I ached all over from my uncomfortable sleeping position. My bladder was making itself known to me, too, and the last thing I wanted to do was suffer the indignity of having to piss myself. I needed my hands undone to free my cock.
Pushing myself to sitting, I let out a groan.
“This isn’t fucking funny anymore,” I called, though I knew no one could hear me. The sound of my voice was just a way to break the silence.
I gritted my teeth and bunched my shoulders, putting all my strength into my arms. I moved my wrists back and forth, like they were two sticks I was trying to start a fire with. My plan was to loosen the tape as much as possible, and then try to stretch it. There had to be some give in it, but whether it was enough to get my hands free, I didn’t know. I might as well try, though. It wasn’t as though I had anything else to do with my time.
My arms quickly tired, but I kept going. I yanked my wrists apart straining against the tape, doing my best to create space.
“Come on, you fucking piece of shit.”
I wasn’t up to my full strength. These last few days, since I’d been given the head injury with the butt of the gun, having barely eaten, and being forced to sleep on a cold, hard floor, had taken its toll on me. I was frustrated at my lack of progress, but I kept going. In my head, I pictured Rue and Ryan, and Kodee, too. The time had come for me to get out of here, but I had no intention of going to any of them. I’d held myself back from any thoughts of escape, believing Frankie Capello would punish the others for any of my bad behavior. But they’d made the mistake of showing me that it was me who was being used against them. By removing myself from the equation, I would be taking away one of the things they were using to control the others.
Assuming Meathead was the one I’d have to deal with, I’d need to be fast. It was the only advantage I had over the other man. I couldn’t give him time to register what was happening. I knew my escape route now—had been marched through it with Meathead right behind me. I had to hope the door at the top of the stairs wasn’t locked. If it was, I’d be in trouble.
It felt as though I’d been working at freeing my hands forever. I growled and sighed and wanted to give up, but I kept going.
More than an hour had passed.
Did the tape feel a tiny bit looser?
Or was it just wishful thinking?
No, I was sure it was looser. Determination sent a fresh spurt of adrenaline through me, and I worked harder, pulling and yanking and twisting. The space between my wrists was definitely roomier.
Finally, I was able to wriggle one hand out of the circle of tape. I exhaled a long breath of air, my shoulders sagging with relief. I rolled my shoulders out, relieved to be able to move them in a different direction, and then did the same to my wrists and hands. I yanked off the remainder of the tape and went to throw it to the floor but stopped myself. I didn’t want Meathead to notice as he entered and prepare himself. It was better for him to assume everything was normal.
The wait was excruciating. I paced the small floor of my prison, my mind racing. What if Meathead showed up with backup? He never had before, but there was always a first time. I would lose my opportunity, for sure. I already doubted my ability to take on a man of his size, when he was armed and I wasn’t, not to mention that I definitely wasn’t at my physical best.
But I’d spent my latter teenage years fighting for money, wherever and whenever I could. Bars, back alleys, occasionally boxing rings had all been scenes for the kind of fighting where the only rule was that there weren’t any rules. I’d learned to be fast and violent and not hold back, and I hoped those skills were going to help me now. No matter how good I was with my fists, however, I wasn’t going to win against a bullet. I’d need to disarm Meathead, but if he had anyone else with him who was also armed, I wouldn’t stand a chance.
Hours passed, but finally the familiar scape of the crates stacked up on the other side of the door caught my attention. I froze, my muscles bunched and breath held, trying to tell if there was more than one person on the other side. No voices filtered through the heavy door, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t an additional person there.
Scrape, shuffle, scrape...
Then the metallic click of bolts being drawn and locks opening.
I braced myself. I was going to need to make a split-second decision—attack if he was alone and hold back if he wasn’t. Trouble was, I might not know the answer to this question right away.
The door opened, flooding the small room with light, blinding me for a split second.
“Stinks like fucking shit—” Meathead started as he stepped inside.
