“That’s such a shame. I really wanted to get to know you better. My name’s Brian Feldman,” he said, holding out his hand to me.
Reluctantly, I shook his hand, willing Dean to hurry the hell up. I wanted to leave.
“Nice to—nice to meet you, Brian,” I stammered, trying to release my hand from his, but his grip only tightened. His smile turned into a distorted, grotesque grin.
“You’re not going anywhere, Kirsten O’Leary.”
And then I recognized him. He was the man from Dean’s CCTV footage.
I tried harder to break free and managed to move about a foot or two toward the door, but he grabbed me around the waist and held me against him.
“Let me go!” I screamed, alerting the rest of the bar to my predicament. A few people got up to come to my aid, but then several men stood up with guns, eliciting screams and cries from the bar-goers.
I recognized one or two of them from my role as the mob doctor—members of the Russian mob.
Ah, shit.
Sergei’s suspicions had turned out to be right on the money, but who the hell was this late middle-aged man who was working with them, currently holding me tightly and preventing me from leaving?
When Dean returned from the restroom, it was with horror I realized what was going to happen. He recognized the danger and charged over to my rescue without thinking, then Brian shot him. The man shot Dean, who fell to the floor in a crumpled heap.
“No!” I kept screaming as Brian dragged me out of the bar, the members of the Russian mob following closely behind. I kept thinking of things I should have done.
I should have stayed at my father’s house.
I should have told Rafe about Sergei’s suspicions earlier.
I should have called Rafe and met him earlier.
Rafe.
I needed Rafe.
As they dragged me into a car, I saw Dean, bleeding from a wound in his stomach, dragging himself out of the bar after me.
Brian shot him again.
“Son of a bitch should have stayed down,” he muttered as he slammed me into the back of a car, slid in beside me, and closed the door.
He turned to face me, looking me up and down with a critical expression on his face.
Then he made a noise of disgust. “I can’t believe you have his damn eyes.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
There were several people you could expect to call you at ten in the evening on a Saturday. Your spouse, for example. Or a hook-up. Maybe your boss if there was an emergency at the office.
One of the last people I expected to get a call from at ten in the evening on a Saturday was my rival for Kirsten O’Leary’s affections—Dean. Curious about what he could possibly need to tell me so late, I picked up.
“Dean? I take it there’s a good reason for this.”
“Kirsten—gone,” Dean interrupted, his voice and breath ragged and labored. I bolted upright from my slumped position in my late father’s study. Something was seriously wrong.
“Dean, what happened? Where are you? Are you hurt?”
“Shot. Ambulance on its way. Call that…that detective on Kirsten’s case. Kidnapped. She’s been kidnapped.”
My blood ran cold. “Where are you right now? I’m on my way.”
“Outside…outside Ringo’s—five minutes from Capone’s.”
“Got it. Dean, stay conscious. Don’t you dare close your eyes. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“Get her—get her back.”
The line went dead as Dean hung up.
For one horrible, drawn-out moment, I stood motionless and numb. My stomach heaved and roiled, and I thought I might be sick. Someone had taken Kirsten. Someone had taken her, and I hadn’t been there to stop it.
Self-pity could wait. I hurriedly threw on my jacket and screamed for my brother, who’d been hanging out at the house more than usual. No doubt concerned for me.
“Matt. I need you. Have Katya call the O’Learys and meet me at Capone’s.”
Matt was by my side and ready to leave in under thirty seconds, Katya not far behind.
“What happened?” she asked nervously after seeing the look on my face.
I couldn’t say it, but I had to.
“Kirsten’s been kidnapped.”
Matt’s face went from shock, to sympathy, to outright snarling rage. “Then we’ll get her back. Katya—”
“Call Sergei,” she interrupted immediately. “Got it. I’ll get the rest of the O’Learys, too, Rafe, just…go.”
Matt drove. I couldn’t trust my shaking hands behind the wheel. Thank God we were just a couple minutes drive from Ringo’s.
