Erin Noelle - Transparent (Luminous #2)

Transparent © 2015 Erin Noelle All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval systems, copied in any form or by any means. Electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the author/ publisher, except by a reviewer that may quote brief passages for review purposes only. This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each participant.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events,

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Cover Design by Hang Le Cover Photography Furious Fotog Cover Model: Michael Federico with Model Madness, LLC Editing Indie Solutions & Kayla Robichaux Interior Design and Formatting Christine Borgford, Perfectly Publishable

Transparent is the conclusion of Blake and Madden's story that began in Translucent (Book One in the Luminous Duet), and should not be read as a standalone. It simply will not make sense. I've provided a short summary for those who need a quick reminder of what happened. RECAP: Blake Martin is a mystery. She enters buildings completely aware of her surroundings. Everything

she does, every move she makes is for a purpose. She's quiet, reserved; she likes being unnoticed. She's this way for a reason. Before she was Blake Martin, she was Bryleigh Carter Oliveira. The American Princess. Ish's wife. Ish. The illegitimate son to Italian mob boss Vincent Ricci. Ish pursued Bryleigh (Blake) with fervor. She was young (a high school student at the time), naïve, and enamored by the love and affection Ish showed her, the love and affection that became her worst nightmare. Ish wasn't who she thought he was. He was controlling, abusive (physical,

emotional, sexual), and manipulative. After seeing Ish at his worst (making her have sex with another man in front of him, then brutally murdering the man right in front of her, blaming her for his death; having sex with other women, then killing the women if they got pregnant, torturing and murdering anyone who dared cross him). After years of living in the terrifying lifestyle, Bryleigh had had enough. She killed Ish. But she was smart. After going to the FBI, she was placed in the Witness Protection Program in exchange for her knowledge of his family's operation.

When Blake moved to Los Angeles, she knew no one. Her only family (mother and brother) had been killed by Vincent as retaliation for the murder of his son. She had no friends, being in the WITSEC. She was starting over. Through the help of the U.S. Marshal's office, she's set up with a new appearance, a new home, and a new job at JDT Graphic Designs. Meeting Madden Decker, CEO of Decker Enterprises, is life changing for both Blake and Madden. The connection is instant, and soon Madden is relentless in his pursuit of Blake. Blake, of course,

is incredibly timid during his quest. The last person who pursued her turned out to be a psychopath. And she's continuing to deal with the constant nightmares Ish left her with, causing her to inflict bodily harm to herself. Madden is amazingalpha, gorgeous, loves his parents. After admitting to herself and Madden there is something between them, they begin a relationship. Soon Madden realizes there's definitely more to Blake than she's presenting. He sees her nightmares, her times where she “checks out,” and he's the only one able to pull her out of it, the physical damage she does to

herself. He's determined to help her and be with her, and soon they're madly in love, though neither have had the courage to admit it to the other yet. Throughout their relationship, Madden and Blake deal with some normal things too. Jealousy from Emerson-a longtime family friend and former lover of Madden's. Emerson is ruthless and definitely not welcoming of Madden and Blake's relationship. Easton, Madden's brother, is a wild card. He's a partner in Decker Enterprises but rarely shows up and gets into trouble with the Russian mob

because of his gambling addiction. Just as things were starting to look to Blake like her life can, in fact, be normal, she gets a text from Madden, letting her know that he will be picking her up after work. Typically she drives to his house on Friday nights so they can spend the weekend together, so this wasn't normal, but she trusts him enough to not question it. As she climbs into the car, she's transported directly into one of her nightmares as she hears someone greet her by her “real” name. She's been abducted. But we are left to question by whom.

TRANSPARENT NOTE TO READER 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 EPILOGUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS ABOUT THE AUTHOR BOOKS BY ERIN NOELLE

For George R. R. Martin ~ At least someone takes longer than I do to put out a sequel

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THE DAY I TURNED FOURTEEN, I tortured a man for the first time. Strung him up naked in one of my dad’s warehouses. Gagged him so I didn’t have to listen to him scream like the traitorous cunt he was as I cut off a different body part every half hour for nearly an entire afternoon. Just as I’d watched it be done numerous times over the past couple of years.

First were his hands and feet, each removed with a single swing of the new shaska my father had given me that morning at breakfast for my birthday. I remembered how proud he and my uncles were of my clean, precise form, insisting we all toast with a shot of Baikal vodka after each strike. The alcohol boosted my confidence and conviction, and by the fifth time I walked into the seedy back interrogation room, illuminated only by a flickering fluorescent light hanging in the middle of the cracked ceiling, I felt like the Pakhan himself—invincible, immortal,

and on top of the Russian mafia world. Another swift swipe of my goldplated sword, and the man was no longer a man, anatomically speaking. And when I brought his pretty bride in to see him one last time, I demonstrated all the ways he would never enjoy her again, brutally fucking every hole her body had to offer, all less than a couple feet from him. His eyelids were stapled open, forcing him to watch as she abandoned their vows and trembled with release on top of my teenaged cock while I viciously pounded in and out of her. Then, as my family members—both

blood and sworn by oath—had their way with her in the next room, I brought my blade to the cock-less bastard’s throat and whispered the words “Forgive me, Lord, for I have sinned” in Russian as I sliced him from ear to ear. The entire warehouse erupted in cheers and applause as the shestyorkas, the lowest associates in my father’s brigade, rushed in to clean up the bloody mess before our women and my school friends arrived for the actual birthday party. I may have been born into the powerful Kabinov family by chance, but

I would die Bratva—in the brotherhood —by choice. That was over eighteen years ago, and though I’m now third in line to rule one of the most powerful organized crime rings in the world, a lot changes when a boy becomes a man. No longer am I interested in spending time filleting the scum of the earth or fucking tainted whore pussy. No. I don’t waste my time on that shit anymore. I’m saving my wrath for the day the man responsible for the murder of my wife and my brother, as well as a handful of others in my family, stands before me to answer

for what he’s done. And with the Lord above and the Demon below as my witnesses, I swear once I get my hands on him, Vincent Ricci is going to wish with every fiber of his being that I was still that fourteenyear-old boy who didn’t know what it was like to have the most precious thing in the world taken from him. A boy who didn’t know the fierce agony and mindcontrolling rage that comes along with losing the person you love most. The boss of the powerful Ricci Family of Chicago may have been able to evade me and my brothers for the last

two years, but finally, I have the one thing he desires most of all. The one thing that will make him vulnerable, careless and irresponsible. And she is currently bound to my bed. Staring down at her as she sleeps soundly, knocked out from whatever drug that crazy red-headed bitch gave her, I can’t help but notice the resemblance of her to my Darya. Moi miliy kotik—moi Darya. Porcelain skin. Thick, dark lashes resting peacefully on her high, prominent cheekbones. Rosy lips so full and lush

they beg to be kissed. I’m almost scared to see her with her eyes open. Will she have those same blue sapphires that can . .. I stand up abruptly from the bedside chair and step toward the window, peering out at the waves as they lap relentlessly along the rocky Pacific Coast, laughing at myself for the absurd thoughts. Now is not the time to think about lashes or lips or eye color. Now is not the time to adulate over my prisoner —this American Princess, as they call her. She is only the means to an end.

Because now is the time for revenge.

Earlier that day . . . DEAD CAR BATTERY AT LUNCH. CHECK. Late to afternoon meeting due to a dead car battery. CHECK. CHECK. Lost cell phone somewhere between my office, the parking garage, and the afternoon meeting I was late to, because of the dead car battery. CHECK. CHECK. Motherfucking CHECK.

Today definitely hasn’t shaped up the way I imagined, and if it wasn’t for the fact that it’s Friday, I’d probably be ready to kill someone right now as I sit in bumper-to-bumper traffic on the dreaded 101 at rush hour. I hate when shit doesn’t go as planned. I check the clock on the dashboard for the eighth time in the last ten minutes, and well, shit really isn’t going as fucking planned right now. I’d wasted a ridiculous amount of time standing around, waiting for the mechanic from the Mercedes dealership to get my car running again. Then, even

more as I’d dealt with the overly helpful, please-take-me-home-and-fuck-me-eyed co-ed working at the Apple store, who took nearly an hour to get my phone replaced and loaded with all my previous settings. I’m finally on my way home, ready to start the weekend with my sweet girl . . . who still hasn’t returned my phone call or my text. What is it about today? Reaching for the phone lying in the passenger seat, I press my thumb against the small circular button, and the black screen confirms I haven’t missed any messages or calls. I grunt my displeasure

as I grip the wheel tighter, my knuckles turning purple first, then stark white. Blake knows damn well I worry if she doesn’t get back to me promptly. And since I know she should be in her car, driving to my house right now, there’s absolutely no reason she hasn’t called or texted me back in the last twenty minutes. I have half a mind to bend her over my knee and spank her cute little ass when I see her tonight. By the time I pull into the driveway of my Spanish-style Calabasas home, my stomach is tangled in a knot of unease. It’s been over an hour, and still no word

from Blake. This isn’t like her at all, and even though her self-destructive episodes have been less frequent in the past few weeks, there’s still a chance one can be triggered at any time or any place. The thought of her in that state somewhere, vulnerable to others or when she’s driving, makes my blood run ice cold. She could be in danger or seriously hurt. No! I tell myself as I exit the car and bound up the walkway, refusing to think the worst. I bet something simple has happened, like her phone battery died and she forgot her car charger at home.

