Chapter 25
Samantha
I’m a wreck. I haven’t slept in three days. I know I’ve freaked out Celia, and I have no idea how to keep her and Rona safe, except to stay away from them like I’ve been doing. If I am being watched, I don’t think they’ll grab me until they know where Rona is, but what if I’m wrong? What if they grab me to torture her location out of me? I scoff. No, Michael knows I’d die before giving her up. Plus, I know he’s enjoying this game of cat and mouse, terrorizing me.
I’m scrubbing the inside of my almost-empty fridge on Saturday afternoon like a crazy person because I have to keep busy. I could eat off my floor if I had any food. I have my earbuds in, listening to Sleep Token at a volume high enough to drown out my thoughts.
An incoming text pings.
Checking my phone, I groan.
Sandro:5071 3rdAve. 8 pm
I don’t recognize the address, so I look it up on Google Maps. It’s in the downtown warehouse district, but not the one I usually go to. If this is another torture session, I may lose my mind. Too bad you can’t call in sick to work when you work for the mafia. I pull off my rubber gloves and toss them in the trash can. “Sorry, I can’t come patch up the dude you tortured today,I’m being hunted by a psychopath and may need to run,” I mock myself.
I’m not sure how long it’ll take me to get there with traffic, so I leave early, making sure to check my rearview mirror frequently for any sign I’m being followed. On I-275 there’s a black sedan that has been behind me for a few miles and switches lanes when I do. When the next exit comes up, I jerk the wheel right and take it. The sedan doesn’t follow.
Relief loosening my chest, I make a U-turn and get back on the highway.
The first thing I notice when I drive up to the large warehouse is the amount of luxury cars and limos in the parking lot. What the hell? I glance down at my tank top and yoga pants. Am I underdressed? But then I see a sign painted on the building, black with a green shamrock in the background:Sully’s Gym. I’m more confused than ever.
Grabbing my roller bag, I head to the door.
I recognize the two bulky men standing guard from Killian’s yacht. They must recognize me, too, because one of them opens the door and nods. “Good evening, Doc.”
I force a smile and step inside. Yep, it’s really a gym. Lots of equipment, smells like rubber and sweat. There’s a few guys working out, but… where are all the people from the cars in the parking lot?
And then in the far-right corner, a man in khakis and a black polo shirt disappears through a door beside a storage cabinet. There are two more soldiers standing guard there. Whatever’s going on must be in there. Why would they need a doctor?
I roll my bag through the gym and walk up to them. “Hi, um, I’m Dr. Samantha Dal. Sandro LaRocca asked me to come.”
The guard’s gaze sweeps over me then he opens the door and motions me inside.
I step in, my eyes widening at the different atmosphere. There’s a boxing cage in the middle of the warehouse space, at least a hundred people milling about, mingling with drinks in their hands. The air is thick with excitement and conversation.
Now I know what I’m doing here. Patching up fighters. Well, at least men aren’t being tortured. That’s an improvement.
I search the crowd, trying to find someone I know, recognizing some of Tampa’s politicians and high rollers. I finally spot Sandro, Rocco and Gunnar talking to two other men and head that way. I note the bar and the betting station table where four lines have formed.
Sandro’s dark blue eyes track me as I approach. He’s dressed in a black button down and black pants, his expression tight and on guard, looking like the mafia don he is. This is definitely business, not pleasure for him. “Gentlemen, this is our resident doctor, Dr. Samantha Dal. Sam, this is Councilman Chuck Carson from District four and his associate Burton Ross.”
We exchange pleasantries, and then I greet Rocco and Gunnar.
Gunnar’s the only one without a drink in his hand. His six-five frame gives him an advantage as he scans the crowd. I wonder if they’re expecting trouble or if he’s just doing his normal mafia enforcer shit.
“Grab a drink, Doc,” Rocco says. His smile is warm and sexy nestled in heavy stubble, gray eyes glittering. “There’s a few warmup fights before the main event.”
My gaze drifts to the boxing ring and then back to Rocco. “Who’s the main event?”
He watches me closely as he says, “Killian and The Punisher.”
I freeze.Killian.Yep, definitely going to need a drink. I haven’t seen him since that day in the warehouse. I’m sure he’s not going to be happy to see me here. Will he even let me touch him? Doubtful. He’d probably rather go home bleeding than get help from me.
I straighten my shoulders. Well, the feeling’s mutual. I don’t want to see him either, not after witnessing him gutting a human being like a trout.
The way Rocco and Sandro are watching me, I know news has spread about the warehouse incident and my reaction. “Excuse me.”
I find the bar, order a gin and tonic, then grab a spot in the corner to people watch. The men are dressed casually, but still in expensive clothes, shiny watches, and dripping with self-importance. The women are sheathed in revealing, sleek or glittery dresses like a second skin. Lots of cleavage and tanned, Pilates-toned legs on display. This place reeks of sex, violence and money.