I pulled out my cell phone and called Detective Peters.
“Charles, you need to get to Ringo’s now,” I shouted into the phone as soon as the man picked up.
“We just sent a full police unit over there. Someone called in an armed kidnapping.”
“It was Kirsten,” I interrupted. “They took Kirsten. They shot her friend.”
There was a pause. “I’ll be there in five.”
“I’ll see you in three,” I said, trying to get him to hurry.
I hung up, drumming my fingers against my leg in a frantic, impatient manner as we got stuck behind a line of traffic. I couldn’t begin to process what Dean had said. Everything so far was somehow still just words.
Kirsten had been taken even after trying to keep her in a safe neighborhood, having her stay at home, and rarely letting her be alone. She’d been taken when she was out with her friends, in public, in a bustling bar on a Saturday night.
The futility of the situation struck me. Was there nothing any of us could have done to prevent this? Had I been there with Kirsten would I have been able to save her? Or would I have ended up with a bullet inside me, like Dean?
My stomach twisted. Dean hadn’t sounded good. I prayed, for his sake and for Kirsten’s, he wouldn’t die.
Come on, Dean, you can’t vie for Kirsten’s affections from the grave, I thought, knowing it didn’t matter what I thought. Either he would live or he wouldn’t.
It should have been me. Regardless of whether I could have prevented Kirsten’s kidnapping or not, I should have been there with her this evening. I should have been more insistent about meeting up with her. I merely asked her where she would be going for drinks after dinner. I could have been there.
It was too late. She was gone.
I threw myself out of Matt’s car before he’d finished pulling up. There was a small crowd outside of Ringo’s. In the distance, I could hear the sound of the ambulance sirens. I pushed through the crowd and collapsed beside Dean. He was ashen and bloody. Someone was keeping pressure on two separate bullet wounds. One on his shoulder and one right through his stomach.
But no heart or lung punctures, I thought as I scanned the man’s body. That had to be a good thing.
“Dean, it’s Rafe,” I called out to him, grabbing on to the man’s hand to make him aware of my presence. He barely opened his eyes.
“My phone,” he muttered, glancing down at his pocket. “Password’s 1763.”
I didn’t waste time. I located the phone and unlocked it, staring back at him for further instructions.
“File—video file—first one.”
With shaking hands, I searched Dean’s phone until I brought up his video gallery, stabbing the first file open with a finger. It was CCTV footage of the vet clinic—of Brian Feldman.
Dean’s eyes roved underneath his eyelids. “He took her. That man…took her.”
Liam O’Leary’s worst fears had come to light. Feldman had kidnapped his daughter.
“Dean, why did you never tell me about this footage?” I asked the man frantically. “I’ve been looking for him.”
How could Dean have known that? I had told no one but Detective Peters.
“Kirsten didn’t want you to—to worry. Thought it was nothing. Ha…last time I listen to that idiot.”
The ambulance r
eached us then, the paramedics taking over as they put Dean on oxygen and hauled him into the back of the ambulance.
“I’ll get her back,” I shouted over to him just as the doors began to close behind him. “Don’t you dare die.”
If he died, I would never be able to forgive myself. I’d never be able to look Kirsten in the eye again.
A hand on my shoulder startled me, but it was only Matt.
“Rafe, Detective Peters is here.”
Charles rushed over. “I got the lowdown from some witnesses. A late middle-aged man apprehended Kirsten O’Leary with the help of several members of the Russian mob.”
“It was Feldman.”
Charles frowned. “You’re certain?”
I showed him the CCTV footage from Dean’s phone. “Dean Collins—the man who was shot—confirmed it was the man in this video. Come with me to Capone’s, Charles.”
“Who are we meeting?”
“Sergei Volkov and Liam O’Leary.”
“Rafe, we need to be careful to stay on the right side of the law here,” he said.
I stared at the man, bug-eyed.
