Retribution
Copyright © 2016 by Natasha Knight
All rights reserved.
Cover Design: L.J. Anderson at Mayhem Cover Creations
Photographer: Michael Stokes Photography
Model: David Byers
Editing by Wizards in Publishing
Formatting by Champagne Formats
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and as such, any similarity to existing persons, places or events must be considered purely coincidental.
This book contains content that is not suitable for readers aged 17 and under.
For mature readers only.
First Electronic Edition: January 2016
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Epilogue One
Epilogue Two
Author Note
Other Books by Natasha Knight
Excerpt: Deviant
Excerpt: Theirs To Take
Excerpt: Captive, Mine
Excerpt: Given To The Savage
From The Author
FOR THE SIXTH DAY this week, I watched Elle Vega walk out of the trendy café, wave good-bye to her friends, and climb into her shiny, new VW Bug. Yellow. Compliments of Daddy, no doubt. I knew for a fact she had a Mini sitting in the garage at home, too, but she wouldn’t bring that around this group. No, she had to maintain the appearance she was like them. Like her friends. She’d then take the long way to her condo in the West Village. Tiny, charming, absurdly overpriced. Perfect for the rich little bitch.
“Mr. Smith, can I get you anything else?” Mary asked, the dark circles under her eyes betraying her fatigue. She’d been serving me the same thing every day for the past six days — a double espresso and a slice of apple pie.
I took my wallet out. “No, thank you, Mary. What’s the damage?” I already knew. It’d be less than ten bucks, but I dug out a fifty-dollar bill anyway.
“Here you go,” she said, handing me the check.
I glanced at it before slipping the fifty into the little pocket folder. “That should cover it.”
“Oh, no, sir, it’s really too much.”
I closed my hand over hers to stop her from giving it back. “How’s Kyle doing, by the way? Things settle down at school?” She was a twenty year old single mom working two jobs, one of which paid below the minimum wage. Fucking ridiculous how, here in the United States of America, one of the wealthiest fucking countries in the world, we have kids like this raising their own kids, struggling to put food on the table.
She smiled, knowing she needed the money. Knowing I knew it. “Kyle’s good, and, yes, it’s going better. The bigger kids stopped teasing him, it seems. His teacher’s pretty nice, actually.”
I smiled back at her. “Good. I’m glad to hear it,” I said, standing. “Oh, one more thing.” I took a business card out of my wallet and handed it to her. “I’ll be going out of town for a while, but if you ever need anything, don’t be a stranger.” She was a good kid. Got a shit lot in life, but a good kid.
Her nose reddened and her eyes moistened. “Thanks, Mr. Smith. You’re a great guy.”
I almost chuckled, wondering if she’d think that if she knew the reason for my daily visits.
I dug the keys out of my suit pocket and went around the corner to where I’d parked my Harley. People turned to stare as I climbed on. It was only natural, I supposed, to watch a big guy in a three-piece suit, wearing shoes costing more than most made in a month, ride a fucking Harley through town. The bike was the only part of the past I brought into my present. The rest I’d return to later, when it was done.
I followed the little yellow bug from some distance away, although I didn’t need to tail her. I knew where she lived. I knew what she ate. Where she did her dry cleaning. Who she socialized with. Who she fucked — although that was surprisingly infrequent. I knew the contents of her underwear drawer. Knew what kind of vibrator she liked and how often she used it. And, today, I’d meet Elle Vega face-to-face. I’d introduce myself as her new neighbor, and I’d steal her life, just like they’d stolen mine.
I WONDERED IF HE’D be there again. He was a new tenant, Adam Smith, according to his mailbox. Not that I was stalking him. He’d moved into the penthouse two weeks ago, and I’d run into him a handful of times in the lobby of our shared building. It was one of the most beautiful buildings in the West Village and his moving in only made it more so. The man was insanely hot, with thick black hair he kept somewhat neat. I say somewhat because there was something about him, an energy too alive, too wild to contain, and his hair seemed to be a physical manifestation of that. No matter the respectable cut, it fell over his forehead in a way that made him look like the baddest of the bad, reckless and dirty and irresistible. A scruff of stubble spotted with gray did nothing to soften the hard angles of his jaw, and his suits barely contained his rock-hard body. But all that was a bonus, because it was his eyes I liked best. They shone sapphire blue, the gleam in them betraying an intensity, an animal nature that would devour when unleashed. And each time I ran into him, I ended up staring like some fool.
He got home around five o’clock each night, right about the same time I did. So far, he’d only glanced my way, barely acknowledging me apart from a cursory smile, and, the one time we’d ridden in the elevator together, a quick sweep of his eyes down to my chest. I still remembered his expression. He hadn’t even tried to pretend he wasn’t looking, like other guys would have done. Instead, he’d taken a moment to appreciate the swell of one of my breasts peeking out from the neckline of my sweater, my jacket having been pushed aside by my heavy bag. The elevator had reached the fifteenth floor then, my floor, and when the doors opened, he’d met my gaze and smiled, that smile indecent and so downright dirty, it had made my breath catch and my sex throb to life.
