The door screeches, making me feel like a knife is going through my brain, before one of the big guys who made a house call earlier today walks in and stares at me. His dark eyes are filled with rage. He has a bandage around his disgusting, fat upper arm from the bullet I jerked through his flesh before he tried to jump me in my kitchen. I know I should be scared and keep my mouth shut, but my attitude just has a life of its own—I can’t control it.
“Hey, big guy! How are the nuts? Still a little sore?” I taunt, referring to the kick in the groin I gave him with a big smile when he was lying on the floor of my condo. “By the way, you owe me a sweater! I really liked this one.”
The pain in my head is slightly pushed away by my adrenaline that reaches a high again, and I can feel my heart trying to hoist out of my chest. Fear is running through my veins, but my massive pride won’t let me show it, despite the fact that this big guy clearly is not here to have a chat. Cold sweat suddenly forms on my back like a bucket of ice cubes have been thrown over me. It should freeze me with angst, but I do my best to use the chemicals surging through me as fuel.
Think, think, think, Callie girl.
He slowly walks towards me, wearing the same psychotic grin as earlier, but there’s something different in his darkened eyes. Excitement. Arousal. Hunger.
A manic look that reminds me of my brother.
Bad news. Bad fucking news.
“Great, but they will be even better when they are slapping against your ass.” His thick sausage fingers move to his black leather belt before he undoes the zipper of his jeans. His accent is more Midwest than Italian New York, which seems weird. Italians only employ their own.
Or at least that’s what my dad taught me.
Think harder, Callie.
I walk backwards, only to bump into the cold wall, my eyes shifting from left to right, trying to find a way out. The smell of his disgusting sweat enters my nose with every step he takes towards me, making me want to gag.
“You wish, asshole.” There is no way in hell I will let anyone touch me that way ever again. He grabs me by the throat, leaving me no space to breathe. If I hadn’t been taking MMA classes every Saturday morning for years, I would probably be at his mercy right now, but thank God for Mr. Jones, who prepared me for a moment like this. With my right hand, I grab his hand to keep me stable while I hit my left elbow into his neck, leaving him gasping for air. His grip on my throat loosens, and I head-butt him.
“You bitch!”
Note to self: Send Mr. Jones a big bottle of wine to thank him for my life.
Scratch that! I’ll send him a whole fucking crate!
Finally, those daily workouts are paying off. I narrow my eyes, trying to ignore the sharp pain in my head. He drops to his knees, and I rapidly kick him in the nuts, realizing I need to take all the chances I can get to knock the fucker out. I keep my eyes glued to the moaning son of a bitch while glancing at the floor around him. He is huge and fat, giving me the advantage of being tiny and quick.
“We really should stop meeting like this.” I mock, reaching for the gun laying next to him on the ground. I hear voices coming from the hallway, so without even blinking, I shoot a bullet through his ugly head before another guy storms into the room and swiftly points his gun at me while I do the same. I haven’t killed anyone in my life, but I don’t feel any remorse over killing that sick son of a bitch whatsoever. I look at the guy who is wearing a black uniform that is identical to fatso at my feet, and I cock my head a little, wondering if these guys are really Italians.
Something doesn’t add up.
“She shot Randall! Get in here!” he yells to one of his buddies with his eyes locked on me. “Drop the gun.”
The hell I am. “I don’t think so, buddy. But if you tell me where the way out is, I won’t shoot you.” He looks from me to his buddy Randal’s lifeless body laying on the floor between us.
Douchebag.
“Drop the gun,” he repeats with more force. The panic in his voice betrays his fear, no doubt made aware by the look on my face that I’m not here to negotiate.
“Wrong answer.” I don’t think twice before the tip of my finger pulls the trigger, and I shoot him right in the face. Blood splatters cover the white wall he was standing in front of. His body falls backwards with an audible thud, and I take a deep breath, watching him closely to make sure he’s no longer a threat. His legs are in the cell, yet his torso is on the hardwood hallway, his blood running onto the oak planks as the scent of gunpowder enters my nose. I’m looking for a sense of guilt inside my head, but there is only silence.
I knew damn well it was me or him. Being a Reyes, I sure as hell know how it works.
Y'all fucked with the wrong girl, fuckers.
Heavy footsteps snap me out of my thoughts just as buddy number three runs in. With the same determination to get the fuck out of here, I pull the trigger again, his body dropping on top of the other.
Maybe this should affect me. Maybe it should freak me the fuck out that I just killed three people and don’t feel any kind of remorse. But all I feel is adrenaline rushing through my body, like I’m on a goddamn rollercoaster. My freedom being the end of the ride.
I quickly check how many bullets are left inside the barrel of the Glock 19.
Six.
Not the best number, but it will hopefully do.
Cautiously popping my head out of the room, I scan the hallway before my camel-colored boots step over the dead bodies. There is no one in sight, but it may not be long before more soldiers respond to the gunshots.
Where the fuck am I?
I tiptoe on the oak, herringbone floor until I notice a glass, round staircase at the end. The hallway is wide and spacious, and the walls are covered with luxurious wooden panels in cream and gold. It is definitely too fancy to be a jail or prison.