“You think I don’t know that? We can worry about that after we find Kirsten. In order to find her, Sergei and Liam are our best shots.”
Charles’ lips thinned. “Lead the way, then.”
When Matt, Charles and I reached Capone’s, Katya flung herself into Matt’s arms as Ian looked at me, his face devoid of any emotion. He looked hollow.
“Where is my baby sister?” he asked nobody in particular. I’d never seen Ian like this. It was terrible. I wished he were seething and foaming from the mouth, ready to punch me in the face for allowing this to happen. Anything but seeing him broken.
Patrick moved forwards to shake hands with Charles. “Patrick O’Leary,” he said. “You must be Detective Peters. What can you tell us about what happened at Ringo’s?”
I let Charles take the lead, explaining to Ian, Patrick, and their silent father about what had happened.
Sergei showed up just as Charles completed his explanation.
“I know where those traitorous assholes will be,” he announced in lieu of an introduction. I was sincerely grateful the man was straight to the point. “There’s a warehouse just off the road on the way to the Calico Basin that seems likely. My bodyguard is working on getting the exact location out of one of the co-conspirators we caught earlier, but I’m fairly sure it’s this warehouse.”
Liam shook his head. “I think I have a better idea of where Feldman is. His family were always long-time members of Canyon Gate and had some private rooms there.”
I swung my head between the two of them. “Do you think the Russian mob may have broken away from Feldman once the kidnapping was completed?”
Sergei looked thoughtful for a moment. “No. I think they’ll still be together. I found a connection to one of Yuri’s minions. He did time with Feldman. Heard Feldman stopped an attack, so they owed him.”
Now it all made sense. I couldn’t put together how a guy like Feldman could influence Russian mobsters, but debts were always paid.
I glanced at Charles. “Do we have grounds to check Canyon Gate without a warrant?”
He shook his head. “Not exactly, but I’m friends with the manager. He’ll let us in.”
“Then we go to this warehouse via Canyon Gate and check them both out.”
“I have men on their way over to the warehouse already as backup,” Sergei added.
“I have men over checking out Canyon Gate already, too,” Liam said.
Charles groaned. “If I catch any of them doing anything illegal, you know I’ll have to arrest them.”
“If you catch them,” just about everybody else said at the same time.
“This is why I need to retire,” Charles said. “Far too much organized crime in Vegas for my liking.”
We split into two cars. I made sure I was sitting with Ian, who remained quiet.
“Ian, I—”
“I don’t care,” he interrupted. “Who gives a shit about you climbing through the damn window if Kirsten’s been taken? If we get her back, then I don’t give a damn what the two of you do together.”
It was the worst situation in which to get Ian’s approval, yet I appreciated it nonetheless.
When we finally reached Canyon Gate, it was to our complete surprise that Kirsten, Feldman, and the Russian mob members were nowhere to be seen.
That meant all our hopes were now pinned on how well Sergei knew his men, traitorous or otherwise.
I couldn’t believe I had to rely on the Russian mob to save my woman. So much for us getting out of this life for good. If we could save her, then I didn’t care how we did it, who we used, or what I’d owe.
Chapter Twenty-Three
I didn’t know where I was being taken. The windows of the car I was in were opaque. I couldn’t see a thing. Not that it would have helped me all that much to know where I was going. The man named Brian Feldman had taken my phone and thrown it out of the window only a minute or two after we left the bar.
I wasn’t sure what to do. Brian hadn’t said a word since we drove off, not even to explain the comment he’d made about my eyes. Who on Earth was he? What did he have to do with the Russian mob? I didn’t understand. Nothing added up.
After a while, the car ground to a halt and I was pulled out of the back seat and roughly dragged by the arm into a warehouse. I had no clue where we were. I didn’t recognize a thing.
The space was dark and empty. Large, overhead lights flickered on as I was made to follow one of the members of the Russian mob over to a group of pallets stacked high with televisions. Two men rolled one of them to the side, revealing a concealed door recessed into the floor. When they opened it, it became clear they intended to force me through it, I started to scream until a hand slid around my mouth to silence me.