He was alone.
Meathead held his gun loosely at his side. That was his first mistake. He hadn’t been expecting me to attack at all. He clearly still thought I’d have my hands taped behind my back.
Though I was good with my fists, it was my feet I put into use first. I’d positioned myself behind the door as it opened, so he’d have his back to me. He stepped in, realized I wasn’t right where he could see me, and turned to check the other end of the room. As he turned, I lifted my leg and kicked hard at the hand holding the gun. He let out a shout of surprise but didn’t go for the gun. Instead, he took a swing for me, but I ducked, and his fist brushed the top of my head. From my crouched position, I threw an uppercut, and my knuckles connected with his jaw, snapping his head back. As I’d predicted, he was big and slow, and even as he was still recovering, I’d darted around him, my sights fixed on the weapon.
He lunged, his huge weight punching me in the back, throwing me forward. I landed heavily on the hard floor, my chin cracking against concrete. His fist slammed into the side of my head, my ear ringing. Dizziness threatened to take over, but this was my one chance, and I had to fight it. The gun was a matter of only a couple of feet away, and I stretched out my arm, scrabbling for it. But Meathead was doing the same, and he crawled up my body, crushing me beneath him. Fucking shitbag.
His head was right above mine now, his fingers almost reaching the gun.
With everything I had, I lowered my chin back down to the floor then threw my head back. The rear of my skull connected with his nose, the crack like a gunshot in the small space.
Meathead let out a howl of rage and pain, but his weight fell off me as he tumbled to the side. I didn’t hesitate. Scrambling to my hands and knees, I threw myself at the gun, my fingers closing around the handle. The metal was still warm from Meathead’s skin. I threw myself around, facing him, pointing the barrel in his direction. He was holding his hands to his face, trying to stem the huge quantity of blood pouring from his nose and dripping between his fingers.
“You broke my fucking nose, you asshole,” he spat, though his words were muffled by both his hands and the blood.
I clambered to my feet, keeping the gun trained on him. “I should shoot you in the head right now.”
He glared at me. “Do it, then.”
“I’m sure you don’t want that. I’ll let you live, but you need to tell me how many people are upstairs.”
He gave a snort of laughter, which sounded like someone dying of a cold. “Over a hundred. The restaurant is full.”
Fuck.
It would have been easier if it was the middle of the night and the place was empty, and I could have just slipped out without being noticed, but it looked like it wasn’t going to be my day.
He must have seen my expression. “You’re a fool if you think you’re going to get out of here in one piece. You’ll be the one who ends up with a bullet in the back of his head.”
“That’s fine. If I’m dead, they won’t be able to use me to control anyone. I’d rather that than be stuck down here and used as the Capellos’ stick to beat my friends with.”
“That’s sweet, but you won’t have an opinion on anything when you’re dead.”
I’d had enough of talking to him. I needed to get out of there.
Keeping the gun pointed in his direction, I headed for the do
or. A quick check outside told me that there was no one else in the cellar, but that didn’t mean things would stay that way. If the restaurant was open, one of the staff could come down here at any moment to grab more supplies.
I stepped out into the cellar and then reached to pull the door shut behind me.
Realizing what I was doing, Meathead sprang into action. “Hey! Wait! Don’t you fucking—”
But I dragged the door shut, cutting off his words. I had been right when I’d thought the place was soundproofed. I slammed each of the bolts into position, locking him in there, just as he’d done to me, many times over. Even if I didn’t make it out of here, there was a definite satisfaction in getting some payback.
Moving lightly on my feet, I crossed the cellar to the stairs leading up to the first floor. The door at the top was shut, and I hoped it wasn’t locked. I should have thought to check with Meathead before I’d shut him in. I didn’t like the idea of having to open the small room back up and demand for him to hand over a set of keys. I hoped it wouldn’t come to that.
