Transparent

by Erin Noelle

  “I don’t know,” I admit my unease at calling some stranger and alerting him of Blake’s disappearance, still wanting to hear what Emerson says first. “That could be anyone. We have no idea of who he is to her. Maybe we should run a Google search on the name first.”

  “I’m okay with running a search,” Jae announces, picking up another sheet to read for more clues, “but I think we have to call either way. If Blake listed this person as her emergency contact, and I know that’s her handwriting, then we need to contact him. He may be able to help us while we’re waiting around for whatever-the-fuck-the-bimbo’s-name-is to get back.”

  Glancing over at Easton, he nods his concurrence as I type the name into the search engine on my phone. Dread takes root deep in my stomach as the screen updates within seconds, displaying thousands of hits that match up with Owen Doherty, Assistant Director of Witness Security, United States Marshals Service.

  We all gape silently at the screen, each processing what this means. At first, my emotions override common sense, and I tell myself it’s probably another guy with the same name. Blake wouldn’t have any connection to the Witness Protection Program; after all, she’s not in hiding. But as I scroll through the results page, I remember how she’s always on high alert when we’re in public, her observant gaze always on guard. Then I think about the drastic change in hair color and style from the photo of her I found. All of her family is dead. She has no history before she showed up in California this spring. And of course, there’s the nightmares and the self-harm episodes.

  That’s when it all clicks. I don’t know who has my Blake. I don’t know why they have my Blake. But I do know that my Blake isn’t really Blake at all.

  “ON YOUR FEET! LET’S GO! Now! No time to waste.” Raze demands gruffly as he barges into the room, the door flying open with such force it slams into the wall with an echoing thud. His Russian accent is heavier when he’s irritated. Earlier this morning, when he brought me breakfast and a fresh t-shirt, I could understand him clearly, but now I have to work to make sense of his words.

  His turbulent blue gaze cuts around the room until they land on where I’m curled up in a ball in the corner of the room, and when I don’t jump up right away, he begins to stalk in my direction.

  “Did you hear me, girl? I said we have to leave. Right no—” He stops in his tracks once he takes notice of the spaghetti dinner the housekeeper, or at least that’s who I assume she was, delivered a short time ago, now splattered against the wall above where the plate it was served on lies in fragmented pieces on the floor. I tighten my grip on one of the porcelain shards entangled in my trembling fingers. The sharpest one I could find.

  “What in the fuck did you do? Are you fucking crazy?” Boring a hole in me with an incredulous stare, he closes the distance between us and squats down to my level.

  I keep my eyes trained on him, but say nothing. I’ve got a split-second to make the decision on whether to attempt an escape now with my makeshift weapon, or to wait until a better opportunity presents itself. All day, I’ve been trying to listen to the different muffled voices through the walls as I watched the cars come and go out the window, compiling as much information as possible about my whereabouts and the people in the house. I haven’t learned much except that Raze has been here with me the whole time.

  After Anatoli informed me last night of my purpose here with the Russians, Raze escorted me back to the room—this room—where I was permitted to shower and given a bowl of chicken and rice to eat. The rest of the night I lay awake in the darkness, the sound of crickets in the trees, and my conflicting thoughts. Thoughts that ranged from planning my getaway, to wondering how sweet the revenge would be if I actually killed Vincent Ricci.

  I’m still not sure where I fall, but I know being held in captivity, being forced to do someone else’s dirty work, isn’t where I want to be. I was Ish’s puppet for way too long, and I did what I had to do to get out of that situation, even though it meant murdering the man I was once in love with. I won’t ever be that naïve girl again. I hold my own strings; I won’t think twice about killing any of these people to regain my freedom. And I’m willing to risk my own life to keep it that way.

  My decision is made for me when I’m jerked back to the present as Raze, who’s growling at me in Russian, scoops me up off the floor and hauls me over his shoulder before throwing me onto the bed. I don’t have time to put up a fight before he climbs on top of me, pinning me with the strength of his legs, and I feel a quick prick in the side of my neck.

