“Nathan is not innocent!” The man’s backhand snaps my head to the side. Blood drips down my cheek, and Diego pulls a handkerchief from his pocket. He dabs at the large ring on his index finger. “You are trying my patience, Ms. Harrison. Kellan? Remove the rest of it.”
The other man pinches the top of my ear between two meaty fingers. I scream as loud as I can, hoping someone might hear me and call 911. Thrashing my head, I loosen his grip, but that won’t save me for long. Not unless I can get my arms free.
The ropes dig into my skin. Is there a tiny bit of slack around my right wrist? Agony races all the way up my left leg, but I plant my feet and twist, sending the sawhorse slamming into him.
“You fucking bitch!” Kellan roars. The switchblade clatters to the floor, and he stumbles back. I don’t have enough leverage to stand. But I scoot back until the sawhorse hits the front door.
Diego advances on me, his gun pointed at my head. “Scream again, and I will tell Mr. DeLuca to cut out Nathan’s tongue before he kills him.”
“Your boss…is a sick fuck who probably gets off on that shit.”
My phone dings, then buzzes twice from somewhere to my left. Ryker. If I don’t answer, he’ll know something’s wrong. But Hidden Agenda is at least twenty minutes away. Longer if traffic is still fucked.
Diego nods at Kellan, and he strides over to the couch to pick up the device. “What the hell does this mean?” he asks, turning the screen toward me. “Secure message?”
The phone won’t unlock without my fingerprint, passcode, and a facial scan, but I can’t take the chance they’ll break me. “Voice Assist: Security Breach!” I shout. The phone bricks in an instant, and the screen goes dark.
“Big mistake.” Diego presses his foot down on my knee. My hoarse cry sounds like a tortured animal.
Kiki.
“Hey, asshole,” I manage through the pain. “Where’s…my goddamn…cat?”
Nash
My mouth tastes like the inside of a garbage can. Nausea crawls up my throat and a headache splits my skull. Where the hell am I?
A white zip tie digs into my wrists. I’m sitting up—mostly—in a plush leather seat. Pressure fills my ears, along with a dull hum.
Turning my head, I find a small, dark window with tiny, white lights dotting the ground far below. Fuck. I’m on a plane.
Across from me, a man in an expensive suit lifts a glass of amber liquid to his lips. “Would you like a drink, Mr. Rossi?”
“Fuck you. Where are we going?”
“Somewhere you will not be offered eighteen-year-old Irish whiskey that costs more than your car.” He reaches for a heavy glass decanter, pours a double, and sets it on a small table next to me.
It’s awkward as hell to take a sip with my hands bound, but the smooth liquid helps chase the sour taste from my mouth. “Where are the guys who attacked me?” I ask, hating the desperation in my voice.
“Having some fun with your girlfriend.”
I lunge for the man, but he’s up in a flash and slams his fist into my gut. I sink to my knees, coughing hard enough, the liquor threatens to come back up. Two mountains of muscle step through a part in the drapes at the front of the cabin.
“Everything okay, Mr. DeLuca?” one of them asks.
“Our guest fell, Rocco. Nothing to worry about.” The man takes me by the arm and shoves me back into my seat. “Tell my father he’s awake.”
His father? This is DeLuca’s son?
Rocco disappears back behind the curtain, but the other guy doesn’t move. “Why does your father give a shit about me? It’s been twenty years!”
“Do you think that matters?” Mr. Expensive Suit DeLuca takes his seat and crosses his legs at the ankles. “In two hours, we’ll be in Chicago. Until then, drink up.”
“Let Raelynn go. She doesn’t have anything to do with this. I won’t fight you. Not now, not when we land. But—”
Expensive Suit laughs. “Did you hear that, Benny? He ‘won’t fight’ me.”
“Good one, Mr. DeLuca.”