I’m sure she’s on her way here right now, stuck on the highway with the thousands of other commuters eager to start their weekend as I just was. Unlocking the door and striding inside, I continue to try to convince myself she’ll be here in a little while. Just like she’s been every weekend for the last couple of months. I’m simply overreacting . . . allowing the domineering, protective nature I have with her to overrule rational sensibility. Yes, Madden, you’re fucking overreacting. Chill the fuck out. I do my best to push aside my

apprehension and quickly scan the note from my housekeeper, Sarah, about how to heat up the dinner she’s prepared and left in the fridge. Snickering at the last line that reminds me to turn the oven off, I swipe a beer from the top shelf and head upstairs to shower and change clothes. My sweet girl should be here by the time I’m finished. For the past six years—before I met Blake—weekends held no charm for me. After being fast-tracked into the role of CEO at Decker Enterprises due to my father’s poor health, I found I preferred to be at the office, focusing on the

development and expansion of our family business much more than I enjoyed being home alone. Sure, I’d go out and meet my brother and some friends at a bar often enough. I’d have a few drinks then usually end up leaving with a random pretty face, but it always felt like that was what I was supposed to be doing, not what I wanted to be doing. Now that the weekend means I get to spend three straight nights with Blake, my countdown for Friday night starts the minute she leaves my house Monday morning. How we got here so fast, I’m not really sure, nor do I care. And

despite my initial intentions, I’ve most definitely fallen for her. Hard. It’s the most natural thing I’ve ever experienced. But every time I start to say those three little words—to tell her how much and how deeply I feel about her, and how much she means to me—she finds a way to interrupt me, as if she’s not quite ready for the heaviness of them quite yet. So, I wait, worried I’ll send her running away if I push. The first thing she needs to realize is she’s worthy of being loved, which is what I’m working so diligently on now. Despite the fact I know very little

about the details of her troubled past, it didn’t take me long to figure out whatever happened must’ve been really fucked up. At twenty-two, with no living family and starting over in a brand new city where she knows not a single person, Blake possesses courage very few people have, and it’s my goal to provide her the safety and security to be the bright, beautiful, fun-loving young woman she sometimes gives me glimpses of when we’re alone. I want that for her all the time. I want that for us. It’s seven fifteen once I scrub the

grime of the day off my skin and settle into a comfortable t-shirt and a pair of jeans, and she’s still not here. Checking my phone, the same blank screen stares back at me. I want to grab another beer, the first having done little to soothe my anxiety, but the nagging thought I may need to get back out on the roads to look for her steers me otherwise. At eight o’clock, I start to freak out. I’ve walked the hardwood floors in my study so many times over the last fortyfive minutes, I’m surprised the bottoms of my bare feet aren’t stained and varnished. I can’t sit here any longer and

do nothing. My gut says something is definitely not right, and my gut is rarely wrong. Grabbing my keys and wallet, I’m concerned she may have broken down on the side of the road, so I choose to drive the route from my house to her Woodland Hills’ apartment. The car ride is silent, my nerves so shot I can’t even stand to listen to music on the radio, and with each dark mile eaten up by the rubber of the tires, I lose a little more of my steadfast composure. I need to see her. I need to know she’s okay. With no sign of her or her car at her

home, I continue on to her workplace in Burbank in another twenty minutes of dead silence. When I find a dark, locked-up office building and her silver Jetta parked in an otherwise vacant employee lot, a thousand alarms go off in my head. “Fuuuuccckkkk!” I scream, slamming the heel of my hands on the steering wheel. Throwing the transmission into park, I jump out of my car and sprint to her base-model sedan, inspecting it bumperto-bumper for any indication as to where she could be. I drop to my knees, my desperate eyes searching the asphalt next

to and under the car. But unfortunately, there’s nothing. Not a single fucking clue. Fear washes over me. Fear, and something that feels a lot like out-ofcontrol panic. But before I succumb to the weakness of both emotions, I take a deep breath in through my nose and blow it out through my pursed lips, hoping to clear my chaotic thoughts. I have to stay in control, keep my wits about me, if I want to find her. I need a plan. After retrieving Jae’s cell number from one of the work emails she’d sent me earlier this week, I call, hoping since

she’s Blake’s closest friend and coworker, she’ll know what’s going on. Even though I’ll be pissed as shit Blake didn’t call or show up at my house like she’s supposed to, I’ll breathe easier just knowing she’s safe and sound. “Hello, this is Jae,” she answers after only one ring. Clearing my throat, I attempt to keep my composure as I speak. “Hey, Jae, it’s Madden Decker. I’m sorry to bother you on a Friday night, but I’m calling you about Blake.” “Blake?” she asks, obviously concerned. “Is she okay? What’s going

on?” “I was hoping you could answer that for me. I’m currently standing in the parking lot at your office building where her car is, but it’s nearly nine-thirty, and I haven’t seen or heard from her this evening,” I reply curtly. “I don’t understand. She said you were picking her up after work today,” she claims, the worry quickly morphing into panic. “She got a text from you this afternoon and said you had a surprise for her . . . that you were gonna send a car to pick her up at six.” My stomach contracts with a

sickening lurch. What in the fuck is going on? “No!” I snap, my mind whirring. “I couldn’t have sent her a text this afternoon; I lost my phone earlier today!” “Oh shit,” she mutters. “We’ve got a serious problem. What do you need me to do?” I give her my home address and instruct her to meet me there as soon as possible before hanging up. Then, dropping my head back, I stare up into the starless night’s sky as I force back the suffocating fear. There’s no time for that right now. Blake’s in danger. I know

it as certain as I know the sun will rise tomorrow morning. Every minute is crucial. Opening my car door, I slide onto the driver’s seat and start the car then dial my brother’s number. I hope to God he’s not involved with this, but once again, my gut is pointing unwaveringly in his direction. As soon as he answers, my voice drops to a low, deadly tone. “I swear to God, Easton, if anything happens to her, I will fucking kill you myself.” “Dude, what the fuck are you talking about?” he replies with obvious

confusion. “Blake!” I shout. “Where is she?” “I have no idea where your little girlfriend is. I’ve been at the track all day trying to win back some of the money I owe Kabinov—the money you refused to loan me, I might add—and I just sat down for dinner. Alone.” Baffled by his logic to continue gambling to payback gambling debts, I shake my head to myself and sit there quietly, choking on the panic building inside me. “Madden, are you still there?” he asks, his voice softening with a tinge of concern. “What’s going on?”

“I . . . uh, I don’t know,” I stammer. “She was supposed to come over tonight, like she does every Friday, but when she never showed and never answered my calls or texts, I came looking for her. I found her car parked outside her office, and her coworker told me I had contacted Blake earlier today and told her I would pick her up for a big surprise.” “And you never contacted her?” “No. I lost my phone earlier today,” I huff, my mind shifting into overdrive as things begin to make sense. “At least, I thought I did.” The car heaves forward

as I pull out of the parking lot midsentence. Easton asks someone where he is for his check and then returns his attention to our conversation. “I’ll help you find her, bro. There’s gotta be an explanation. I can be at your place in thirty minutes.” Already entering the highway, I agree. “Okay, see you then. Use your key if you beat me there, and don’t say a word to anyone, not even Emerson. I have a bad fucking feeling about this, and I don’t want anyone to know anything until we can piece together a timeline.”

