I just need someone—anyone, to find us. To get me out of this goddamned cage so I can fuck up the assholes who put me here, before they get their hands on her.
Isabella.
I ball my hands into fists, digging my nails into my palms to keep myself grounded, to keep myself from looking at the hiding spots again. I can’t draw attention to them.
The guards may be complete idiots, but they’re not blind. They talk when they think I’m out of it, and I’ve picked up more than they realize. I know their rotation, their schedule. I’ve been here for three, maybe four days—it's hard to be sure with how hazy that first day was. The drugs were still messing with my head, but every hour since, things have become clearer.
And the clearer it gets, the worse it is.
I’m fucked.
There’s no other way to put it.
I’ve been listening, paying attention. They’re unorganized. Definitely not professionals. And as the days have ebbed on, I’ve noticed they’re scrambling. Something’s changed. They’re getting desperate.
My throat constricts as their words come back to me.
They are desperate. But what they’re desperate for is enough to send me into a blackout rage befitting of Madd.
Last night, in the pitch black of my cell, I laid awake, staring at the ceiling, and listened. Their conversation, a mix of English and Spanish, was heated. Two, maybe three, guards were arguing about their boss. About the woman they were searching for.
From what I could gather, the raid at the Den wasn’t meant for us—it was meant for Ella. We’d been distracted by that sick fuck, Eric Keaton. If it hadn’t been for the second group of masked people that showed up, Gus would have gotten the jump on us.
My heart slams against my chest at the thought.Fuck. What would have happened if he’d gotten his slimy hands on Ella? If she were here with us?
Gus wants her. For what? I have no fucking clue. I’ve heard whispers of money. A shit ton of money, from the sounds of it. But it makes no sense. Ella’s a foster kid with a lost memory. What could she possibly have that Augustus wants? He has money, drugs, and women.
Unless…
I choke back a ball of emotions I can’t afford to feel.
Could it be true? Could our girl,mi princesa,actually be a queen? The heir to Le Milieu, the French fucking Mafia?
Another sharp pain shoots through my skull, and I grit my teeth against it. I can’t let it slow me down, can’t let it weaken me. My mind has to stay sharp, my body ready to move the second I see an opportunity. I force myself to pace again, trying to push through the fog in my brain.
Outside my cell, a metal door clangs. The only sign I have that someone’s coming. I tense, but don’t stop moving. It puts my back to my cell door for a brief second, and I quickly spin, keeping my eyes on the impending threat.
My mind flits through the mental tally I’ve been keeping, and my brows furrow. It’s not time for the guard to do their ritualistic hazing. Morning, afternoon, and night, someone walks by, throws shit at me, shouts at me, leers, and laughs.
They stopped coming into my cage on the second day. The first time someone tried to piss me off face to face, I turned his face into a bloody pulp. I expelled every ounce of pent up rage and fear on the guy, and then I turned to his shaking friend. The man pissed himself and ran away, leaving his friend's body with me.
I’d wasted no time stealing the guard's set of keys from his pocket and letting myself out. At the time, I’d been completely tunnel-visioned. All I cared about was getting my brothers andfinding Ella before anyone else could. I was blindsided by the second guard and the backup he’d called for.
A grin curves the edges of my lips, and I run a thumb over it, making sure it’s real. I killed most of them too. I should feel bad, but I can’t find it in me to give a shit.
Footsteps thud down the rotting concrete path outside my cell, echoing in the cavernous, empty space. Something else I discovered in the few seconds of unobstructed freedom—we’re in a prison. An old, abandoned prison.
The walls are crumbling, the metal bars rusted and pitted with decay. The stench of mold and dampness clings in the air, thick and oppressive, like the building itself is suffocating under the weight of the horrors it’s seen.
The footsteps grow louder, closer, until they stop right outside my cell. Two hulking figures step into view, and I take them in with a bored expression.
They’re big—bigger than most, both easily six feet tall, and built like brick walls. Their skin is dark, covered in tattoos that snake up their arms, across their necks, and disappear under their shirts. One has a jagged scar running down the side of his face, cutting through an eyebrow, while the others got a nose that’s clearly been broken more than once. They look rough, like they’ve seen and done things that would make most men piss their pants.
But they can’t hide the fear in their eyes when they look at me. Because for as big and rough as they are, I’m worse.
I’m their fucking nightmare.
Even under all that muscle and bravado, they’re terrified. I can see it in the way they hesitate, the way their gazes flicker just a bit too quickly between me and the cell door. They’re scared of something—or someone—far worse than me.
