His Captive_A Mafia Romance

by Nikki Chase

  Carefully, I touch the thing again. It’s a small piece of ceramic with sharp edges—just the thing I’ve been looking for.

  Keeping my eyes on the men, I saw the tile back and forth against the rope that’s wrapped around my wrists. I fold my legs so my heels are pressed against my thighs, hoping my knees will help hide the movements of my shoulders as I work on my restraints.

  Satisfied with what’s in the suitcase, Damon gestures at his men, who once again reach for the guns in their jackets.

  “Thank you for bringing everything I’ve asked for, old man,” Damon says. “Now it’s time for you to meet your maker. Any last words?”

  “I thought you were a man of your word,” Dad says calmly.

  “And I thought you were. So we were both wrong, weren’t we?” Damon’s eyes are cold as he stares at my dad. “And my parents were wrong about you too. Their mistake cost them their lives, and now you’re going to lose yours as well.”

  “It was just business. You know how it is,” Dad says. “I always liked your dad. He was a good employee. Too bad things had to end the way they did.”

  I watch with disbelief as the men talk about what happened to kill Damon’s parents. It was one thing to hear it from Damon but another thing entirely to hear my dad admit it.

  He may be an asshole, but he’s my dad. He’s family. I can’t just let them kill him.

  But I should’ve known my dad’s perfectly capable of taking care of himself. If anything, he may be too good at it.

  I frantically rub the edge of the tile in my hand against the rope, trying my best not to drop it on the floor. The men are too absorbed in their own tense negotiation to pay much attention to me now, but as soon as they hear something, they’d search me and find my little secret.

  “You think I would’ve come here without insurance?” my dad asks, chuckling.

  I’ve never seen my dad like this. Frankly, it scares me. And I’m not even the one he’s threatening.

  “I know the way you work,” Damon says. “I don’t care about your fucking insurance. Whatever you do, if I shoot you first, you’re dead.”

  Dad shakes his head. “You could’ve walked away with all that money and two of the best clubs in the city. And now you’ve gone and ruined it.”

  Damon laughs—a strange sound devoid of mirth and tinged with bitterness. “I thought you still had a heart, at least when it comes to your own family. But you’d even risk your own daughter’s life.”

  “I’d do no such thing. I’m just taking a calculated risk that I know will pay off,” Dad says. “Now, take the suitcase—you and these two idiots—and walk away. Leave me and my daughter alone.”

  “Why should I do that when I can kill you and take the suitcase?” Damon asks through gritted teeth. The fluorescent light casts a blue glow on his face, making him look ghostly.

  “Because as soon as anyone points a gun at me, you’re all dead.”

  Damn it. These men and their stupid games!

  I fume as I cut the last few strands of rope that keep my hands tied behind my back. Almost there . . .

  Am I going to lose at least one of them no matter what happens? When I walk out of this place, must there be the blood of someone I love spilled all over the broken tiles?

  “Damon,” Teeth says. He takes nervous steps toward Damon, his eyes trained on my dad. He whispers, loud enough for Damon (and me) to hear but not for my dad. “Is there really someone hiding somewhere, waiting to kill us?”

  “Is there a problem, boys? Did Damon not tell you how dangerous this gig is?” my dad asks loudly. “You don’t go up against Enzo Guerriero and expect things to end well. If Damon continues to be reckless, none of you will be alive when I walk out of here.”

  “Damon,” Teeth says more urgently.

  Damon ignores his associate and reaches inside his jacket.

  I flick my gaze toward my dad. He’s glancing out the window. He really does have someone outside about to shoot Damon.

  Damn it. I walked in here thinking I was going to save my dad. But I’ll hate him forever if he kills Damon.

  I don’t care what happened in their past. I’m not letting these two men kill each other.

  A bright dot appears on Damon’s jacket. Red on black.

  It’s about to happen.

  I pull on my restraints and break the last remaining strands of the rope, then I jump up to my feet and push Damon aside with all the strength I have, just in time to hear a loud bang.