  Then everything goes black again.

  The same hazy feeling I had the first time I was drugged blurs my vision when I awaken. Again, I have no idea where I am, nor how long I’ve been unconscious. The grogginess begins to fade slowly as I realize I’m lying on a brown suede couch, covered with a plaid, flannel blanket. Wood-paneled walls, exposed two-by-fours in the ceiling, and flames dancing in the corner fireplace all come into view, and my first thought is I’m in a cabin . . . but where? And why? Is this where I’m going to meet Vincent?

  Even with the cover on top of me and the fire warming the close quarters, I feel a chill in the air. Though that may have something to do with the fact I’m only wearing the thin white t-shirt Raze gave me and my own panties, still with no clue of what happened to the dress I was wearing when I was taken. Either way, it’s cold enough outside I can feel the frigid temperatures settling in my bones, which makes no sense for late summer in southern California.

  “You’re awake. I didn’t think you’d be up until morning,” Raze states with surprise as he appears from behind a half-wall carrying a glass of water and a plate piled high with food. His heavy boots eat up the shabby carpet in three long strides, and he takes a seat in the equally worn captain’s chair across from the sofa.

  Glancing down at the meal as he leans forward and places it on the wooden coffee table, my stomach growls loudly at the sight of the sandwiches and fruit, reminding me I haven’t eaten in quite some time. His eyes flit from my face, over to the plate, then back over to me, before he furrows his brow with frustration.

  “If you wouldn’t have acted like a brat earlier and thrown your dinner against the wall, you wouldn’t be so hungry,” he scolds, picking up half of the sandwich and offering it to me with an outstretched arm.

  Without thinking twice, I sit up and accept it, taking a big bite, desperate to pacify the empty feeling inside my stomach. “I don’t like Italian food,” I mumble as I chew.

  “Hmph,” he grunts as he takes a sip of the drink then thrusts it across the table toward me. “Let me guess. No Brazilian food either?”

  I shake my head as I finish eating the cold cuts and rye bread then lift the glass to my lips, nearly choking as the clear liquid burns a path down my throat and into my chest. I’m not sure why I assumed it was water, but as I struggle not to breathe fire and keep my eyes from watering, I mentally add vodka to the list of things I don’t like. Not that it’ll matter if I never escape this situation alive.

  “Where are we?” I ask curiously, ignoring his smirk over my reaction to the drink. “Why did we leave the other place?”

  Scooting the plate of fruit over closer to me, he pops a grape in his mouth and leans back in the chair, his face now expressionless. “Word hit that the feds were notified of your disappearance and there’s a nationwide search for your whereabouts, so the first order of business has been postponed temporarily. I’m sure your old family back in Chicago will be their first visit, but since the Bratva has such a large presence in L.A., and we have known business involving the Riccis, I’m guessing they’ll be making their rounds to our properties soon enough. We are somewhere safe now, away from people, and we’ll stay here until I’m told it’s clear to return.”

  At first, I’m relieved to hear someone’s looking for me and that I’m not going to have to face this Vincent thing immediately, but then I begin to panic. “But that—that could be a long time. Won’t they keep looking for me? And
didn’t you realize someone would come looking for me?”

  “We did,” he confirms, “but not so quickly. We thought we had until Monday morning, when you wouldn’t show up for work, to get things rolling with the plan. We knew it’d be tight, but we didn’t count on anyone missing you before that. And whoever it was knew to contact the marshals and not just the local police, because they wouldn’t have started a search for you until you were missing over a day. So that got me curious . . .”

  I know the answer before I even ask the question, but I have to hear him say it. “Who? Who reported me missing?”

  He leans forward and rests his elbows on his thighs, his face stone-like. “Madden Decker, CEO of Decker Enterprises.”

  My heart sinks at the sound of his name. Madden. God, he must be worried sick. I was stupid. So fucking stupid to get involved with anyone, knowing something like this would happen eventually. It was inevitable. Only a matter of time.