Easton’s flashy Maserati and an unfamiliar Infiniti SUV—presumably Jae’s—are both parked in the driveway when I pull up to my house. The abundance of lights on inside casts a warm glow around the property, but the unsettling feeling inside me is anything but. Throughout the entire drive home, numerous scenarios of what may have happened run through my head, and I don’t like where any of them lead. So

many mysteries still surround her— questions about her ex-husband and what she meant when she said he’s gone now, questions about how her mom and brother died, questions about why she looks so different from the pictures I’d found of her. A shitload of questions, zero answers, and now the girl I love has disappeared. I slam my fist against the steering wheel, the sharp honk from the horn shattering the stillness of the night. Springing from my car, I rush inside, where my brother and Jae are waiting at the kitchen island. Their heads pop up as

I fly through the back door, hoping I’ve heard something, but with one look at my expression, their faces fall. “The first thing I need to do is pull my phone records from today,” I announce authoritatively. “I thought I forgot it in my office before my one o’clock meeting, but when I had Caroline check for it, she couldn’t find it anywhere, so I went straight to the store and had them turn the old one off and hook up a new one to my number. I didn’t even think for them to run one of those phone locator searches; it was under warranty and I was in a hurry to

get home.” I retrieve my laptop from the office and set up shop on the kitchen’s granite island. “Easton, were you at the office at all today?” I ask, glancing over to my only sibling. Sometimes I forget how much we look alike. Other than his sandy-colored hair being longer than my tousled, wavy locks, we share the similar bone structure and bright blue eyes, exactly like our mother. Staring down at his shoes, he shakes his head. “No, I’ve been at San Anita’s since the morning pole race.” “Was Emerson at the office? Do you

know?” I bark, desperation taking control of my tone. “Yeah, she called me around lunch to give me my messages and let me know she was leaving early to go out of town with some friends for the weekend. I didn’t ask a lot of questions ‘cause . . . well, ‘cause I was busy and not really paying attention to her.” Easton shrugs his shoulders and threads his fingers through his hair as he talks, the same exact thing I do when I’m either frustrated or at a loss—both of which I’m overwhelmed with right now. “I received an email from her at

some point today with comments on the latest player graphics I sent over. Hold on, let me check what time that was,” Jae chimes in as she searches for the message on her phone. Her face falls when she finds it. “Oh, it was at ninefifteen this morning.” The next forty minutes, I spend talking to Sprint, only to find out that texts to Blake’s phone were indeed sent from my old phone around one-thirty and the GPS locator had been disengaged. That confirms it. My missing phone has to be connected to Blake’s disappearance. Whoever set her up to

meet me was smart enough to make sure we wouldn’t be able to trace fingerprints or DNA. Surveillance footage from the security cameras set up at the office is our next task. I make a call to the head of our internal security, and within ten minutes, I have the film from the cameras positioned directly outside my office. Fast-forwarding through the tape to the afternoon, there’s only one person other than my assistant who enters my office the entire time I’m away. Emerson Lister. Betrayal boils inside me, and I’m

afraid of what I’m capable of doing when I get my hands on her. Family friend or not, she’s crossed the line this time. “Find her. Now.”

I LIE AWAKE, BUT DARE not open my eyes. Bound together with an abrasive rope digging into the paper-thin flesh of my wrists, my arms are tethered above my head to the frame of the bed, though my feet and legs remain free. Lying curled in a fetal position, a musty, threadbare blanket covers my otherwise naked body as I count my breaths, wondering which will be my last. A

chill slices through me as I think about what I’m about to endure, causing goosebumps to blanket every inch of my exposed skin and my teeth to chatter violently against each other. The visceral fear of my situation roots deep within my bones. I have no idea where I am or how I got here. I haven’t the slightest clue what time it is or even what day it is. But the one thing I do know for sure is who is responsible for my being here. That jealous, conniving bitch, Emerson. I should’ve known after hearing her talk with her friends at

Madden’s party that she’d do anything possible to get her hands back on him. But once again, I was too busy falling head-over-heels in love with someone who seemed too good to be true, and I let my guard down, became blind to what was going on around me. I’d told myself never again, and less than a few months into my new life, I fell right back in. I’m so fucking stupid. The unexpected image of Emerson sitting cross-legged, waiting for me in the backseat of that town car, all highand-mighty with her typical arrogant

expression, will be forever etched in my mind. Perfectly styled, strawberryblonde ringlets framing her equally flawless heart-shaped face. A widespread, malicious grin showing off her impeccably straight white teeth. Bright, emerald green eyes sparkling victoriously as my birth-given name rang out loud and clear between us in the confined space. I should’ve known the façade of a life I was living wouldn’t last long. I knew better than to believe I’d ever be able to start over and not be discovered. The day I pulled the trigger on Ish, I

sealed my fate. Moving to California and pretending to be someone I wasn’t only prolonged the inevitable. The only way out of the mafia is death, and now, all I can hope is for it to be as quick as possible. But I know better than that, too. I’m sure by now my ex-father-in-law, Vincent Ricci, has developed his own special form of torture, a way of inflicting the most pain possible before I actually die, intended specifically for the woman who killed his son. Bastard or not, Ish was his blood, and Vincent won’t rest until mine is spilled.

Footsteps. A pair of thunderous feet echoing angrily outside the room, growing closer with each stride, startle me and cause me to lose count. Trembling with trepidation, I roll over onto my stomach and bury my face into the mattress, praying silently for mercy. The visitor stomps inside and grunts, turning on the overhead light just before the door closes behind him. “Wake up and uncover your face, girl,” the man orders in a rumbling baritone, his heavy accent unfamiliar— maybe Eastern European, but definitely not Italian. “We have to leave soon.”

Squeezing my eyelids shut as tightly as possible, I ignore his command. An infinite number of questions swirl in my mind as I desperately try to fit the pieces of the puzzle together. If I’m not with Vincent or the Italians, where am I? Who else would want me captured? And how is Emerson associated with all of this? “Uncover your face,” he repeats gruffly as he approaches the bed. “Don’t make this more difficult than it needs to be.” Again, I remain stubbornly still, blatantly refusing to roll over and look at him. My palms, underarms, and the

backs of my knees all feel damp and clammy, as my nervous system switches into fight or flight mode. If it’s true what they say that you can smell fear, then right now, I reek of it. An exasperated sigh whooshes from him as he grabs the sheet and insistently yanks it down to my hips, revealing my bare back and butt to him. Instinctively, I stiffen, waiting for the blow I know is coming . . . but never does. The mattress dips with his weight as he sits on the bed next to me, bending down so his mouth is less than an inch from my ear. “Girl, I don’t want to hurt

you, but I’ll do what’s necessary to make sure you cooperate. I’m going to ask you one more time to show me your face before I put my hands on you and force you to.” His warm breath feathers over my neck, sending a shiver down my spine. Much like his accent, his scent is foreign, a pungent mixture of exotic spices and formidable danger. My heart bangs frantically against my sternum as the reality of the situation seeps in. I know without a shadow of a doubt I’m going to die, so I decide to stay obstinate and make him work for it.

“Fuck you,” I croak into the sheet, grimacing at the painful rawness of my throat. “Unbelievable,” he snarls, adding a word I can’t understand as he pushes off the headboard and returns to standing. He paces silently for a few moments, but stays close to the bed, his presence looming as I continue to conceal my face. “I know you do not know me, but right now, you need to realize I’m the best friend you have.” The words are clipped with forced control as he restrains himself from reacting to my

insubordinate behavior. “Show some respect and do what you are told. I mean you no harm, but I will not hesitate to do whatever is necessary to ensure that you cooperate,” he repeats. He pauses briefly as something soft lands on the bed, brushing against my ribcage. “I’ve brought you some clothes to change into. I trust when I free you that you won’t do anything stupid to force me to tie you again. Now, I’m going to ask you for the last time to turn your head and look at me.” The foreigner’s voice overflows with increasing irritation, and innately I

know he’s not one to make idle threats. Ever so slowly, I twist my neck to the side and rest my cheek on the mattress. My dry, scratchy eyes are open, but I still refuse to meet his eyes as I stare at the blank white wall behind him. I’m hanging on to the tiny bit of courage and dignity I have left, refusing to submit completely. Fully expecting him to yank me by the hair or to backhand me like Ish used to whenever I didn’t agree with something he said, I’m surprised when a burly chuckle escapes him, and without thinking, my inquisitive gaze cuts

upward to his. I gasp with surprise then quickly look away. Oh, shit. He’s huge. And scary. “My reports said you were timid and docile, but I can see my investigators were fooled. Sassy and stubborn seem a bit more fitting.” He smirks while untying the knots of my restraints. “It’s a good thing I love a challenge.” Determined not to let the warm smile tugging at the edges of his mouth lull me into thinking this man is a nice guy for any reason, I lower my freed arms to my sides, grimacing at the soreness in my