“I don’t think so,” Brian whispered into my ear before flinging me unceremoniously through the trapdoor.
I tumbled down some stairs, hitting the floor with a dull thud and sharp twinge of pain. I’d landed badly on my right leg. My hope rapidly drained away as I realized I wouldn’t be able to run off now even if I miraculously had the opportunity to do so.
“What am I gonna do?” I breathed aloud, the words barely audible as the door above me slammed shut.
I was left in pitch darkness for an immeasurable about of time. It could have been five minutes. It could just as easily have been five hours.
I kept my eyes closed as I tried to calm myself. If this really was the end, if this was where I would die, at least I had told Rafe I loved him. At least we were together. At least I had my family’s blessing to go ahead with the relationship even if Ian was still being as overbearing as an older brother could be. At least I’d gotten to know my long-lost sister. At least I’d sorted things out with Dean.
Dean. My heart hurt as much as my leg when I thought about Dean lying in a bloody, crumpled mess on the sidewalk outside Ringo’s. I prayed to God he was still alive.
I reassured myself someone would have called an ambulance. If Dean could be saved, he would be.
Did Rafe know what was going on? Surely, by this point, Detective Peters would have found out the woman who was kidnapped was me and subsequently alerted Rafe and my family. I could only hope, but what could they do ultimately? None of them had any clue where I was.
And still, I had to cling to the idea that they were desperately looking for me, even as I sat here wondering whether my damaged leg could bear any weight.
I stood up to test it. My leg immediately buckled beneath me.
Okay, not broken, but horribly sprained, I concluded as I massaged my ankle, cringing at the pain. If push came to shove, then maybe with enough adrenaline in my system I could sprint out of here.
But again—to where? Even with my eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness, there was no obvious way out. I was in a basement. Other than the set of stairs leading up to the trapdoor an
d two metal-framed chairs by the back wall, the room was empty.
I hauled one of the chairs over and sat on it. The bare, concrete floor had been cold and uncomfortable. The metal chair wasn’t much better, but at least I could smash it into someone’s face if I needed to.
When the trapdoor finally opened, the light spilling down from above obscured the figure descending the stairs until they located a light switch I couldn’t possibly have found in the dark. They closed the door behind them, leaving me trapped once more.
It was Brian. He walked across the basement floor and retrieved the other chair, dragging it along until he reached me. He spun it around and straddled it, resting his arms on the back as if he were about to engage in the most casual of conversations. He was far too close for my liking. To be fair, being in the same state as him was too close.
“Well, well, Kirsten O’Leary,” he began, tapping his fingers on the metal frame as he spoke, “going by the fact that you didn’t recognize my name, I’d take a guess you don’t know who I am.”
I considered not replying, but that wouldn’t get me anywhere. “I recognize you from the vet clinic’s CCTV footage. Should I know you?”
Brian gave me a dark look. “Of course your father never told you about me. That’s just his style—gloss over anything that happened he’d rather forget. Well, Kirsten, I’m the man your mother was supposed to marry, before Liam ‘Lucky’ O’Leary stole her away.”
“I’m supposed to believe that? After you kidnapped me at gunpoint and shot my friend, I’m supposed to believe anything you say?”
“I can understand your reluctance—obviously, you inherited your father’s stubbornness, as well as his eyes, but it’s the truth. Jane was my high school sweetheart, and in our senior year your father beat me half to death out of jealousy and forced Jane to be with him instead. How could she say no? Your father had the entire Irish mob behind him. I’m sure she was terrified of the guy. Anybody would be. I couldn’t blame her. I blamed him.”
Brian’s eyes were crazy, but it didn’t seem like he was lying. Maybe, to him, it was the truth. I wasn’t convinced.
Betting On Us (Wilde Love Book 3) Page 14