  “How do you know him, girl? Is he a boyfriend?” Raze probes.

  Venomous hatred surges through me as I snarl at the burly Russian then gulp down the rest of the vodka from the glass still in front of me. “You’re the fucking mafia. Don’t you people know everything?”

  Amused by my outburst, his thin lips curl up in an arrogant smirk. “Usually. But you’ve been off our radar ever since you went into hiding. Believe me, we were just as surprised by the phone call we received Friday afternoon as you were to wake up in my house later that same night. Everything happened fast. We had no intel that you were even in California before the offer was made for you. And from the limited amount of research I’ve been able to do on both you and Mr. Decker, the only link I can find between the two of you is professional.”

  I don’t waste any time pondering over the word offer, because my jaded anger quickly morphs into sickening fear, lurching heavy in my gut. Fear for Madden. Fear that I’ve put him in danger. Fear that he’ll end up just like my mom and brother. Carved up and left just to make a statement.

  Unconsciously, I close my eyes as I wrap my arms around my waist and dig my fingernails into my sides, rocking back and forth. The familiar pain is oddly soothing. I can’t do this. I can’t do this again. I can’t have another innocent person murdered because of me. I’d rather die myself.

  “How do you know him outside of your job? Why would he be looking for you on a Saturday morning?” The accent is heavy again, his deep voice full of warning, booming inside the small room. “Girl, stop playing games, or whatever you’re doing, and answer me now!”

  I don’t. I keep swaying on the cushion, submerging my fingertips deeper into the flesh covering my ribs, using the pain to anchor me to reality. My wretched, fucked-up reality.

  “If you don’t give me something, I’ll assume he’s just as much a fuck up as his brother is and take care of the whole fucking family,” he threatens with a malicious grin. “Easton’s been a pain in my ass for way too long now anyway.”

  The mention of Madden’s brother Easton flips a switch inside my mind’s dark room of a thousand questions. The fog lifts over the missing links to the puzzle, and it’s all suddenly clear. Well, most of it.

  Easton is the connection to Emerson, Madden, and the Russians. He is the reason I’m here. Though he may or may not be directly involved, it’s because of his ties to the Kabinovs that Emerson turned me in to them. I remember Madden’s conversations about the money his brother owed the Russians, and how he refused to pay off his gambling debts again. I knew then it was hitting too close to home, but I’d gotten sloppy. Too comfortable in my fake world.

  I’m still unsure how they found out I was Bryleigh, but at least I have some answers. Not that it matters much as I sit here in the middle of fucking nowhere. For who knows how long. With a man twice my size, who is a trained killer. Déjà-motherfucking-vu.

  “Why don’t you just kill me now?” I ask, not releasing the painful grip I have on myself. “I’m not going to kill Vincent for you, or answer any of your questions. So the worst you can do is kill me. Just do it already.”

  Leaping up from the chair, he gets right up in my face, his nose pressed against mine, a wolfish grin playing at his lips. But I don’t flinch. And I don’t back down. He thinks he can scare me, but now that I’ve accepted I’m most likely going to die in the very near future, his attempts are futile. His menacing voice is a waste of breath.

  “Are you that stupid, girl? Did you learn nothing when you were married to that piece of shit husband of yours about the way our world works?” Bringing his hand up between our bodies, his strong fingers circle around my neck and squeeze hard enough to make me gasp for air. “I have the ability to make you do things you thought you’d never do, and now your traitor eyes have told me exactly who I need to hurt to make you do them.”

  Seething, I spit in his face. “Fuck you.”

  With a wicked laugh, he releases his hold and straightens to his full height, towering over me. “Maybe one day. If you’re lucky.”

  I STARE BLANKLY AT THE balding, middle-aged man seated across the table from me, my mouth hanging agape. Time is at a standstill in the ritzy oyster bar of the Bayside Marina, where we sit at a table near the window. Easton is stunned silent next to me, Jae in a similar speechless state at my diagonal.

  I’m in shock. We all are. Complete fucking shock. Unable to even process the words Marshal Doherty just spoke. Words that shred me to my core.