biceps and shoulders from being suspended. Pushing myself up to sitting, I inspect the enflamed friction burns around my wrists and am reminded of my own self-destructive behaviors. My life is a fucking mess. Good thing it probably won’t last much longer. “Who are you, and what do you want from me?” I snap angrily as I glower up at him. “Just fucking kill me already and get this over with.” “My name is Raze, and I want you to put some clothes on.” His piercing, icy blue gaze falls to my bare breasts momentarily before he lifts it back up to

mine again. “I have no plans on killing you, girl, but if you don’t get dressed soon, I’m not going to be responsible for other things I may do with you.” I snatch the folded, oversized white t-shirt from the bed where he tossed it minutes ago and quickly slip it over my head. Glancing down, he raises his eyebrows at the white lacy panties, which I recognize as the ones I had on when I was abducted, still atop the covers. Then, without me asking him to, he slowly turns around and steps a few feet away to give me a bit of privacy. As he’s facing away from me, I

contemplate jumping on his back, attacking him, and making an attempt to escape, but not knowing where in the world I am or how many others like him are waiting outside the door, I wisely stick to putting the panties on. If I have any chance of a getaway whatsoever, I need to make smart, well thought out decisions, not hasty, impetuous ones. Those will only get me killed . . . faster. Even though I now have enough clothing on to cover me, I keep the blanket pulled up over my legs and chest as I sit cross-legged on the mattress. Once he senses I’m settled, he pivots

around on his heel and locks his penetrating stare on me, the amused expression all but erased from his face. Up until now, I’ve been too scared out of my mind to take a really good look at him other than his arresting eyes, and not that I’m relaxed or optimistic about the situation now, but I figure he didn’t bother with having me get dressed just to kill me in the next several minutes. So as he moves back toward the bed, I do a quick assessment of my captor, in the infinitesimal chance I may one day escape and need to describe him to authorities.

His straight, dirty blond hair is cut short in the back while the top is long and unruly, though it doesn’t strike me as the fresh-out-of-bed look. No, he’s just a man who doesn’t give a fuck and has more important stuff to do than waste time styling his hair. An angry, jagged scar starting right below his left brow zigzags down to his cheekbone, where it bleeds into the several-day-old stubble covering his sharp, angular jaw. He’s wearing a solid black long-sleeved Henley shirt, which I find odd, considering it’s summer in Southern California, paired with black pants that

are tucked into heavy-duty, black military boots, all of it snugly fitting over his powerfully built body. He looks like an assassin. Striking . . . dangerous . . . oddly beautiful. Like an angel of death. “I see your mind working on overdrive, girl, but you need to be patient. Everything will be revealed to you in due time,” he says as he leans against the bedframe, keeping a fair amount of distance between us. “Where’s Emerson? What do you want with me?” I blurt out, ignoring his previous comments.

“I have no idea who Emerson is, and right now, I want you to shut up,” he retorts, shaking his head. He mumbles something else I can’t understand before adding, “Do you Americans ever just listen?” “What language are you speaking? Who are you? Where am I?” He holds his hand up in the air as he pinches his brows together. “Shut up!” he barks. “If you would shut the fuck up for one goddamn minute and let me talk, I’ll tell you what you need to know.” Deciding it’s in my best interest to keep my mouth closed at this point, I

press my lips into a straight line and tip my head toward him, indicating I’m finished with my outbursts. For now, at least. “As I already told you, my name is Raze, and we are inside one of the many houses owned by my grandfather, Anatoli Kabinov, which is who’s currently waiting downstairs to see you.” Exhaling a deep breath, he pauses briefly, but keeps his intense stare locked on me. “Get ready, girl. You’re about to become the most important pawn in the biggest mafia war this country has ever seen.”

ALL MY SENSES ARE ON full alert as I follow Raze from the bedroom I’ve been held in, out to what seems like an ordinary house—well, what I assume is ordinary for Russian mafia warlords. The room is at the end of a long hallway, the other doors are all closed as we pass by to a circular marble staircase that leads down to a grandiose foyer. The highest ceilings I’ve ever

seen are framed with elaborate crown moldings and adorned with lavish chandeliers, while the floors are made up of what I assume to be rare, expensive tiles, meticulously laid out in intricate designs and color patterns. It looks more like a museum than a house. The walls are free of personal touches, no family photos or any other indicator of who lives there. There isn’t any furniture in the entryway, where I stand behind Raze waiting for him to instruct me on what to do next, I can see a handful of men gathered around a massive oak dining table through the

closed French doors on our left. I don’t allow my gaze to linger, afraid I’ll make eye contact with one of them. “When they open the doors, I will escort you inside,” Raze explains without looking back. “Stay close to me, and they will not hurt you. Do not speak unless Pakhan asks you a direct question. Do not react to what others say to you. Be honest about what you know, girl, or he will find out. And my grandfather does not treat liars kindly.” I nod my understanding even though he can’t see me, but somehow he senses it.

“Good.” He glances down at his watch then over at the men. “It should only be a few more minutes. After this, you’ll be allowed to eat dinner and shower.” Again, I nod, but say nothing. My brain is set on overdrive, furiously processing the limited amount of information I have about the situation. The moment Raze said the last name Kabinov, I immediately made the connection to the man Vincent had ordered Ish to kill the night I was hiding in my closet—the hit that triggered the bloody turf war that began in Chicago a

couple of years ago. But if the Kabinovs hate the Riccis, what do they want with me? Are they going to sell me to the Italians? What did Raze mean by being a pawn? And how the hell does Emerson fit into all of this? Is Madden involved? Does he know what happened to me? Is he worried? One question spurs another, and then another, until the massiveness of the unknown begins to suffocate me. I desperately want to grab my throat, to claw at the murky vines wrapping around my neck, threatening to cut off my air supply. My teeth sink into the flesh

inside my cheek, purposely drawing blood to drink, forcing me to swallow. Raze becomes a blurry black figure in front of me, and just before the darkness takes hold, a door swings open, and a deep booming voice breaks through my haze, snapping me out of my panic attack. “Raze,” the man barks, sneering in my direction before he adds something that sounds like, “Sookah. Siy-chas.” Tipping his chin in my direction with an intense expression full of warning, Raze strides toward the gathering without saying a word. I follow closely,

ignoring the muffled comments as we enter the room, most of which I don’t understand anyway. Keeping my focus fixed directly in front of me, on the center of his back, I nearly slam straight into him when he stops abruptly. Thankfully, I’m able to keep my balance without having to grab ahold of him, and I recover quickly. My near-fall forces me to look around at my surroundings, which is when I realize we’re standing next to a chair—or what could better be referred to as a throne—at the head of the table. A man, who looks exactly like a seventy-

year-old version of Raze, sits erect on the gold-plated seat and sizes me up, power and authority oozing from his pores. “Mizz Oliveira—” be begins to address me, but I quickly cut him off. “Blake,” I correct him. “My name is Blake Martin.” I lift my chin defiantly and hold his stare, disregarding the collective gasp heard around the room. As Raze’s body tenses next to me, I prepare to be punished for my disrespectful behavior. The elder Russian’s face is stone-like while he studies me for several moments. Long,

deafeningly silent moments. Then, probably as much to my surprise as the others in the room, the corners of his mouth begin to curl upward, and before I know it, he’s shaking with uncontainable laughter. Everyone—myself and Raze included—remain motionless as we wait for the man to catch his breath . . . everyone except for the guy guarding the room who called for us to enter moments ago. A barely-audible chuckle escapes him, and immediately, the man who I assume to be Anatoli Kabinov stops laughing and cuts his frosty gaze in the

direction of the door. “Is something funny, Sergei?” I presume he’s using English for my behalf. He wants me to know what is happening. “Do you find amusement in your Pakhan being interrupted? Is there something funny about that?” The guard straightens his posture and wipes any expression from his face. “No, Pakhan. Mne zhal.” “I’m sorry too,” he replies impassively, lifting his eyebrows at another gentleman seated at the table. A chair grates across the floor as the man stands up, walks over to the guard, and

slits his throat with a knife hidden in his belt. Then, with no reaction from anyone in the room, he returns to his seat and nods once. Breathing is a struggle as I try my best not to freak out. No one else pays any attention to the lifeless body lying in a pool of blood only feet from the rest of us, but my entire body shivers with terror. I stare down at the contrast of my tiny bare feet next to Raze’s giant combat boots, a stark representation of how weak and defenseless I am around these people. People who place little value on the lives of others. People just like Ish