Who the fuck has a glass staircase?
I make it halfway up the stairs, being as quiet as a ballerina in stealth mode, when two men walk into the hallway, notice me, and make a run for it.
‘It’ being me.
I take the stairs two at a time, trying to pick up my pace. The thumps of their heavy boots following me are getting louder by the second, but I don’t want to waste energy by looking back.
Right before I reach the top, one of them grabs my ankle, and I brace myself with my hands, making sure I don’t fall flat on my face. He drags me down the stairs, my ribs slamming against the glass steps, leaving a stabbing pain in my side.
Damn it, that is going to turn black and blue.
“I got her!” he shouts while he lunges for my arms, trying to secure me. With one of my boots, I kick him in the face as hard as I can before I point the gun at him and shoot him in the shoulder.
My dad would laugh at that poor shot, but let’s just hope I’ll live long enough to tell the tale.
When his grip releases my ankle, I feel like Usain Bolt at the Olympics, running to the finish line. With no time to catch my breath, I just have two thoughts.
Up.
Air.
I need to get outside to find out where I need to go. I need to know where I am.
I make it upstairs and push against what looks to be a white maintenance door before stumbling outside. The fresh air gives me renewed energy, the blood rushing through my veins like I’m fucking Wonder Woman.
The air smells salty, and the wind feels fresh and cold on my fair skin.
I made it outside. This is good.
Holding the gun solidly in my hand, I run forward before I stop in my tracks, noticing the big H on the floor I’m standing on.
A helicopter platform? Shit.
I suck in a breath of the cold air and scan my location. It takes me a few seconds to process my surroundings, and when I do, my heart practically drops to the floor. For a few seconds, I close off my senses, feeling nothing but defeat. A wave of desperation flows over me.
Water.
There is nothing but water surrounding me. My eye
s roam the area, looking for anything that can help me escape even though there isn’t much to see. There is no sight of any land. Making a dive for it and swimming would be pointless.
Is this how people feel when they hit rock bottom? Every inch of your body dragging you down like your feet are covered in concrete?
I can hear the hefty footsteps of what sounds like at least a dozen men in combat boots stop a few feet behind me, the clicking of their guns cocking as they point at me. The wind blows my hair across my face, and I push it behind my ear while I try to understand what I am staring at.
I wonder what my father would do in this situation, even though he doesn’t deserve the admiration. Would he run? Would he fight?
I’m on a motherfucking boat.
Never in a million years would I have expected a fucking boat. I didn’t know the mob kept their hostages on boats. I’ve heard of warehouses, tiny dog houses, and cells, but here they are, holding me on a goddamn boat. The tiny redhead with a minor fear of secluded areas.
This must be some sick idea of Ronnie’s, leaving no opportunity wasted to piss me off.
Maybe this is how he plans to get rid of me, leaving no trace. Feeding me to the sharks.
Imogen will never know what happened to me. My father will never know what happened. I’ll vanish.
I suck in the salty air and close my eyes, trying to get my head straight until I hear another set of heavy footsteps behind me. The sound is heavier, and the energy that comes with it feels imperious. All the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, sending a shiver through every bone in my body, but I can’t get myself to turn around.
I’m seriously debating if I should just fire a bullet through my own head.
Becoming Ronnie Distucci’s plaything for the rest of my life would be worse than getting fed to the sharks. I refuse to be someone’s toy for the rest of the foreseeable future. Especially the douchebag who’s been waiting for the opportunity since he first laid eyes on me in high school.
I’d rather fucking die.
“That is enough. Lower your guns.” The voice is deep and full of authority. I recognize it, but my brain protests because it’s not the voice I expect it to be.
It can’t be.
The few men who moved into my sight lower their guns. My heart starts to race again, but for the opposite reason than earlier. Rage races through my entire body while my brain tries to deal with hearing the voice of the man standing behind me. A part of me is hoping I’m wrong. Hoping I’m imagining things because my brain can’t handle such betrayal. Hoping I’m not imagining this because I’d much rather surrender to him than to Ronnie Distucci.
Even though I have no clue what I’d be up against.
“Callie, turn around.” The voice rumbles behind me. It sounds tempting and dominating, just as it did a few nights ago when he was buried between my legs. My body heats up, and it feels like I will burst into flames any second now. I take a deep breath to prepare myself for what is coming and crack my neck before I turn around. My hand aims the gun right at his outrageously gorgeous face. When I see his intimidating arctic blue eyes looking at me, a wave of deception washes over me like an ice-cold shower. The ocean breeze makes his dark blond hair dance in the wind, his huge, perfectly chiseled body in a black t-shirt showing off all the tats on his arms. He looks just as sexy as he did when I met him for the first time, adding to the fury inside me even more.
“You goddamn-motherfucking-cock-sucking-piece-of-shit-asshole.”
Kane
Present Day
I see the disappointment enter her body when she realizes there is nowhere to hide. Surrounded by nothing more than water, she seems to have given up as she lowers her head, and her arms hang down her toned body, the gun held loosely in her hand. She keeps her finger on the trigger like she isn’t sure what to do. Fighting all of us would be a suicide mission. She knows it.