I’d stood there like an idiot while the door began to close before he’d caught it. I’d muttered something, stumbling over my words before tripping out of the elevator, my face hot with embarrassment at how ridiculously I’d behaved.
The memory still made me blush when I saw him, but I couldn’t help wanting to see him. And, so, when I parked my car in the garage, I looked for his bike, feeling a little pang of disappointment to find his parking spot empty.
Climbing out, I opened the trunk to collect my groceries. One bag had fallen over and groceries littered the trunk. Irritated, I tossed my camera case over my shoulder and righted the bag. After stuffing everything inside, I lifted it, along with the second one to find the bottle of red still lying behind the bag. Dangling my keys from my mouth, I reached for it, grabbing it between two fingers. I’d stuff it into m
y purse once I straightened. But when the sound of the garage door opening startled me, the bottle slipped and went crashing to the ground, splashing my jeans and new suede boots with dark-red liquid.
“Shit!” The boots were too expensive to ruin on their first wearing.
The Harley rumbled into the garage, the sound reverberating off the walls as I set the groceries on the floor and began to pick up the larger shards of glass. Why did this have to happen now? In front of him?
He killed the engine. “You okay there?” He climbed off his bike and headed toward me, and as soon as he did, the sharp edge of a piece I’d picked up cut into my palm.
I flinched. “Ow! Fuck.”
He moved faster, leaning down over me, taking hold of my wrist and examining my hand. “That looks nasty,” he said, touching the skin around the cut, deep-crimson droplets falling onto the garage floor threatening to ruin his suit.
“The bottle slid out of my hand.”
His gaze shifted to the two grocery bags and my large tote as well as the camera case. “You thought you’d carry everything in one go?”
I glanced at the mess. “Yeah. Not a great idea, obviously.” He still held my wrist. “You’d better be careful. I-I don’t want to ruin your suit,” I stammered.
He never looked away. “Don’t worry about my suit.” Straightening, he helped me up.
“I have some tissues in my purse.” I leaned down to grab them, but he stopped me.
“This is going to need more than tissues. I think you’ll need stitches.”
I shook my head and took a step back, as if he held the needle and thread right here, right now. “Uh-uh. No way.”
He chuckled. “You’re bleeding pretty badly.”
“No I’m not.” But a look at my hand told me otherwise. “I have a medical kit upstairs. I’ll bandage it up. Really, it looks worse than it is. The blood is just smeared.” For a moment, I wasn’t sure he wouldn’t drag me to a hospital. I had a feeling this man didn’t take no for an answer often.
He caught my hand again and turned it this way and that. “Okay, fine, but I’ll be the one to bandage it.”
“I’d appreciate the help, actually.”
Without a word, he picked up the groceries, slinging my purse and camera case over his shoulder, let me lock my car, and led me to the elevator.
“I’m on the fifteenth floor.”
“I know.”
I almost asked how but then remembered the time he’d ridden up with me. “Oh.”
The bell dinged a few moments later, and I stepped out. He followed me, waiting patiently while I fumbled with the locks, pushed the door open, and went inside. The condo wasn’t big, but it wasn’t as small as what most of my friends had. And it had been renovated before I’d moved in, everything gleaming and brand new, the kitchen where he set down my things all hard edges of granite and stainless steel.
I turned on the water in the sink to wash my wound.
“Where do you keep your medical kit?” he asked.
“In the bathroom.”
He walked down the hall, and I stood confused for a moment when he went directly to the bathroom I meant. But the sudden sting of water rapidly growing hot had my attention by the time he returned with the kit.
“Let me see your hand.”
His touch was gentle as he examined it, but when he opened his mouth to speak, I cut him off. I knew what he’d say.
“No. No stitches. No hospital.”
“Well, what you have in this kit isn’t going to work,” he said after taking inventory of the first aid kit. “I have a better one upstairs.” He unwrapped two sterile bandages and covered my wound with them. “Come on.”
“Wait, I don’t even know your name.”
He met and held my gaze, one eyebrow rising. “Yes, you do,” he challenged.
Well, I’d read it on his mailbox after figuring out he lived in the penthouse, but he couldn’t know that.
“I…” I stumbled, heat flushing my cheeks.
He studied my reaction before releasing me from his gaze with a smile. “As I know your name, Ms. Vega.”
A warning crept along my spine.
“You’re a beautiful woman. Once I knew which condo you lived in, I checked out the name on your mailbox.”
“Oh.” Obviously.
He laughed out loud then. “Come on, let’s get you bandaged up before you pass out from blood loss.”