Oliveira and Vincent Ricci. “Yes, Mizz Martin,” Anatoli corrects himself, acting as if the conversation had not just been put on hold for a quick homicide. “I apologize for any disrespect. I can understand the desire to rid yourself of association with people such as your late husband.” Lifting my terrified gaze to his, I whisper, “Yes, thank you.” “Of course, you are a guest in my home,” he boasts, a hint of cynicism lacing his words. “And I must admit, though I’ve wined and dined with royalty from all over the world, you’re

the first American Princess I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting. I apologize for not having better prepared for your stay, but your arrival was a bit short notice.” I suck in a sharp breath at his use of Ish’s nickname for me—the name that was splattered across newspaper headlines around the world for weeks after his murder—but refrain from speaking out. The Russian is playing a mind game with me, and I refuse to allow him to win that easily. “Sir, I am sure you are well aware I am no princess,” I respond with a forced

polite smile, “and if you’ll tell me why I’m here, I’ll do my best to help, and then be on my way.” He contemplates my words for a minute as he steeples his hands in front of his face, tapping the tips of his index fingers against his pursed lips. “Do you know who I am, Mizz Martin?” I nod. “Yes, sir. You are Anatoli Kabinov, the highest-ranking boss of Russian organized crime in the States.” “How do you know who I am?” he presses. “And don’t tell me because my grandson told you either. I want to know what you know.”

Sensing my hesitation, Raze shoots threatening daggers in my direction, reminding me of his earlier warning. I swallow hard, the metallic taste of blood still lingering on my tongue, before I open my mouth and disclose everything I know. “One evening a couple of years ago, I overheard my former father-in-law and ex-husband discussing you and your family’s activities in the Chicago area.” My voice is shaky, the words rushed. “Vincent ordered Ish to take two of his men to a warehouse, where they were to carry out a hit on your grandson, Alexei

Kabinov, and everyone who was with him.” Rage flares in Anatoli’s eyes as the entire room bursts into disorder, everyone shouting and talking at once . . . everyone except Raze. He is a frozen statue, his face murderous. It’s not until now I realize if Anatoli is his grandfather also, then Alexei must’ve been either his brother or cousin. Having had my own brother and mother murdered by Vincent, an unfathomable urge to reach out and grab his hand, a desire to soothe him, flickers inside me, but before I can act on the

reckless impulse, Anatoli leaps to his feet, silencing the room. “You have already done us the favor of killing the man who held the blade, and for that, we are grateful. But now, you must finish the job. If you want to live out your days as Blake Martin, you will also take the man’s life who gave the orders to execute my grandson and other family members.” He stares at me keenly with a villainous smile spread across his face, flashing his perfect white teeth. “Kill Vincent Ricci, or you will join your cunt of an ex-husband in the ground, Princess.”

GLASSY BLOODSHOT EYES RESTING ATOP dark half-moons stare back at me in the mirror as coarse brown stubble covers the bottom half of my face, straggling unevenly down my throat. The scalding hot shower I just took did nothing to hide the evidence of the sleepless night I spent on the phone and computer, searching frantically for any clues to where Blake could be. For a

man who prides himself in remaining calm, cool, and collected in all situations, the hungover, homeless look I’ve got going right now is anything but. Instead, I appear exactly how I feel— disheveled, distraught, and desperate. I’m teetering on the edge of lucidity, hanging on by a single thread of hope . . . hope that she’s alive. Unfortunately, the person who I’m pretty sure has the most information about my girlfriend’s whereabouts took an impromptu vacation out on a catamaran with friends for the weekend—a trip I don’t believe for one damn minute was sheer

coincidence. Emerson knew we wouldn’t be able to reach her via cell phone if she was hundreds of miles off the Pacific Coast, but she has to come back sometime—tomorrow afternoon, according to what she told her parents— and you better believe your ass I’ll be the first one waiting for her at the marina. Demanding answers. But until then, I have no plans to sit around with my thumb stuck up my ass. No, I’ve got to do something, compile whatever information I can. Between the little that Blake has shared with Jae and me about her past, there’s a dark, sinister

story there, and I’m afraid it’s caught up with her. I just can’t figure out how Emerson is tied to any of it. Rapidly, I shake my head back and forth, forcing myself out of the incessant thoughts swarming through my mind, and propel my body into motion. Staring at myself in the mirror all day isn’t going to bring me any more answers than I have now, so I push off the marble sink and stalk over to the cargo shorts and t-shirt I brought into the bathroom, quickly slipping them on before heading downstairs. Still in yesterday’s wrinkled clothes,

Easton and Jae are already seated at the table, with plates of eggs and bacon in front of them and piping hot mugs of coffee in their hands. Neither of them appear to be very interested in the food, as they both sit quietly, pushing it around with their forks. Clucking around the kitchen in an almost frantic pace, Sarah looks up when she hears me enter the room, and immediately, I know by her somber expression that they’ve told her. “Oh, Señor Madden. Why didn’t you call me last night?” my longtime housekeeper asks with smeared mascara below her worried eyes, fresh tears

clinging to the red lower rims. “I would’ve come to help. You know how I feel about that dear child.” I nod, striding over to give her a comforting hug. Shortly after Blake and I began seeing each other, Sarah witnessed one of Blake’s flashback episodes, and ever since then, she’s taken a special interest in my girlfriend, very much like a protective mother. “There’s nothing you could’ve done, Sarah,” I murmur, holding the grayhaired Hispanic lady in my arms. “While we’re waiting to speak with Emerson, Jae, Easton, and I are going to go search

her apartment this morning to see what we can find out.” Releasing her grip, she steps back and wipes the tears from her cheeks. “Haven’t you notified the police? Can’t they be looking for her? Can’t someone be doing something?” “We have,” I assure her, “but because Blake is an adult, they can’t do anything for twenty-four hours without proof of foul play. I did manage to talk to one of the detectives late last night, and he’s going to see what he can find out, but we were leery to tell them what we know about Emerson, the texts, and any

possible involvement until we talk to her.” “Ay Dios Mio!” she screeches with an incredulous glare. “Why would you do that? I don’t understand. There was obviously foul play involved. Why would you cover for that—” she curls her nose up like she has a bad taste in her mouth before spitting the last words out, “—that pinche bruja.” “Until we know who we’re dealing with, Sarah, we need to be cautious about what we share,” I explain as I walk over to the coffee machine and grab a travel mug from the cabinet

above, though I’m doubtful caffeine is going to put a dent in my exhaustion level. “You know she came from somewhere bad, Sarah. We don’t know what these people are capable of.” She mutters something else in Spanish under her breath as she walks away, clearly not agreeing with how I’ve handled all of this so far. I understand her anger and frustration. God, do I understand it. But I’ve got a bad feeling about getting the authorities involved until we talk to Emerson. Odds are, whomever Blake was involved with before she moved here and started her

life over probably aren’t big fans of the law, and I’d hate to jeopardize her safety by getting them involved if this is something we can handle ourselves. If it’s money these people want, I’ll pay them whatever they ask. Everything I have. All I want is my sweet girl back. Safe and sound. I just want to hold her in my arms, look into her eyes, and tell her I love her—what I’ve been avoiding saying to her for weeks now. But unfortunately, I think if it was someone just after my money, we would’ve received a ransom note or phone call by this point.

Once the coffee is poured, I glance over at my brother and Jae and pop my chin slightly, giving them the silent ‘Let’s go’. They stand immediately, thanking Sarah for the breakfast they didn’t eat, and move to retrieve their things from the counter. We’ve talked the situation to death; now, we’re all simply hoping we’ll find out something more today. “I’m not sure when I’ll be home, and I’ll eat out later,” I tell Sarah as I grab my keys and phone, “so you’re free to go whenever you finish things here. If I learn anything, I’ll call you.” “I’ll be praying,” she replies

solemnly as the three of us walk out the back door. Well, that makes two of us.

Getting into Blake’s apartment is easy, as I still have her spare key and the entry codes from when I came to get her clothes while she was in the hospital a couple of months ago. That was the same day I’d found the envelope full of pictures in her dresser. The same day I stole the old photo of her as a teenager to keep in my desk. Back then, I was

curious why she had the pictures hidden away, but today, I’m hopeful she’s got more things stashed in random spots around her home . . . things that could lead us in the direction of finding her. “All right, I’ll take the bedroom and closet,” I announce once all three of us are inside and the alarm is disarmed. “Jae, you got the kitchen and bathroom, and Easton, start in the living room. Look behind pictures, in drawers, under cushions . . . everywhere. Keep whatever looks like it could help us link her to anyone else or any other place. Mail, notes, anything.”

