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My eyes dart toward the couch, where Darcy is crouched beside Murder Mittens. I can't see the others, but I know they're hiding somewhere, frightened by the shouting.

The bastard notices where I'm looking.

"That's what I thought."

He kicks the damaged door nearly closed as he pulls me into the hallway. There's no sound from Mrs. Patterson's apartment, and my stomach turns at the thought of my cats trapped inside with a broken lock.

"Where are you taking me?" I demand, struggling as he hauls me toward the stairs. "Enzo wouldn't do this!"

The man laughs. "You're right about that."

For one second, I stop fighting.

"What?"

He drags me another step, and I twist violently, trying to wrench my arm free. He catches me before I can reach the railing, pulling me against him with enough force to knock the breath out of my lungs.

"Who sent you?" I demand, my voice breaking. "Who the fuck wants me?"

He stops long enough to look down at me.

Then he smiles.

"Mrs. Moretti has been waiting for you."

CHAPTER ELEVEN

BRIDGET

I've officially decided that dating is hazardous to my health.

Not in the normal way, where you meet some asshole who lies about his height, sends unsolicited dick pictures, or conveniently forgets to mention he's married. Although I've already checked that last one off my list.

No, my particular brand of bad luck involves being kidnapped by a man who smells like cheap cigarettes and hasn't said a word since shoving me into the back of a black SUV.

My wrists are bound behind me, my shoulder throbs, and every time we turn, I slide against the door. I keep thinking about my cats. Murder Mittens was under the couch with Darcy when that bastard dragged me out. The security chain is broken, the door barely closed, and my phone is lying somewhere beneath the couch. What if one of the cats gets out? What if the man goes back?

Elise doesn't know where I am, and Daniel's expecting me for dinner at seven. Maybe he'll worry when I don't show.

Then I think about Enzo, hating myself for wanting his voice telling me everything's handled. He's the reason I'm here, and I don't even know whether I can believe him anymore.

"Where are you taking me?" I ask the man beside me.

He ignores me. The driver hasn't spoken either. We leave the familiar streets behind, passing warehouses and fenced lots until salt water and diesel creep through the vents. Cargo cranes tower against the darkening sky.

The docks. Of fucking course. Nobody in my murder mysteries ever gets taken to the docks for a pleasant surprise.

The SUV turns through a gate. As we pass a row of shipping containers, I spot a dark sedan parked beside a warehouse. There's a pale scrape along its rear bumper. The same scrape I saw outside my building. I'd been right about the car near the library, too. Somebody really was watching me, and I talked myself out of believing it.

The man drags me into a warehouse smelling of rust and oil. Lights hum above stacks of crates, and a ship's horn sounds beyond the walls.

And there she is.

Valentina Moretti sits in a chair wearing black designer trousers and a silk blouse, looking like she's waiting for a charity luncheon to begin. Her blond hair is perfect, but she's pale, and she rises carefully with one hand pressed to the side where I stabbed her.

Last time we met, I was trying to keep her alive. Now she looks pleased to see me terrified.

"Bridget Collins. How nice of you to join us."