Frankie was out there, and we would burn the world down to bring her back home with us where she belonged.
29
FRANKIE
The first thing I felt was the cold.
Not just cold, either. Damp. A mildewy, concrete-soaked chill that crawled up my spine and clung to my skin like mold. I came to slowly, through a haze of pain pulsing behind my eyes, and tried to remember where I was.
Drug store. Bathroom. Pregnancy test. Two lines.
Darla. The men grabbing me. A hand over my mouth?—
My breath hitched hard as I lurched upright.
Bad idea. The room spun violently, and I had to brace myself on the metal arm of the chair I was tied to. I wanted to vomit. My body wretched, but nothing came out.
A chair. Rope around my wrists. My ankles. My breath came fast and hot, fogging in the cold air.
I blinked until the dim space came into focus. An abandoned warehouse, maybe. A long, shadowy room with steel pillars and flickering overhead bulbs.
The scent of oil, old cigarettes, and rot clung to everything. Crates stacked against the walls.
A couple of grimy windows high above, letting in strips of moonlight.
Definitely not good. Definitely not safe.
Footsteps echoed somewhere behind me. I froze.
A figure stepped into the cone of yellowish light. Tall. Broad shoulders. Graying hair. A suit that had probably been expensive before it had been wrinkled to hell.
I knew that face, even though I hadn’t seen it in years.
“Hello, Francesca.”
My stomach dropped. “Dad?”
Robert Ferrara smiled like a shark. “Good to see you awake.”
A million thoughts hit me at once—none of them comforting.
My father. My absentee, opportunistic, manipulative father had kidnapped me. Or, well, some men who answered to him. Which meant?—
“You…you sent the note.” My voice cracked. “You scared me. You threatened my mom.”
He shrugged. “Business can be messy.”
My vision tunneled for a second. I forced myself to breathe.
“You’re in the mafia. A rival family,” I said. “Against the Buteras. Against…my guys.”
His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Anthony Butera’s little empire is vulnerable now. His son is scrambling. The hierarchy is fracturing. It’s the perfect time for someone with ambition and the right leverage to take control.”
A chill cut through me. “And that leverage is…me?”
Robert stepped closer, his shoes scraping against the concrete floor. “Francesca, you were always meant to be useful. You were supposed to be won at auction by someone I chose. Someone who owed me loyalty. But Jonathan Butera ruined that.”
My throat closed. “He didn’t ruin anything.”