The two of them nod their agreement and take off on their missions as I stride down the short hallway into her bedroom. Pausing momentarily in the doorway, I inhale a deep breath as I scan the area for anything that catches my eye. The room is damn near spotless. The bed is perfectly-made, not a single wrinkle or lump in the comforter or shams. Zero clutter or personal items are on top of the dresser or small desk, and the laminate wood floors look as if they’ve been freshly swept and polished. Remembering my comparison of her place to a model apartment the first time

I came here, I wonder if she’s always lived like this—in a place that feels so faceless and soulless—and my instincts tell me that’s not the case. Whenever she moved here, it’s almost as if she made a point to not settle in . . . but why? The only sensible answer is in case she needed to leave abruptly, which only creates a shitload more questions I don’t have answers to. I blow out an exasperated sigh and run my fingers through my hair, deciding to start in her closet. That’s where I keep most of my valuables and personal documents, and I’m hoping she may do

the same. Removing all of the clothes from the metal rod, I dump them on her bed to give myself better access to the small rectangular space, but unfortunately, all that leaves is an empty nook with a few pairs of shoes neatly lined up against the baseboard. No file cabinet. No hidden safe. Nothing at all. My next spot is under the bed, but it’s clear and free of any objects as well. Cursing under my breath, I begin to rummage through her well-organized nightstand, when I hear Jae call out with alarm, “Madden! Come here, quick!

Take a look at this.” Dropping the tube of ChapStick and package of tissues, I slam the drawer shut and sprint out into the living room, where she and Easton are hovering over a stack of papers spread out on the kitchen table. “What?” I demand, pushing my way in between them to have a better look. “What’d you find?” “It’s her lease for this apartment, but look here,” the petite Asian woman urges, pointing about midway down on the typeset page. “There is no job listed, nor any previous rental history. It seems

odd that they would’ve approved her without all of this information completed.” Easton picks up another sheet, narrowing his scrutinizing gaze. “Do either of you know an Owen Doherty?” “No,” Jae and I reply in unison as we transfer our attention to the paper he’s holding. “Well, he’s listed as her only emergency contact. Do you think we should call the number?” Staring down at the black letters, the name Owen Doherty runs through my mind over and over in rapid succession

as I try to place it, but I continue to come up blank. It doesn’t ring a bell at all. She’s never mentioned anyone by his name before. I’m sure of it. “I don’t know,” I admit my unease at calling some stranger and alerting him of Blake’s disappearance, still wanting to hear what Emerson says first. “That could be anyone. We have no idea of who he is to her. Maybe we should run a Google search on the name first.” “I’m okay with running a search,” Jae announces, picking up another sheet to read for more clues, “but I think we have to call either way. If Blake listed

this person as her emergency contact, and I know that’s her handwriting, then we need to contact him. He may be able to help us while we’re waiting around for whatever-the-fuck-the-bimbo’sname-is to get back.” Glancing over at Easton, he nods his concurrence as I type the name into the search engine on my phone. Dread takes root deep in my stomach as the screen updates within seconds, displaying thousands of hits that match up with Owen Doherty, Assistant Director of Witness Security, United States Marshals Service.

We all gape silently at the screen, each processing what this means. At first, my emotions override common sense, and I tell myself it’s probably another guy with the same name. Blake wouldn’t have any connection to the Witness Protection Program; after all, she’s not in hiding. But as I scroll through the results page, I remember how she’s always on high alert when we’re in public, her observant gaze always on guard. Then I think about the drastic change in hair color and style from the photo of her I found. All of her family is dead. She has no history before

she showed up in California this spring. And of course, there’s the nightmares and the self-harm episodes. That’s when it all clicks. I don’t know who has my Blake. I don’t know why they have my Blake. But I do know that my Blake isn’t really Blake at all.

“ON YOUR FEET! LET’S GO! Now! No time to waste.” Raze demands gruffly as he barges into the room, the door flying open with such force it slams into the wall with an echoing thud. His Russian accent is heavier when he’s irritated. Earlier this morning, when he brought me breakfast and a fresh t-shirt, I could understand him clearly, but now I have to work to make sense of his

words. His turbulent blue gaze cuts around the room until they land on where I’m curled up in a ball in the corner of the room, and when I don’t jump up right away, he begins to stalk in my direction. “Did you hear me, girl? I said we have to leave. Right no—” He stops in his tracks once he takes notice of the spaghetti dinner the housekeeper, or at least that’s who I assume she was, delivered a short time ago, now splattered against the wall above where the plate it was served on lies in fragmented pieces on the floor. I tighten

my grip on one of the porcelain shards entangled in my trembling fingers. The sharpest one I could find. “What in the fuck did you do? Are you fucking crazy?” Boring a hole in me with an incredulous stare, he closes the distance between us and squats down to my level. I keep my eyes trained on him, but say nothing. I’ve got a split-second to make the decision on whether to attempt an escape now with my makeshift weapon, or to wait until a better opportunity presents itself. All day, I’ve been trying to listen to the different

muffled voices through the walls as I watched the cars come and go out the window, compiling as much information as possible about my whereabouts and the people in the house. I haven’t learned much except that Raze has been here with me the whole time. After Anatoli informed me last night of my purpose here with the Russians, Raze escorted me back to the room—this room—where I was permitted to shower and given a bowl of chicken and rice to eat. The rest of the night I lay awake in the darkness, the sound of crickets in the trees, and my conflicting thoughts.

Thoughts that ranged from planning my getaway, to wondering how sweet the revenge would be if I actually killed Vincent Ricci. I’m still not sure where I fall, but I know being held in captivity, being forced to do someone else’s dirty work, isn’t where I want to be. I was Ish’s puppet for way too long, and I did what I had to do to get out of that situation, even though it meant murdering the man I was once in love with. I won’t ever be that naïve girl again. I hold my own strings; I won’t think twice about killing any of these people to regain my freedom. And

I’m willing to risk my own life to keep it that way. My decision is made for me when I’m jerked back to the present as Raze, who’s growling at me in Russian, scoops me up off the floor and hauls me over his shoulder before throwing me onto the bed. I don’t have time to put up a fight before he climbs on top of me, pinning me with the strength of his legs, and I feel a quick prick in the side of my neck. Then everything goes black again.

The same hazy feeling I had the first time I was drugged blurs my vision when I awaken. Again, I have no idea where I am, nor how long I’ve been unconscious. The grogginess begins to fade slowly as I realize I’m lying on a brown suede couch, covered with a plaid, flannel blanket. Wood-paneled walls, exposed two-by-fours in the ceiling, and flames dancing in the corner fireplace all come into view, and my first thought is I’m in a cabin . . . but where? And why? Is this where I’m going to meet Vincent? Even with the cover on top of me

and the fire warming the close quarters, I feel a chill in the air. Though that may have something to do with the fact I’m only wearing the thin white t-shirt Raze gave me and my own panties, still with no clue of what happened to the dress I was wearing when I was taken. Either way, it’s cold enough outside I can feel the frigid temperatures settling in my bones, which makes no sense for late summer in southern California. “You’re awake. I didn’t think you’d be up until morning,” Raze states with surprise as he appears from behind a half-wall carrying a glass of water and a

plate piled high with food. His heavy boots eat up the shabby carpet in three long strides, and he takes a seat in the equally worn captain’s chair across from the sofa. Glancing down at the meal as he leans forward and places it on the wooden coffee table, my stomach growls loudly at the sight of the sandwiches and fruit, reminding me I haven’t eaten in quite some time. His eyes flit from my face, over to the plate, then back over to me, before he furrows his brow with frustration. “If you wouldn’t have acted like a

brat earlier and thrown your dinner against the wall, you wouldn’t be so hungry,” he scolds, picking up half of the sandwich and offering it to me with an outstretched arm. Without thinking twice, I sit up and accept it, taking a big bite, desperate to pacify the empty feeling inside my stomach. “I don’t like Italian food,” I mumble as I chew. “Hmph,” he grunts as he takes a sip of the drink then thrusts it across the table toward me. “Let me guess. No Brazilian food either?” I shake my head as I finish eating the