  “Elena!” I hear someone shout.

  My dad? Damon? Both of them?

  I search for the source of the voice, but why can’t I . . . Why won’t my eyes look where I want them to?

  The floor—the uneven floor with the broken tiles—grows closer and closer. It only stops when something hard hits my cheek.

  But it doesn’t hurt. I don’t feel any pain in my body.

  In fact, I feel nothing. Nothing except cold. Like warmth is pouring out of me.

  Something red . . . Some kind of a liquid spreads across the floor.

  Blood?

  Whose blood?

  Damon

  It happens in slow motion.

  I notice Enzo glancing outside, and I know danger is imminent.

  But I’m not about to do what he wants me to do like some fucking puppet. Fuck that. My parents did exactly what he wanted, and look where they ended up.

  This is my chance. My one and only chance.

  I do everything I can to minimize my risk so there’s at least some hope of me escaping this situation and moving on with my life.

  But in reality, I don’t care if I die. It would be a fair price for me to pay. I’d be avenging my parents’ deaths and preventing the deaths of many other potential victims of Enzo Guerriero’s.

  I’d be doing the right thing, at least in my own mind. I’d die with honor and dignity, having done what I was put on this earth to do. My soul would rest in peace, even if my body would be thrown into the ocean and my tomb would have no headstone.

  Whatever. It’s just life, right? People die every day, and I’m no more special than any one of them.

  And knowing Enzo, I didn’t expect to be standing at the end of this meeting anyway. He’d never let me go just like that. He’d kill me to set an example, to send a message to the rest of the city, to tell them not to do what I’m doing.

  But who cares what they’ll say about me once I’m dead? I won’t be here to hear them.

  This is my only chance. If I don’t point my gun at Enzo tonight and pull the trigger, all my hard work would be for nothing.

  But more importantly, I’d be breaking the promise I made to my parents when I learned the truth from my dad’s friend.

  That’s not something I can live with.

  I know I’d have to be quick. I’ll have to move faster than whoever’s lurking in the dark with a long-range sniper rifle.

  Fucking coward. Who is it tonight? Max? Xavier?

  The thought did cross my mind, to pay one of those men to get on my side, to refuse to pull the trigger on me. I could offer him the five million dollars in the suitcase.

  But which man should I approach? Worse—what if the guy blabs and ruins my plan?

  Antonio and Giovanni are idiots, but at least they’re loyal to me.

  If only Enzo’s house weren’t such an impenetrable fortress. If only he were less paranoid and didn’t insist on taking my weapon every time I stepped foot inside his house. If only his fleet of cars weren’t bulletproof.

  They say your whole life flashes before you in an instant when you die. I guess this is that instant for me. It’s full of unfulfilled wishes and regrets, but also determination.

  What can I say? My short life has been filled with pain, disappointment, and . . . Well, except for the tiny speck of light toward the end that was Elena.

  I’m glad I got the chance to experience sweetness and passion like that in my life.

  And now, I’m ready for the end. I can feel the
weight of my gun, sitting idle in my holster underneath my jacket. It’s screaming for blood. Enzo’s blood.

  I keep my eyes on Enzo as he stares back at me.

  I reach into my jacket.

  Enzo’s got a smug smile on his face. He thinks he’s already won, but he hasn’t. I’m still breathing.

  I grip the handle of my gun and swing it forward.

  But before I can aim it at Enzo’s wrinkled face, something hits my side and knocks the breath out of me.

  I lose my balance.

  What the fuck?

  Did I just get shot?

  Am I too slow?

  I straighten my arm and point the gun in the general direction of Enzo, but he’s no longer standing in front of me.

  Where is he?

  Am I going to die without finishing my work?

  Elena

  Drive faster, will you?”

  Dad?

  Is that my dad’s voice?

  Where am I?

  He said “drive”—in a car?

  It does feel like everything’s moving all around me. But it’s more like an earthquake, like the one I went through when I was a kid.

