by Pam Godwin
She didn’t know if the guards lived downstairs or somewhere else. They seemed to come and go in shifts. Five men and one woman, by her count. All heavily armed.
Her journey here had been foggy, muddied by sedatives and shrouded by a blindfold. Multiple transfers between cars, a long flight on a private plane, and more blindfolded car rides had obliterated the odds she was still in the U.S.
Venezuela was the logical assumption.
But this wasn’t Kidnap Alley.
While Tate had prepared for his mission, she saw videos, photos, and maps of the slum where he was headed. This wasn’t it. Not this arid, desolate wasteland.
She knew her friends would never stop looking for her, but how would they know to come here? She didn’t even know where she was.
Her throat closed around a hard lump of reality.
There was a good chance she would never be found.
The day she arrived, two guards brought her to this room, stripped her down, and took everything. The cheap necklace from around her neck. The fitness watch from her wrist. The ponytail holder from her hair. They stole her damn dignity.
Then they bound her arms and left her with nothing but a handmade, strapless dress thing to wear.
How long would she sit in this room before she endured the real reason she was here? Her captor wouldn’t have gone through the trouble of transporting her unless there was something in it for him.
His specialty was kidnapping. For ransom.
She learned through Tate’s intel that Tiago’s goons tortured and raped their captives, sent video footage of the brutality to family members, and demanded payment in exchange for the victim’s release.
God, how she hoped this was a ransom deal. She and her roommates had plenty of money—millions—thanks to the peace offering Van Quiso had given them. If there was a price for her freedom, her friends would pay it.
But in the month since her capture, there had been no mention of payment. No torture. No video recordings. Other than the rough handling during her transport, the guards didn’t touch her, talk to her, or visit her room.
If this wasn’t a kidnapping for ransom, it was something worse.
She didn’t have to imagine the worse. She’d lived it. In a windowless, soundproof attic, Van Quiso had whipped her into an obedient slave. An object to be sold for sex. Not to take pleasure but to give it. With her hands, her mouth, and her pain.
Her virginity had been a valuable commodity then. Maybe that was still the case?
Would Tiago sell her virtue to the highest bidder?
Or would he take it for himself?
It was her biggest fear. Her heaviest burden.
At age twenty-two, she should’ve explored her sexuality like a normal, healthy woman. But she wasn’t normal. When she escaped Van, her virginity was all she had left. A precious mercy, and she didn’t want to squander it. She longed to give it to someone she trusted. A man who would appreciate the significance.
The naive notion resonated a hollow thud in her head, silencing all other sound.
She managed to escape Van without getting raped. So what? She wasn’t stupid enough to believe that would happen again.
Outside, the wind picked up, and with it came the first plops of rain. It would be dark soon, and she’d be forced to endure another night without answers.
She stepped away from the window and shouted, “Tiago—”
The door creaked open, shooing away the shadows in the corridor.
Footsteps sounded. The clink of dishes. Then the elderly man emerged, balancing empty plates as he closed the door behind him.
“Why won’t he come out?” She rushed forward and jerked when the rope caught. “I just want to talk.”
He ambled past her, keeping to the farthest wall, beyond the perimeter of her tether.
Vertical scars marred his face, two old cuts on each cheek, perfectly aligned, almost decorative. It was as if he’d them put them there intentionally.
With a blank expression and eyes fixed on the door to the stairs, he moved in that direction, giving her no acknowledgment, not a twitch, like she wasn’t even there.
“Just tell me what he wants.” Blood pounded in her skull.
He reached the exit and uttered a foreign word. A command not intended for her.
Locks clanked on the other side. The door opened, and a scruffy-bearded guard stepped to the side.
Instead of leaving, the old man turned, lifted his wrinkled face, and rested glassy eyes on her.
“Please.” She pulled on the rope. “Untie me. Just let me go.”
For the first time since she arrived, he opened his mouth and addressed her in a heavily accented voice. “He’s ready to see you.”
No shit?
Oh, shit.
Shit, shit, shit.
Her body went taut against an ice-cold shiver, and the hairs on her nape stood on end.
Don’t freak out. Don’t fucking lose it.
Sweeping her gaze to the dark corridor, she drew in a slow breath.
This was what she wanted. A conversation with the dickhead in charge. Answers. Reassurances. Negotiations.
But none of that was a guarantee. After watching those videos with Tate, she had only one certainty to go on.
Tiago Badell tortured his prisoners.
A tremor unfurled inside her, crashing its way along her arms and legs.
How badly would he hurt her? How long would it last? Hours? Days? Would he let her live? Would she want to?
The elderly man mumbled something that sounded like Spanish, prompting the guard to step into the room. The massive man strode toward her, removed a pocket knife, and before she could blink, he sliced through the rope between her wrists and the ceiling.
Her arms dropped, and the sudden freedom made her gasp.
As the guard returned to the stairwell, she tensed at the opportunity to attack him from behind. Should she do it? Could she overpower him and get away?
He was twice her size, armed with a knife, and her wrists were still tied together. The old man hovered in the doorway, physically frail, but those cloudy eyes watched her with unsettling strength, as if reading her thoughts.