cold cuts and rye bread then lift the glass to my lips, nearly choking as the clear liquid burns a path down my throat and into my chest. I’m not sure why I assumed it was water, but as I struggle not to breathe fire and keep my eyes from watering, I mentally add vodka to the list of things I don’t like. Not that it’ll matter if I never escape this situation alive. “Where are we?” I ask curiously, ignoring his smirk over my reaction to the drink. “Why did we leave the other place?” Scooting the plate of fruit over

closer to me, he pops a grape in his mouth and leans back in the chair, his face now expressionless. “Word hit that the feds were notified of your disappearance and there’s a nationwide search for your whereabouts, so the first order of business has been postponed temporarily. I’m sure your old family back in Chicago will be their first visit, but since the Bratva has such a large presence in L.A., and we have known business involving the Riccis, I’m guessing they’ll be making their rounds to our properties soon enough. We are somewhere safe now, away from people,

and we’ll stay here until I’m told it’s clear to return.” At first, I’m relieved to hear someone’s looking for me and that I’m not going to have to face this Vincent thing immediately, but then I begin to panic. “But that—that could be a long time. Won’t they keep looking for me? And didn’t you realize someone would come looking for me?” “We did,” he confirms, “but not so quickly. We thought we had until Monday morning, when you wouldn’t show up for work, to get things rolling with the plan. We knew it’d be tight, but

we didn’t count on anyone missing you before that. And whoever it was knew to contact the marshals and not just the local police, because they wouldn’t have started a search for you until you were missing over a day. So that got me curious . . .” I know the answer before I even ask the question, but I have to hear him say it. “Who? Who reported me missing?” He leans forward and rests his elbows on his thighs, his face stone-like. “Madden Decker, CEO of Decker Enterprises.” My heart sinks at the sound of his

name. Madden. God, he must be worried sick. I was stupid. So fucking stupid to get involved with anyone, knowing something like this would happen eventually. It was inevitable. Only a matter of time. “How do you know him, girl? Is he a boyfriend?” Raze probes. Venomous hatred surges through me as I snarl at the burly Russian then gulp down the rest of the vodka from the glass still in front of me. “You’re the fucking mafia. Don’t you people know everything?” Amused by my outburst, his thin lips

curl up in an arrogant smirk. “Usually. But you’ve been off our radar ever since you went into hiding. Believe me, we were just as surprised by the phone call we received Friday afternoon as you were to wake up in my house later that same night. Everything happened fast. We had no intel that you were even in California before the offer was made for you. And from the limited amount of research I’ve been able to do on both you and Mr. Decker, the only link I can find between the two of you is professional.” I don’t waste any time pondering

over the word offer, because my jaded anger quickly morphs into sickening fear, lurching heavy in my gut. Fear for Madden. Fear that I’ve put him in danger. Fear that he’ll end up just like my mom and brother. Carved up and left just to make a statement. Unconsciously, I close my eyes as I wrap my arms around my waist and dig my fingernails into my sides, rocking back and forth. The familiar pain is oddly soothing. I can’t do this. I can’t do this again. I can’t have another innocent person murdered because of me. I’d rather die myself.

“How do you know him outside of your job? Why would he be looking for you on a Saturday morning?” The accent is heavy again, his deep voice full of warning, booming inside the small room. “Girl, stop playing games, or whatever you’re doing, and answer me now!” I don’t. I keep swaying on the cushion, submerging my fingertips deeper into the flesh covering my ribs, using the pain to anchor me to reality. My wretched, fucked-up reality. “If you don’t give me something, I’ll assume he’s just as much a fuck up as his brother is and take care of the whole

fucking family,” he threatens with a malicious grin. “Easton’s been a pain in my ass for way too long now anyway.” The mention of Madden’s brother Easton flips a switch inside my mind’s dark room of a thousand questions. The fog lifts over the missing links to the puzzle, and it’s all suddenly clear. Well, most of it. Easton is the connection to Emerson, Madden, and the Russians. He is the reason I’m here. Though he may or may not be directly involved, it’s because of his ties to the Kabinovs that Emerson turned me in to them. I remember

Madden’s conversations about the money his brother owed the Russians, and how he refused to pay off his gambling debts again. I knew then it was hitting too close to home, but I’d gotten sloppy. Too comfortable in my fake world. I’m still unsure how they found out I was Bryleigh, but at least I have some answers. Not that it matters much as I sit here in the middle of fucking nowhere. For who knows how long. With a man twice my size, who is a trained killer. Déjà-motherfucking-vu. “Why don’t you just kill me now?” I

ask, not releasing the painful grip I have on myself. “I’m not going to kill Vincent for you, or answer any of your questions. So the worst you can do is kill me. Just do it already.” Leaping up from the chair, he gets right up in my face, his nose pressed against mine, a wolfish grin playing at his lips. But I don’t flinch. And I don’t back down. He thinks he can scare me, but now that I’ve accepted I’m most likely going to die in the very near future, his attempts are futile. His menacing voice is a waste of breath. “Are you that stupid, girl? Did you

learn nothing when you were married to that piece of shit husband of yours about the way our world works?” Bringing his hand up between our bodies, his strong fingers circle around my neck and squeeze hard enough to make me gasp for air. “I have the ability to make you do things you thought you’d never do, and now your traitor eyes have told me exactly who I need to hurt to make you do them.” Seething, I spit in his face. “Fuck you.” With a wicked laugh, he releases his hold and straightens to his full height,

towering over me. “Maybe one day. If you’re lucky.”

I STARE BLANKLY AT THE balding, middle-aged man seated across the table from me, my mouth hanging agape. Time is at a standstill in the ritzy oyster bar of the Bayside Marina, where we sit at a table near the window. Easton is stunned silent next to me, Jae in a similar speechless state at my diagonal. I’m in shock. We all are. Complete fucking shock. Unable to even process

the words Marshal Doherty just spoke. Words that shred me to my core. Lies. It has to be lies. That’s my initial thought, though I know what he says is one-hundred percent true. He has no reason to be dishonest. He’s shown me the articles on his phone. It’s her in the pictures. Looking exactly like she did in the photos inside the hidden envelope in her drawer. Like the one I took and keep in my desk. “Who?” I ask, finally able to manage words. “Who do you think has her? Honestly.” The suit-clad man sighs and crosses

his arms over his chest, eyeing me with a circumspect hesitation. If he’s smart, he can sense the desperation oozing from my pores, and he realizes how dangerously devoted to finding Blake I am. No one will stop my efforts to find her, especially not after what he just revealed about her unthinkable past. “The first place we’ll look is Chicago,” he concedes, his voice so low it can barely be heard over the buzz from people around us. “Vincent Ricci has become one of the most powerful underbosses in America over the past few years, and he has made no secret

he’s looking for the woman who murdered his son. There’s a pretty price on her head. It may take a couple of days for whoever has her to get her there, but I’ll have my guys working close to him, keeping their ears to the ground. The Italians are known for having flashy, extravagant celebrations when they torture and kill someone they’ve been searching for. A way to show their entire community what will happen to you if you’re ever marked as an enemy of theirs. If he has her, we’ll know soon. They’ll want everyone to know.” My stomach rolls, threatening to

revolt at the images in my mind of where she could be. What they could be doing to her. If this sick fuck has her . . . I shudder at the thought. Though I’m slightly hurt from her deception, I understand why she didn’t tell me, and my primary concern now is alleviating the danger that looms over Blake . . . or Bryleigh . . . no, fuck that. She’s still Blake. My Blake. My sweet girl. “Soon isn’t good enough,” I roar, not caring if people nearby look over at us. The last forty-eight hours have been like something straight out of a Quentin Tarantino film. I’ve gone from having a

missing girlfriend, to watching her abduction on the building video surveillance feed, to learning she was once married to, and eventually was involved in the death of, a member of the Italian mafia. I’ve faced one crazy fucking revelation after another, and now, here I sit with a US Marshal, waiting for a girl I’ve known since I was a kid—someone who I thought was a family friend—to dock, so we can question her about any involvement in my girlfriend’s kidnapping. It’s all so fucking surreal. No one could make this shit up.