  My dad was beside me then. I was just about as tall as his waist. I remember grabbing the leg of his suit pants and holding on, knowing he’d keep me safe.

  Everything’s rocking. Spinning. And . . .

  “It’s cold . . .”

  “What was that, honey?” my dad asks. He looks down at me with a concerned expression as he holds on to the windowsill of his workspace. The whole house is rocking—even the chandelier hanging from the ceiling. He used to let me in when I was younger.

  “Cold . . .” I repeat. Why is it so hard to speak?

  “She said she’s cold, you old fuck.” A man’s voice. Who is that?

  “It’s okay, honey. I’ve got you,” my dad says.

  I can’t feel my toes and fingers. Are they frozen? Is this frostbite?

  Something soft drapes over me. It’s warm and it smells like my dad.

  “Put pressure on the wound,” says the man from before. He sounds familiar. His voice comforts me, makes me feel like I’m going to be okay.

  “You think I don’t know that? I’ve been dealing with gunshot wounds since before you were born.” My dad’s voice.

  “Dad . . .?” I hear myself ask. I sound so weak. But why?

  “Yes, honey. I’m right here. You’ll be okay,” Dad says.

  The corners of my lips tug up. It’s still chilly, but soon it won’t be anymore. My dad says he’ll make everything okay.

  “This wouldn’t have happened if you didn’t hire a sniper to kill me,” says the other man. He kind of sounds like Damon, Matteo’s friend. But older.

  “Me?” Dad asks, raising his voice.

  Uh-oh. If that’s really Damon, then he’s in trouble. My dad doesn’t raise his voice, not even when I’ve made a mess of the things on his desk.

  “You were the one who involved my daughter,” Dad says. “And you were about to kill me anyway, after I brought you everything you ask for.”

  Wait. What are they talking about? Kill?

  Are they rehearsing for the skit we’re putting on for the whole family on Christmas? What are my lines? Why can’t I remember my lines?

  “As if you were going to let me walk away,” says the man whose voice resembles Damon. Or maybe that’s Damon’s dad, Uncle Eric.

  Dad chuckles. “Of course I wasn’t. You kidnapped my daughter, for fuck’s sake.”

  What are they talking about? Is there going to be kidnapping and murder in the Christmas skit this year? That sounds cool and all, but I don’t think Mom’s going to like it.

  “I wasn’t going to hurt her!” Damon/Uncle Eric yells.

  “And I was supposed to take your word for it?” Dad asks.

  Seriously. This skit is going to be amazing. If only I can remember my lines . . .

  “The fact is, your man was the one who shot her. Not me,” says Damon/Uncle Eric.

  “Yeah,” Dad says. “The only one you were going to shoot was me. That was perfectly okay.”

  “You’re fucking old and many people have died to keep you alive. And many more people have died at your hands. Maybe it’s time, you old fuck. Maybe you deserve to die. Have you thought about that?”

  I open my mouth. My throat and tongue are dry. “What . . .”

  “What is it, honey?” Dad asks in a gentle voice. “What do you need? I’ll get it for you.”

  “What are my lines?” I ask.

  “Lines?” Dad asks.

  “Yeah. For the skit . . .”

  “Oh, honey.” Dad strokes my hair with his big, warm hand. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. But don’t worry. Don’t worry. Everything’s going to be okay.”

  “Okay." I let my muscles relax. It’s warm all around me, but my body is still cold.

  “What did she say?” Damon/Uncle Eric asks.

  “Just drive, asshole.”

  Damon

  I never thought I’d ever say this, but I’m glad Enzo’s here. I hate his guts, but the man has a lot of pull in the city’s hospitals, having been one of their biggest contributors.

  That means as soon as I walk through the glass automatic doors and into the hospital, all I have to do is grab the first guy in scrubs that walks past and tell him, “I have an emergency. It’s Enzo Guerriero’s daughter.”

  That’s all.

  After that, about a dozen people in blue scrubs wheel a stretcher to the main hospital driveway, where I’ve parked my car, and move Elena onto it.