I took the stairs two at a time and came to a halt at the door. I pressed my ear to the wood, trying to get an idea if I would come face to face with someone on the other side. The restaurant would be full of people—not only customers, but also staff, from the waiters and waitresses, to kitchen hands and busboys. Even though these people were tied to the Capellos, I felt sure the majority had no idea just how dangerous the men were that they worked for. The last thing I wanted was for innocent people to get caught up in this mess.
I tried the handle and exhaled a sigh of relief when it turned. With the gun held close to my body, I edged open the door and peered out. The corridor beyond was miraculously empty, but from not far away came the steady hum of lots of voices in one place, together with the crash and bang of a professional kitchen.
Slipping into the corridor, I kept my head down and kept going. I didn’t want to get noticed, and I was bound to get questioned if someone saw me back here. I couldn’t imagine what I looked like after several nights locked up in the cellar. It wasn’t as though I’d been given any opportunity to wash up, and the blood from my head injury was most likely still crusted in my hairline and down the side of my face. I sported a good week’s worth of beard growth as well, and felt sure I’d lost weight, my features most likely sharp. Combining those things, together with the gun at my side, screamed that I was trouble.
I passed a doorway and paused. The door stood open a couple of inches, and I caught a glimpse of the interior. It was a staff room, and on metal shelving lining the walls were laundered and folded tablecloths, napkins, aprons, and kitchen hats. Acting quickly, I stepped inside and grabbed one of the aprons and a checkered chef’s skull cap to cover my hair. I tied the apron around my waist and jammed the hat onto my hair, and then stepped back out into the corridor.
The sounds of the kitchen grew louder. A set of double doors blocked the end of the corridor, but twin glass windows in the top halves of each door gave me a view into the busy kitchen beyond. Was that a door on the far side of the kitchen? It was hard to tell, but it looked as though it opened onto the outside world. My pulse raced at the promise of freedom. It was so close, I could almost taste it. It seemed I had no choice but to pass through the restaurant kitchen if I was going to get out of here.
The doors suddenly flew open, and I stepped back. Two men hustled through, shoulder to shoulder, talking loudly to one another. They were both dressed the same way I was now, in an apron and with their hair covered, and barely gave me a second glance.
Sucking in a breath, I kept my head down and pushed my way into the kitchen, making a beeline for the external door.
I braced myself, waiting for someone to shout and demand to know who I was and what I was doing. But the kitchen was insanely busy. Steam rose from pots cooking on the stove. People called instructions to one another. Plates crashed, and knives chopped. Everyone seemed to be in a rush, and no one paid the slightest bit of attention to me.
The door at the rear of the kitchen opened onto an alley behind, and I stepped out, the cool air hitting my face. The sudden sense of freedom was palpable, my breath tight in my lungs. To my right were a couple of industrial sized dumpsters, bags of trash sitting beside them where someone hadn’t bothered to open the lid and throw them inside. Several plastic chairs had been set nearby for workers to sit on if they wanted to take their breaks out here.
One of the seats was currently occupied by a staff member taking a smoke break. He clocked me exiting the building and walking away. His shout chased after me.
“Hey, where are you going?”
“Tell the boss I quit!” I called in return.
I didn’t turn around but kept my gaze fixed on a spot ahead of me. I just needed to put distance between myself and this place. I managed to keep to a fast walk rather than breaking into a run, but I was expecting the Capellos or some of their guys to come chasing after me, but nothing happened. I reached the end of the alleyway and turned right, heading in the opposite direction from the restaurant. I was breathing hard and fast, my heart still racing, the gun clutched against my body. I could hardly believe I’d managed to walk out of there.
I turned another corner and yanked the cap off my head then pulled off the apron. I threw them both away.
What the fuck was I going to do now? I hadn’t given much thought to what I would do after I’d actually escaped. My instinct told me to go to the apartment, but my head told me otherwise. The Capellos would most likely have someone watching the place, and I had no intention of walking right back into their hands. I wanted to find Rue as well, but again, I knew wherever she was, she’d be well guarded.