  Lies. It has to be lies. That’s my initial thought, though I know what he says is one-hundred percent true. He has no reason to be dishonest. He’s shown me the articles on his phone. It’s her in the pictures. Looking exactly like she did in the photos inside the hidden envelope in her drawer. Like the one I took and keep in my desk.

  “Who?” I ask, finally able to manage words. “Who do you think has her? Honestly.”

  The suit-clad man sighs and crosses his arms over his chest, eyeing me with a circumspect hesitation. If he’s smart, he can sense the desperation oozing from my pores, and he realizes how dangerously devoted to finding Blake I am. No one will stop my efforts to find her, especially not after what he just revealed about her unthinkable past.

  “The first place we’ll look is Chicago,” he concedes, his voice so low it can barely be heard over the buzz from people around us. “Vincent Ricci has become one of the most powerful underbosses in America over the past few years, and he has made no secret he’s looking for the woman who murdered his son. There’s a pretty price on her head. It may take a couple of days for whoever has her to get her there, but I’ll have my guys working close to him, keeping their ears to the ground. The Italians are known for having flashy, extravagant celebrations when they torture and kill someone they’ve been searching for. A way to show their entire community what will happen to you if you’re ever marked as an enemy of theirs. If he has her, we’ll know soon. They’ll want everyone to know.”

  My stomach rolls, threatening to revolt at the images in my mind of where she could be. What they could be doing to her. If this sick fuck has her . . . I shudder at the thought. Though I’m slightly hurt from her deception, I understand why she didn’t tell me, and my primary concern now is alleviating the danger that looms over Blake . . . or Bryleigh . . . no, fuck that. She’s still Blake. My Blake. My sweet girl.

  “Soon isn’t good enough,” I roar, not caring if people nearby look over at us.

  The last forty-eight hours have been like something straight out of a Quentin Tarantino film. I’ve gone from having a missing girlfriend, to watching her abduction on the building video surveillance feed, to learning she was once married to, and eventually was involved in the death of, a member of the Italian mafia. I’ve faced one crazy fucking revelation after another, and now, here I sit with a US Marshal, waiting for a girl I’ve known since I was a kid—someone who I thought was a family friend—to dock, so we can question her about any involvement in my girlfriend’s kidnapping.

  It’s all so fucking surreal. No one could make
this shit up.

  As I turn to my brother, I squeeze my hands into tight fists atop the polished wood table. “Easton, I swear to God, if I find out you knew anything about this—about who she was—I’m going to fucking kill you.”

  My tone is low and clipped. It’s the second time I’ve threatened my brother’s life in as many days, but this time I’m afraid I might just mean it. He stole my first love from me, having no regards for my feelings or brotherly love while he was burying his cock inside my fiancée’s pussy over a decade ago, and I’ll be damned if he takes Blake away from me now.

  “Dude, Mad, I had no fucking clue about any of this. And if I did, I would’ve told you immediately. I swear to God,” he contends, his eyes wide. He’s either really as taken aback about learning all of this as I am, or he’s a really fucking good actor. I’m praying for the former.

  I glance impatiently down at my watch then return my focus to Marshal Doherty. “She should be here soon. What’s the plan when we see her?”

  “I’ll allow you—and you alone—to accompany me when I approach her to explain I’m taking her in for a few questions. I need you to try to keep her from getting too defensive, but give her absolutely no information. If she refuses, I’ll be forced to cuff and detain her,” he explains, clearly preferring the first option. “I’d rather we not make a scene. Then, you’ll be allowed to follow me back into town and listen in on the interrogation from another room. Depending on her answers, she’ll either be kept and charged, or released. This questioning is based solely on circumstantial evidence, and if she pushes the issue, there’s not much we can legally do.”

  “Got it.” I nod and take a drink of the ice water, locking my unwavering gaze at the end of the pier. The moment Emerson appears in my line of sight, about ten minutes later, I rush to my feet and announce, “It’s time to get some answers.”