  She’s still wearing that red dress, the same one she wore when I picked her up for our “date” mere days ago—before I took her to my place, before I kept her there against her will, before this whole thing started.

  Fuck. I should’ve left her alone. Should’ve kept her out of this. I’m the one responsible for her being hurt, and up until an hour ago, I thought I was doing the right thing.

  But it can’t be the right thing when it ends with someone as pure as Elena being shot. Bullets belong in men like me and Enzo. Men who hurt other people for our own personal gain. Not someone like Elena.

  This just seems wrong.

  Now, the color of Elena’s dress has darkened around her left chest. A darker shade of red. A potentially deadly shade of red.

  I’ve only ever prayed three times. The first time was when my mom died, and I wanted her to go to heaven despite all the shit she’d done while she was alive. The second time was when my dad died—same shit. The third time was when I found out about what Enzo had done, and I wanted him dead.

  All my prayers were about death. But tonight, as I watch doctors and nurses crowd around Elena, shouting urgently at one another, I pray for life.

  I’d give my life if I could and trade it for Elena’s. I add nothing to this world whereas Elena’s mere presence is enough to make humanity as a whole a little bit better.

  The blue swarm around Elena so tight that I can barely see her, but I follow them anyway. The stretcher hits a pair of puke-green doors, and the crowd of blue scrubs keeps pushing her through.

  When I try to walk past those same doors, a firm hand touches my arm. “Sorry Sir, staff and patients only past these doors.”

  I yank my arm free. “I need to get in there.”

  “I understand, Sir. But it’s hospital policy. It’s what’s best for the patients,” the man says. He’s wearing a black security uniform, and his eyes are red, probably from exhaustion and lack of sleep.

  I glare at the man. There’s so much anger buried inside me that I need to let out on someone. It won’t help Elena, but punching this guy in the face would feel so fucking good right now.

  She won’t like it when she wakes up and hears about it, though. And she is waking up. We’ll talk again. I need to make myself someone who’s worthy of seeing her again.

  “Yeah, thanks,” I tell the security guard.

  “What the fuck do you mean
by that?” Enzo’s standing at the main reception desk, pounding the counter and yelling at the nurses behind it.

  The people waiting for their turns while sitting on plastic chairs are craning their necks to watch him. They’re bored, and Enzo does look out of place, with his disheveled suit and blood stains on his shirt.

  I guess I’m not the only one who feels the need to lash out.

  “What’s going on?” I rush to the reception desk as my heart pounds so hard I feel the pulses in my temples.

  “I’m sorry, Sir. It may not be a problem, but I just wanted to let you know it may be.”

  “What might be the problem?” I ask.

  “What do you do with all the donations I’ve made? With all that money, you can’t even keep a decent supply of blood?” Enzo’s getting so worked up his face has turned red and he’s spitting all over the counter as he shouts.

  “We only get blood by donation, Sir.”

  “There’s not enough blood?” I ask the nurse directly.

  “We’re dealing with a shortage because of the weather. People aren’t donating because of vacations and college breaks too,” the nurse explains, even as she flinches from Enzo’s torrent of curses. “And we just had a multiple-car accident on the highway, so supplies are low. But we still may have enough. Please don’t worry.”

  “You may have enough? That’s not good enough. Not nearly good enough, considering everything I’ve done for you,” Enzo yells.

  “Again, I’m sorry, Sir. According to Miss Guerriero’s records, she’s Type O-negative, and unfortunately that’s rare, and that’s what we’re running low on,” the nurse says.

  “That’s my blood type. Take mine,” I tell her. Turning around to face the horde of bored people sitting in the waiting room, I announce, “If you’re Type O-negative, please donate your blood. The hospital needs it, and you’re not doing anything anyway.”

  “Make it happen,” Enzo says, slamming on the counter. “Bring whatever equipment you need out here and take all the blood you need from these people.”

  As the nurses buzz around with activity, I catch Enzo’s eyes, and he nods at me. For once, we’re working toward the same goal.