I’d had a bit of luck when I’d been able to walk out of the restaurant, but I didn’t know how long that luck would last.
Chapter Sixteen
Kodee
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, a knock came at the door.
We were eating breakfast at the table, exhausted from a lack of sleep, but forcing ourselves to try to stick to a normal routine as much as possible. Neither of us really had a decent appetite, but we needed to eat to keep up our strength.
I shot Ryan a look. We weren’t expecting anyone and the Capellos’ men weren’t due to come back yet. I wished I still had my gun. I felt wide open and exposed having to go and see who was at the door without it.
“Wait,” Ryan said and wheeled himself to the kitchen. He pulled one of the large chef knives I was so fond of out of the knife rack and placed it onto his lap before pulling his shirt up over to hide it.
I nodded at him—one single jerk of my chin, telling him I was ready, and so should he be.
Together, we went to the front door. I leaned in to check the small peephole that gave me a view of the hallway. To my surprise, Frankie Capello stood outside.
“It’s Frankie,” I told Ryan.
Ryan’s eyes narrowed. “What does he want? I hope he doesn’t think the passports will be ready yet. We’ve barely slept as it is.”
“I guess we’re going to find out.”
Generally, Frankie Capello’s presence was never a good thing. I sucked in a breath and opened the door.
“Mr. Capello,” I said. “What brings you to us today?”
I managed to remain polite and civil, though deep down I imagined taking the knife Ryan had hidden on his lap and jamming it straight into the bastard’s throat.
“I have something for you.” He jerked his chin to someone farther down the hallway, just out of sight.
To my surprise, Rue was shoved forward, one of Frankie’s men behind her.
“Rue!” I exclaimed, my heart soaring.
What was happening here? Had Frankie had a change of heart and decided to give her back to us? I could hardly believe it. Maybe it would only be until the trial, which was only a couple of days away now, but it was still something. I exchanged a smile of disbelief with Ryan, but something about his expression made me tamp down my enthusiasm.
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I reached for her, wanting to pull her into my arms, but Frankie’s guy jerked her back again. The little cry she gave reconjured thoughts of stabbing people with knives.
“Not so fast,” Frankie said. “This isn’t what it looks like.”
I frowned but didn’t take my eyes off Rue. I wished she could hear my thoughts. We love you. It’s okay. We’ll figure this out. Everything is going to be okay.
“What do you mean?” I said instead.
“She’s not here because we are giving her back to you. She’s here because she needs the same as what you did for the other two girls.”
My stomach dropped. “A passport. You want us to make her a passport?”
It was something we had been planning on doing for some time now, but not like this, not so Frankie fucking Capello benefited from it. There was only one reason for him to want Rue to have a passport. It was because he wanted her to be sold on like the other girls.
Ryan spoke up before I could.
“You’re not selling Rue,” he snapped. “She’s ours. You were supposed to give her back to us once she’d testified.”
Frankie frowned and pursed his lips. “I don’t remember that ever being agreed.”
“Yes, it was,” Ryan argued. “After she’d testified. We were getting her back again. She’s payment for Dylan’s work, remember?”
Frankie shook his head. “That promise was never made.”
Had he ever said that? Maybe not in so many words, but he’d never said anything about selling Rue. We would never have agreed to that—not that we had much choice.
“That’s bullshit.” Ryan slammed both his fists on the armrests of his wheelchair. “We’re not going to make her a passport just so you can sell her to some sick son of a bitch who can’t get a woman and so needs to buy one.”
Frankie chuckled, unfazed by Ryan’s outburst. “Isn’t that essentially what you are doing? You’re asking for her as payment for something your friend did.”
“No, it’s different,” I said. “Rue wants to come with us. She would be with us willingly, not because someone paid a big sum of money for her. Isn't that right, Rue?”
Captivated with Them (Dirty Twisted Love, #3) Page 9