He locked my apartment door, and I kept one hand over the covering, following him onto the elevator. He punched in the code to the penthouse and we rode up. Once the doors opened, he motioned for me to go ahead of him, and as I stepped directly from the elevator into the penthouse, no public hallway on this level, I couldn’t help but take in the extreme wealth surrounding me. I had a nice condo, filled with the most modern appliances, the furniture bought at exclusive shops, but this? This was something else entirely. Black marble gleamed around me, white veins creeping along it the only break in the otherwise obsidian floor and walls. An ornate staircase led upstairs and doors led off the softly lit hallway.
“This way,” he said, guiding me with a hand at my back toward the kitchen. I tried not to make it obvious as I glanced inside each of the doors we passed and quickly did the math, figuring he had about four times the space I had, plus the upstairs, considering he occupied the entire floor and mine contained four condos. I’d never wanted for anything growing up, living in beautiful homes, money never a concern. My dad still gave me a generous allowance, generous enough to afford my condo and then some, but, seeing this, I became even more curious about Adam Smith, my mysterious neighbor who rode a Harley in his three-piece suits.
“Careful,” he said, extending my arm over the sink. It was then I noticed the drops on the floor, marking our path.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. I’ll clean it up.” I tried to pull free, but he tightened his hold.
“It’ll be fine. I’m more worried about you right now,” he said, pulling the bandages back and frowning. “I’m calling my doctor,” he said, his gaze a challenge as he slid his phone out of his pocket. “I’ll give you no hospital, but you need stitches.”
He was right. I knew it once I saw the gash.
“I hate doctors.”
Ignoring me, he turned his back, sliding his suit jacket off before speaking into the phone. He pulled his tie over his head and undid the top two buttons on his navy-blue button-down shirt, and although he did so absently, I couldn’t stop staring. He spoke in Spanish, explaining what I assumed to be the situation of his neighbor currently bleeding into his sink.
I wondered about his roots, realizing his looks definitely suggested Latin descent. My father’s side hailed from Columbia, although it shamed me to admit I didn’t speak a word of the language. I’d been born in the US. My dad emigrated here in his early twenties and opened a specialty grocery store importing Latin foods. He’d worked with his older brother, my uncle, although I barely remembered Eduardo, having met him only a handful of times. They ran one of the biggest restaurant supply companies in Cali, Columbia. Once here, my father had met and married my mom, a Scandinavian import herself. She had been blonde haired and blue-eyed, in contrast to his dark hair and eyes and olive skin. At least that’s what I saw in the few photos he kept of her. I think he still missed her to this day. She’d died in a car accident when I was barely a year old so I didn’t have any memories of her. I’d been too young when I survived the accident unscathed. I’d inherited at least part of my looks from her, though. I had my father’s hair, dark and thick. My complexion was a creamy beige, a combination of both parents, but my pale crystal-blue eyes were all her. I knew it made for a striking contrast. I also knew he saw her every time he looked at me.
“He’ll be here in ten minutes,” Adam said, bringing me back to reality.
“Okay. Thanks, I guess.”
He took a bottle of water out of the fridge, opened it, and handed it to me. “Drink.”
“I’m not real
ly thirsty.”
“Drink anyway.” He held it out to me, and I took it, making a point of taking one sip.
“You don’t really hear people, do you?” I asked, setting the bottle down.
He grinned, taking a second bottle for himself and opening it. “I hear them just fine. I even give them the opportunity to make the right decision.” He sipped, his expression cocky. “It’s remarkable how many people will fail to make the right decision when offered a choice.”
I opened my mouth to make some comment about arrogance and how unbecoming it was, but didn’t get the chance when his cell phone vibrated on the counter. He glanced at the display, his expression becoming serious then picked it up and took it down the hall to speak, his tone quiet.
I returned my attention to my hand, glad to see the bleeding had slowed a little, wondering how many stitches I’d need. I did hate doctors. I hated needles, too. And pain. Nothing had happened to me to prompt such a strong negative feel for doctors in general. It was more an association from a vague memory from when I’d been young enough to be dragging my favorite teddy bear, Milo, around the house.
I’d had a nanny and free rein of our home, except for the off-limits basement. I’d been punished when my dad caught me down there once when someone left the door unlocked. That was one of the few times he’d raised his voice to me. But the memory coloring my impressions of doctors was of another time when, with my nanny busy texting her boyfriend, I’d slipped away. I knew Daddy had come home. I’d heard the car outside and I’d wanted to see him. And I knew he’d gone directly to the basement where the sound of several men talking loudly had been coming from. I’d quietly opened the door and walked down the stairs, following the noise, something telling me to turn back all along. As I’d approached the room where Daddy’s voice came from, my nanny came flying down the stairs, her finger at her mouth instructing me to keep quiet. Before she’d grabbed me up, the door opened and I’d caught a glimpse inside. A man in a white coat holding a needle approached a sick man who screamed so loud, I’d screamed, too. My dad came rushing out, his face angry, and, before I knew it, I was up in my room, the door locked to keep me inside, punished. I’d never seen that particular nanny again.
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