If I wasn’t such an asshole, I would feel sorry for her.
I’m waiting for her attitude to fire up any second now because she is too proud to settle for defeat.
Stupid girl.
Hot, but stupid.
Part of me hopes she surrenders, because I want her to submit. I want her to be as responsive as she was when my tongue was buried in her pussy.
When I found out who the infamous Callie Reyes was, or rather how fucking sexy she was, I decided I wanted her—just because I could. I figured fucking her into oblivion before keeping her hostage on a superyacht would release the sexual desire I’d felt nagging in my pants from the moment I saw her picture in the file Jeremy, my right hand, threw on my desk a week ago.
Fuck her, take her, kill her. Make her old man suffer.
That is the plan.
Except—I’m not quite done with the whole fucking part. I thought I was, but I want to keep fucking her until we blow a bullet through her pretty little head.
I thought having her once would be enough to forget about her, but the truth is, this girl felt like fire underneath me.
And I want to fucking go up in flames for as long as we are keeping her alive.
So I’m putting on my good face, playing the nice one of the Carrillo brothers, hoping it’ll make her put out again.
Does that make me a dick? Sure.
Do I give a fuck? Nah, not really.
I'm pretty sure my brother will not be on board with this plan. And frankly, I can’t really blame him.
The girl just clawed her way out to the helicopter platform with a ‘take-no-prisoners’ mentality.
For entertainment’s sake, I hope she runs for it again, because I’m fucking curious how far she can actually get.
She is a fucking fighter. And I love it.
Even though there is no positive outcome for her.
My men have her surrounded, keeping their guns low but high enough to be able to shoot within seconds. The lack of tension in her fine body reveals that she isn’t scared one bit. She just looks lost in her own thoughts.
“Callie, turn around.”
She just stands there like a statue, her posture full of confidence. Her peach-shaped ass right in front of me, making me remember how it felt in the palms of my hands. The blue fabric of her tight, dark jeans hugging her perfect curves. The reddish blonde strands of her hair on her head are disheveled from the ass whooping she just gave my men, and I’m seriously impressed she is still standing in front of us with nothing more than a scratch. She stands there for about ten seconds before she quickly turns around to point the gun at my face, surprising everyone around her. The sound of guns moving fills the air as they all point their barrels right at her, yet she doesn’t even blink.
This girl is something else.
“You goddamn-motherfucking-cock-sucking-piece-of-shit-asshole,” she growls.
There is a slight look of surprise on her face before raging ferocity moves back into her eyes.
“You,” she sarcastically chuckles, her eyes full of accusation as she softly shakes her head.
She cocks her head a little, pursing her lips. “You set me up.”
I don’t confirm or deny this. The situation is clear as day, but since she is a better fighter than half my men, providing her with any information would be the dumbest thing I could do. My brother would be more pissed than he already is.
He already threw a hissy fit when I convinced him to give her one of the guestrooms in an attempt to try to keep her calm. I argued that it was to make sure the next few weeks don’t become a circus because I was sure as fuck she would try to escape the first chance she got.
I was right.
Like fucking always.
She had been in that little cell for no more than twenty minutes and look at the damn shit show she pulled off.
That, and there is also the fact that I’ll have more chances of getting her back on top of me if she is nice and comfortable for a few days.
“But we had fun, right?” I ask, giving her a smug smile.
I can see the w
heels in her head turning, trying to process the situation. Trying to understand how big of a threat I am.
A big one, baby.
She keeps her gaze aimed at me, just like she had in the club. Her eyes never backed down.
When I approached her the other night, she’d definitely held her own, even after I went full douchebag on her. But at the time, I’d suspected she’d been pouring liquid courage down her throat. I guess I’d been wrong because standing in front of me, sober as fuck, she still holds my gaze like a fucking gladiator. If she has any fear, she sure as hell does a great job hiding it.
It’s the first time I’ve seen it in anyone other than my brother.
“Drop the gun.” I take a step towards her, feeling confident she won’t shoot me.
“Don’t fucking move, Casanova.” My feet stop in their tracks.
She looks at me with an attitude that makes my lower body instantly come to life. I’m used to women throwing themselves at me, begging me to give them some attention. The last woman who told me what to do was my mother. Having this cheeky blonde in front of me, defying everything I say, pisses me off. I want to throw her over my shoulder and fuck her in to submission. Or at least shut her the fuck up. If she was a man, I would have blown a bullet through her brain by now. But to be honest, her attitude was the reason I wanted to fuck her in the first place. She looked like she was unattainable, triggering my need to test her.
She did not disappoint.
From the moment she granted me with her attention, she’s pushed my buttons, and it is addictive.
In every wrong way.
And goddamn unexpected. She is definitely nothing like Daddy Reyes.
Maybe I should listen to my brother and sedate her until we hit the shore in a few weeks.
If I don’t, chances are she will be throwing fireballs every chance she gets. Besides, keeping her sedated will keep me out of trouble, making sure my ego doesn’t want to keep her in check all the time.
But that’s the problem, I love her sass. It’s entertaining as fuck.
Chasing Fire (The Fire Duet Book 1) Page 2