The odds stacked against her, but whatever happened, she wouldn’t go down without a fight.
On the heels of that thought, she flung herself toward the guard, her bound arms raised to loop around the guard’s neck.
He turned before she made contact, his hand already flying. Meaty knuckles met her jaw and sent her head whirling sideways.
She staggered, momentarily stunned by the jolt of pain. After a soundless choke, she recovered, found her bearings, but not quickly enough.
The door shut with a resounding click.
“Fuck.” She raced toward it and yanked on the handle.
Locked.
“Fuck you!” she screamed. Then groaned. Not helpful, Kate.
That left the other door.
She trembled to summon movement in her legs, her ears pricked for footsteps in the corridor.
He’s ready to see you.
Thunder boomed. Rain pelted the window, and her heart drummed an unruly dirge in her ears.
Apparently, Tiago was too high and mighty to come to her. Whatever. She would go to him, because her curiosity demanded it. But she refused to trudge in there with shaking limbs and hunched shoulders. If he was anything like Van Quiso, her fear would give him a hard-on.
A shudder rippled through her, and she snapped her spine straight.
The only power she possessed here was that over her own emotions. She allowed Van to use her terror to control her and wouldn’t make that mistake again.
Rolling back her shoulders, she stood taller, closed her eyes, and breathed deeply.
She survived Van’s cruelty. The experience didn’t break her. It made her sharper, tougher, and really goddamn angry.
Fuck Van for molesting her, beating her until she bled, and ordering her to suck his dick day in and day out. And fuck Tiago Badell for
ripping away her freedom, shoving her into isolation for a month, and summoning her like an object.
Rage scorched through her veins and spurred her into motion.
Her bare feet slapped across the gritty stone floor, her body clad in one of the sleeveless, unfitted rags they provided. The thin gray linen covered her from chest to knees, but if she stood in the right light, the fabric would be transparent.
Nothing she could do about the clothes. If Tiago wanted to strip her bare, she wouldn’t be able to do anything about that, either. Except fight. That she would do.
Hands clenched around the severed rope, she stormed down the corridor and turned the door knob.
She expected luxurious furniture, plush fabrics, and perhaps the fatal end of a rifle waiting on the other side. But as she stepped in, none of that greeted her. The room was as empty as her prison.
The only source of light glowed from a shadeless lamp on the floor beside a small mattress. Rumpled blankets and a dented pillow suggested recent use. A large duffel bag of clothes sat open near a bathroom door, as if the room’s occupant didn’t intend to stay.
As for the occupant…
Her breathing stalled as she tracked the reach of light to the farthest, darkest corner.
A man sat on a two-foot-tall steel safe, his lower body illuminated enough to reveal heavy boots, dark slacks, and a posture that could only be described as an arrogant sprawl. He lounged with his back against the wall and legs spread, his body language insinuating he didn’t care whether she entered or not.
The rest of him melted into chilling blackness. His chest, shoulders, face—none of his upper half was visible. He probably positioned the lamp at just the right angle to give the illusion of a predator lurking in the dark, just to ramp up the fear factor.
No illusions needed. She knew what he was, and her knees wobbled with the impulse to cower and beg for her life. But a meek and submissive demeanor would only earn her extended torture. She’d learned that the hard way.
She would rather die quickly than draw out the torment.
Her heart rate accelerated, and she swayed beneath the spinning weight of vertigo. She didn’t want to die. But if her life was taken from her, if this was her last stance in the world, she would face it with ferocity and bitter rage.
Shoving back her shoulders, tight as they were, she strode into the room.
“Welcome, Kate.” His low, deep baritone curled a shiver around her spine. “Come closer. I know you’ve been anxious to meet me. Everyone on this side of the continent has heard you begging.”
“Cut the shit, Tiago.” She paused outside the lamp’s glow and swallowed her nerves. “I haven’t seen your face. I can’t identify you. Let me go, and I’ll forget the whole thing.”
“Step into the light.” Rich and rumbly, his accent swirled with hints of South America and something indefinably exotic.
“You first.”
“This will go faster if you follow orders.”
“Am I keeping you from something?” She cast a pointed look around the spartan room. “What have you been doing in here for a month?”
The silence that followed closed a fist around her windpipe. It lasted a minute, then several more, until she could no longer bear it.
“Are we in Venezuela? What is this place?”
More silence.
“If you’re not going to talk, I might as well head back to the isolation in the other room.” She meant to sound bored, but the shakiness in her voice ruined the attempt.
His hand stirred on his thigh. Fingers tapped, tap-tap-tap, and fell still. When the shadow finally spoke, it chilled her to the bone.
“Do you want to live, Kate?”
She choked on a whimper. “Yes.”
“Are you worthy of mercy?”
“Yes.”
“Convince me.”
Her nostrils flared, and her neck ached with tension. “I make an honest living and help people in need. I’ve certainly never kidnapped anyone and locked them in a room for a month.” She couldn’t disguise the contempt in her tone. “I haven’t done anything to you!”
“Feel that high sense of value and superiority? That’s pride, little girl. One of my favorite sins.”
