“Help!” I cried out for anyone to save me. I twisted against my restraints, but the silky binding simply slid around my wrists, securing me firmly in place. My scream tore up my throat, and the spike of abject horror magnified the dizziness from the drugs that lingered in my system. The room swirled around me, making my stomach churn. Nausea coated my shrieks in acid, and my next scream stuttered as I swallowed against the burn.
Through the unruly hair that tumbled over his brow, a flash of white indicated that my captor rolled his eyes at me. “Don’t bother. Do you think I drugged you just to bring you to a place where someone could hear you scream for help?” His voice was gravelly, rough with exasperation. “We’re going to have a little conversation. Screaming will only waste my time. I don’t like having my time wasted.” The last was a low warning, softer but somehow more terrifying than his growl.
“Who are you?” The question left my lips on a whisper. The room wouldn’t stop spinning, and my stomach writhed like a nest of venomous snakes. “What do you want from me?”
“I’m Max Ferrara. And I want you to tell me all about your father’s ties to the Russian Bratva.”
Ferrara. My brain stuck on the name, unable to process his second statement. Through the haze of drugs and terror, it tugged at my thoughts, dragging knowledge from the back of my mind. Ice frosted over my skin, and a bone-shaking shudder wracked my body. “Please let me go,” I begged on a tremulous whisper.
I didn’t know this man, Max, at all, but it wasn’t hard to guess why he’d kidnapped me. While my dad had served as lead prosecutor for the U.S. Attorney’s Office for the Southern District of New York, he’d built the case that decimated the Italian Mafia. The Ferraras were one of five major families that he’d taken down. That’d been when I was eleven years old. Max seemed too young to have been sent to prison back then, but there was an obvious reason why he had me tied to a chair in a dark room where no one would hear me scream: revenge.
Max’s teeth flashed in a savage grin. “So, you do know who I am. Good. What else did your daddy tell you about his dirty dealings? Tell me everything you know about his relationship with the Russians.”
That grin sliced through any rational thought I’d managed to gather in the midst of my drugged haze. Most of his face was still hidden in shadow, but that feral flash of white teeth set off my most basic prey response. I pulled harder against the restraints that bound me, frantically trying to flee from the threat. Blood pounded in my ears, but it didn’t drown out the sound of my ragged breaths. They sawed through the air around me, shredding any hope that this truly was a nightmare to ribbons.
Desperation punched my chest when I didn’t manage to shift so much as an inch off the chair; the bindings weren’t painful, but they held me fast.
“You don’t have to hurt me,” I begged in a rush. “Just let me go, and I swear I won’t tell anyone about this. Please, I—”
“I’m not hurting you,” he snapped, cutting off my plea. “The sooner you stop babbling, the sooner this will end. Tell me what I want to know.”
His corded muscles flexed where his arms were crossed over his thick chest, a chilling reinforcement of his brute strength and my powerlessness. A shadow ticked along the harsh line of his stubble-shaded jaw, and his eerily illuminated cheekbones seemed to sharpen—like some primal, fearsome beast that dwelled in darkness.
I squeezed my eyes shut, willing my head to stop spinning. Everything was surreal and sickening. If my world could just go back to normal, if only this were a nightmare and I could wake up…
“Focus, Freckles.” A sharp snap directly in front of my face jolted through my entire body like a thunderclap. “The Russians,” the beast prompted. “Tell me about your father and the Russians.”
“Russians?” I parroted the word in a squeak, compelled to say something—anything at all—if it would appease my captor.
A flash of white as he rolled his eyes again. “Yes, Russians. The Bratva. I know your father must’ve told you about his dealings. Daddy dearest obviously trusts his precious princess. He’s texted three times in the last half hour.” A rectangle of bright light blurred across my vision as he waved my phone at me.
Hope sparked in my chest. Daddy would worry if I didn’t answer his texts. He would come to my apartment looking for me. As the mayor of New York, he could mobilize an army of law enforcement to find me.
My captor seemed to read my thoughts. “He won’t find you,” he informed me with cold certainty. “I already used your thumbprint to unlock your phone and reply. You communicate with too many emojis, by the way. Anyone with half a brain could figure out what to say to keep your father from worrying. Your security is shit, Freckles.”