Carter spins abruptly as my back hits the wall. I slide down, pumping my fingers around my neck.
Koby’s closing in on me fast, determination flooding his face. “Shit, what’s happening? What do you need?” he asks, the metallic stench of blood more potent with every step he takes.
“I think she’s having a panic attack,” Hailey mumbles, up on her feet, worry creasing her forehead.
Ryder’s beside me in a flash, pushing Koby away. “Get out,” he seethes. “You and Broadway, go get cleaned up. And put Vincent’s head away.Now.” His big hands grasp mine, pulling them from my throat. “Let’s get you outside.” He doesn’t wait for me to speak, hauling me into his arms. “You need some air.”
My legs wrap around his middle, hands clutching the short hairs at the back of his head. I bury my face in the crook of his shoulder where the scent of his cologne is most potent. It covers the stench of blood.
I cling to him harder, shaking in his arms and panting. The heat of his body seeping into mine eases my tremors. It loosens the noose around my neck. I inhale a shallow breath, relief gunning through me when the air doesn’t stop in my throat but slides down, feeding my lungs.
“I’ve got you, Winter. You’re safe,” Ryder whispers, pushing the front door open. “Try again, okay? Breathe for me.”
My fingers dig into his shoulder blades as I obey the command. The cold evening wind lashes my skin, inducing another wave of shivers.
“Good, that’s good,” Ryder tuts against my temple. He sits me on the hood of his Jeep, moving both hands to caress my back. “Now slower.”
I inhale again, regaining a modicum of control over my breathing. My face is still buried in Ryder’s neck, waiting until the heaviness leaves my chest.
“There you go, that’s better.”
He keeps drawing patterns on my back while I get myself under control, shame heating my cheeks. I’veneverlost control like this before. Not even when I was kidnapped and locked in Blaze’s mansion, unsure whether I’d get out alive.
God, what have I done?
That one decision—to find Charles Vaughn—flipped my life upside down. Up until then, I’d thought organized crime only existed in movies and books. I’d considered the mafia a figment of Hollywood’s imagination in this day and age.
Sure, I knew there were organized crime groups back in the day. I heard everything about the bosses, the shootings in the nineteen sixties, seventies and so forth. I know all the famous names like Al Capone and John Gotti, but I was convinced the era of organized crime was long gone.
After all, how the hell can they operate in this modern, digital world? There are cameras everywhere, phones have microphones, people can be traced through facial recognition all over the planet.
How can these people still be making big money off illegal activities? They’re not petty thieves. They don’t sell drugs on street corners. They supply them on a large scale. Drugs, guns, illegal currencies flood whole states. They traffic women, enslave them in brothels, they murder in broad daylight, in plain sight, and yet they’re not rotting in jail.
But now I know why.
Because the system’s rigged.
Cops, attorneys, prosecutors, agents, judges... everyone’s on the payroll with the biggest players. It’s much more lucrative to take a hundred or two hundred grand cash under the table regularly than jail the man who’s helping you live your best life.
So yes, I was living in some alternate dimension where organized crime was a thing of the past... until I collided with that world head-on. Every movie I watched about the mafia, every documentary, every book I read came flashing before my eyes.
While locked in Noretto’s house, I imagined my death a thousand times, each time in more gruesome detail.
Would he rape me before putting a bullet in my head?
Would he hang me by my feet and beat information out of me until he got what he wanted?
Would he keep me locked in a room, starving, crying, and begging for mercy?
Maybe he’d skin me alive, then leave me rotting on the side of the road or in a ditch somewhere.
Maybe he’d let all his men have their way with me.
It was maddening. The constant onslaught of thoughts, my imagination running wild. I waited for my death, but it never came. No pain, no rape, no bullets. No harm.
Instead, Blaze stopped by multiple times a day for a chat. I was fed, kept warm and safe. He sent me clothes, books, jewelry. He kept complimenting my eyes, hair, my fucking nose. It was surreal. I’d slowly lower my guard during the day, then force it back up at night, telling myself it was all some elaborate manipulation and Blaze couldn’t be trusted.
But in the end, none of the blood-and-pain-filled scenarios I conjured came true.