She drew in a sharp breath. “You asked—”
“I know what I asked. And since you know my name, you know it’s not synonymous with mercy.”
CHAPTER 2
No surprise that Kate had been right about who had abducted her, but it didn’t calm the tremors in her belly. Because let’s face it. There was nothing remotely comforting about being held captive by Tiago Badell.
As one of the wealthiest crime lords in Venezuela, he smuggled guns and drugs, kidnapped tourists for ransom, controlled the police force, and made a living off other people’s misery. Tate’s intel had given her a harrowing overview of the operation, but how would that insight help her? Tiago probably wanted to kill her just because of her association with Tate.
Even if that were true, she wouldn’t mention Tate. Not until she better understood the landscape and the man who reigned over it.
Why was he just sitting there in the shadows? Was he aiming a gun? Coiled to strike? Trying to keep his face anonymous? Or maybe he was just a dickhead and wanted to get a rise out of her?
The steel safe he used as a chair was the freestanding variety, with a combination lock and heavy-looking door. It was probably bolted to the floor and stuffed to the brim with artillery, cash, and enough criminal evidence to earn him a top spot on the Most Dangerous Men in the World list.
A quick scan of the room confirmed there was nothing she could wield as a weapon. Except the lamp. Unplugging it would plunge her into darkness. She could use the cord for strangulation or the wooden base as a bludgeon. But not effectively with her wrists tied together.
If she stepped closer, she might be able to see his features. It would also put her directly in the light, with the outline of her body backlit by the lamp. A minor vulnerability, but not one she was willing to concede without negotiation.
“Tell you what.” She lifted her bound hands. “I’ll come to you, if you remove the rope.”
A grunt scuffed from his throat. “With your hands free, you assume I’ll wait here while you grab the lamp and swing it at me?”
When he put it like that, it made her sound foolish and predictable.
She clenched her teeth, and another idea struck. It wouldn’t help her escape, but she went with it.
Circling backward, she paced away from him, toward the lamp, and approached it from behind. The rope squeezed her wrists as she clutched the base and raised it above her head.
With it tilted in his direction, the light stretched to his chest, revealing a white collared shirt, unbuttoned at the throat and tucked into black slacks. Sleeves covered his arms, the crisp fabric clinging to broad shoulders and defined pecs. Every thread on his body looked perfectly fitted for his tall, lean frame.
Narrow hips, muscular thighs, seemingly hard all over—his athletic physique was unfortunate. She might’ve been able to outrun an out-of-shape man.
What was with the fancy clothes? Did he dress up for her or was he expecting another visitor? Other than the old man who delivered the meals, no one had entered this room in the month she’d been here. Not even the guards.
“I feel underdressed.” She glanced down at the thin dress. At least, she wasn’t illuminated from behind.
He didn’t move or make a sound, not even as she hoisted the lamp as high as the cord allowed. Because he knew. No matter how she positioned it, the glow wouldn’t reach his face.
“Are you finished wasting my time?” He stretched out a leg, reclining farther into the shadows.
“Why am I here?”
“Someone took something from me, so I took something in return.” A smile surfaced in his voice. “I took you.”
The implication settled through her, loosening her chest. Tate must’ve succeeded. He must’ve taken Lucia from Tiago
and fled.
They were safe.
Sweet mercy, what a relief. After an eleven-year separation, she couldn’t imagine how overjoyed Camila must’ve been to reunite with her long-lost sister. This was great news. Fucking fantastic.
Except for Kate’s part in it. For that, she had no one to blame but herself.
Tate had demanded she not take the job at the diner. All her overprotective roommates were against the idea because they couldn’t keep an eye on her. But she wanted her independence. Her freedom.
Now, she had neither.
She readjusted the light, moving it side to side, desperate to see her captor’s eyes. “Are you holding me for ransom?”
“No.” The gruff syllable punched from the darkness and hit her in the chest.
No ransom. No negotiations in the works to release her. She was fucked.
Her arms lowered as fear rose to the surface, tightening her face and hunching her spine. She set the lamp on the floor and inched away from it, seeking the cover of darkness.
“I have money.” She pressed her back against the stone wall, struggling to quiet her quickening breaths. “A lot of money. I’ll pay—”
“You are the payment.”
Her stomach collapsed. “You’re going to rape me.”
“If you’re offering, it wouldn’t be rape.”
“I would never—”
“You presume I’m interested.”
She assumed a lot of things. Sodomy, mutilation, slow excruciating death… Any manner of evil was on the table, in any order and degree of agony.
“I’m not,” he said.
“Not…?” Her brows pinched.
“Not interested in fucking you.”
Her breath caught and held. She should’ve felt relief, but she’d seen the videos and knew what he wasn’t saying. “You’ll let your guards rape me.”
He didn’t answer, and God help her, the wretched silence made her blood shiver.
“I have powerful friends.” She licked dry lips. “Dangerous allies who are looking for me right now. When they find me, you’ll beg for death. You’ll beg each time they cut off a piece of you. They’ll use fire and chop and cook until there’s nothing left but burnt ends and shit stains.” She stood taller, her voice stronger. “Let me go, and I’ll let you live.”
