t act stupid,” Not-Adrian said, his voice dripping with contempt. “You ruined my reception. Now my mate’s going to ruinyou.”
A terrible itchy, jittery sensation was spreading along my nerves, moving outward from my shoulder and jaw in hot waves.