As I turn to my brother, I squeeze my hands into tight fists atop the polished wood table. “Easton, I swear to God, if I find out you knew anything about this— about who she was—I’m going to fucking kill you.” My tone is low and clipped. It’s the second time I’ve threatened my brother’s life in as many days, but this time I’m afraid I might just mean it. He stole my first love from me, having no regards for my feelings or brotherly love while he was burying his cock inside my fiancée’s pussy over a decade ago, and I’ll be damned if he takes Blake away from me

now. “Dude, Mad, I had no fucking clue about any of this. And if I did, I would’ve told you immediately. I swear to God,” he contends, his eyes wide. He’s either really as taken aback about learning all of this as I am, or he’s a really fucking good actor. I’m praying for the former. I glance impatiently down at my watch then return my focus to Marshal Doherty. “She should be here soon. What’s the plan when we see her?” “I’ll allow you—and you alone—to accompany me when I approach her to

explain I’m taking her in for a few questions. I need you to try to keep her from getting too defensive, but give her absolutely no information. If she refuses, I’ll be forced to cuff and detain her,” he explains, clearly preferring the first option. “I’d rather we not make a scene. Then, you’ll be allowed to follow me back into town and listen in on the interrogation from another room. Depending on her answers, she’ll either be kept and charged, or released. This questioning is based solely on circumstantial evidence, and if she pushes the issue, there’s not much we

can legally do.” “Got it.” I nod and take a drink of the ice water, locking my unwavering gaze at the end of the pier. The moment Emerson appears in my line of sight, about ten minutes later, I rush to my feet and announce, “It’s time to get some answers.”

“I’ve told you already. I’m not leaving anything out,” Emerson insists, pursing her red-stained lips as she slams the palms of her manicured hands on the

stainless steel table in front of her. Even after spending a couple of days at sea, she somehow looks completely put together with designer clothes, coordinating accessories, and heels. The epitome of high maintenance. “Tell me again,” Marshal Doherty orders firmly, his penetrating stare untiring. “Why were you in Madden Decker’s office on Friday afternoon, alone?” “I went into Madden’s office Friday afternoon to drop off a report I was working on before I left for my vacation. I don’t know where he was or why his

assistant wasn’t at her desk. Why? What is going on?” Her nervous gaze flits around the cold interrogation room, searching for something. “Where did Madden go? Is he listening in? I want him in here.” The clock on the wall loudly ticks off the seconds as I watch the two of them face-off from behind a pane of surveillance glass. I desperately want to rush in there and demand she stop playing games, that she tell me what happened to Blake, but I don’t. I can’t. I know Doherty is doing me a favor by including me to this extent already.

Though, truth be told, he probably knows I’d be doing my own form of questioning to her later. “Emerson, this is serious,” he snaps, leaning closer to her to stress the importance of her next answer. “If you’re lying, you could face serious prison time. Not to mention, your answers could possibly keep Mr. Decker out of trouble. Do you remember anything out of the ordinary when you were in his office Friday? Did you touch anything on his desk?” She swallows hard and drops her chin to her chest, and at first, I get

hopeful, thinking she’s about to admit her guilt. To tell us something . . . anything. But then as tears swell in her eyes and she adamantly shakes her strawberry curls around her shoulders, I begin to question my initial assumption. Maybe she doesn’t know. Maybe I’m reaching. Maybe I’m just too desperate to place blame. “I swear to you. I didn’t see anything,” she maintains her stance. “I don’t know what’s going on, or what you want me to say, but I didn’t do anything wrong. I’m always working in the best interest of Decker Enterprises. I’m the

most loyal employee they have.” Doherty does little to conceal his disappointment when he announces she’s free to go, running exasperated fingers through the thin hair covering his scalp. Since Emerson claims knowledge of nothing and we don’t have physical proof of her participation in the abduction, there’s not much we can do. He warned me about this beforehand, but I felt confident Emerson would crater and tell us what happened. Confident she was involved somehow. We’ve now wasted a whole day waiting for her return, and have nothing to show

for it. Crucial hours have been lost. All we know for sure is that Blake received a text from my phone telling her I’d pick her up Friday evening. Marshal Doherty was able to get the video surveillance from the office building where she works, once we got Blake and Jae’s boss, Mr. Thompson, involved, and we saw her get in a black town car with no plates at approximately six o’clock in the evening. The driver who got out to usher her inside the car was careful to keep his hat down on his forehead and his face tilted away from the camera. There was no struggle when

she climbed into the backseat. And that’s it. All we have. The door to the room I’m in bangs open and Doherty stalks in. The frustration I feel is mirrored in the deep creases of his forehead. “I’ll let you know if we learn anything new, and I expect the same from you,” he states tersely. “Don’t get in over your head with this, Decker. You have no idea the people you’re dealing with. Leave it to the professionals. We’re going to do everything in our power to get her back from wherever she is.” He leaves with the same noisy

entrance he came in with, and his warning follows him out. There’s no way in Hell I’m going to sit around and do nothing. I don’t care who the fuck I’m going up against. Somebody has what’s mine. As I storm out of the federal building into the airless summer night, my thoughts are completely submerged in the planning of my next move and I fail to notice the woman waiting for me next to my car. It’s not until I retrieve the keys from my jeans’ pocket do I look up to unlock the door, and by then, we’re only a few feet away.

“Emerson?” I lift my brow, silently asking what she wants. Pushing off the hood, she closes the gap between us nearly instantly, her expression guarded. Almost as if she’s waiting to decide on her mood based on mine. Not the reaction I’d expect from someone who was just detained for questioning by federal authorities if they had no idea why. “Madden, what’s going on? Is everything okay?” Concerned. She’s going with concerned over pissed-thefuck-off. My lips press into a thin line. “Do

you think we’d be spending a Sunday evening here if everything was okay?” I clip, sidestepping her to get to my car. “And no, I’m not going to discuss it with you. Go home and stay there until you hear from me.” At first, she doesn’t respond, but just as I’m bending myself into the driver’s seat, she pivots and sprints over to me, using her arm to force the door open wider. “Wait!” she exclaims. “I don’t have a car here. You can’t leave me in this part of L.A. at this time of night. Your parents and mine would never forgive you.”

Gritting my teeth, I’m furious, because I know she’s right. I’m still not sure what to believe about her, but I’m too much of an emotional wreck right now to argue. If she truly has nothing to do with any of this, I’d never forgive myself if something happens to her too. “Get in,” I grumble, ready to drop her off and get home. “Hurry.” Emerson circles around the front of the car and climbs into the passenger side with a victorious glint in her eyes. Thankfully, she’s smart enough to keep her mouth shut during the drive to her house.

When she gets out, she leans over the center console and brushes her lips against my cheek. “I’ll wait to hear from you. If you need my help, let me know. Don’t push me away, Madden. I’m not the enemy.” The moment the door latches, I take off down the street, desperate to get away from her before I lose my shit. And during my trip home, alone in my car with the heaviness of the entire situation, my entire world completely falls off its fucking axis. I realize I no longer care about my company, my family, my own life. Now

that I know the truth about Blake, about the life she endured before I found her, I’m in even deeper than before. I can’t let her down. I have to save her. The next thing I know, I’m packing an overnight bag and headed to the airport. I’ve got a one-way ticket to Chicago, and I’m not coming home without the girl I love.

TWO DAYS, I’VE BEEN STUCK inside this cabin. Two days of nothing but staring at the four walls, torturing myself with all of the ‘what ifs’ my mind can conjure up. And there are millions. I still have no idea where we are. The one time I was daring enough to peek out the frosty rectangular window above the couch, all I could see were trees. A thick forest of redwoods

surrounded the remote cabin, with icicles dangling from the near-barren limbs. Not a single hint at our location or any other civilization. And I don’t dare get close to the only door in the place, reinforced with numerous keyonly deadbolts. Raze stays in the small bedroom off the living area most of the time, either speaking in Russian on his phone or working on his laptop. Knowing we’re somewhere that has cellular and internet service gives me hope, but he makes a point of locking up the electronics in a safe each time he’s finished using them.

Other than to go to the bathroom, the only time I’ve left the couch was for a shower last night. I broke down and cried as I stood under the lukewarm spray, finally allowing the emotions to get the best of me. I’m trying to be strong, but any chance of escaping already feels bleak and hopeless. Where would I go? And how long would it be before Raze found me again? Or even worse . . . Vincent. Raze has barely spoken to me since we first arrived and I spit in his face, both literally and figuratively, as I refused to answer his questions. He

emerges out of the room only to prepare food for the two of us, leaving me a plate of whatever he’s made on the coffee table. I pick at it, unable to ignore the emptiness in my stomach, but not without resentment. I hate being here with him. I hate everything he is. Everything I tried so hard to free myself from. There’s been no mention of Madden again, and I spend most of my time worrying about his safety. The guilt inside me worsens with each passing hour. Guilt that I didn’t tell him who I was or what I’d done. Guilt that I so

selfishly allowed him to fall for me, and for me to fall for him, giving him a false hope of a future between us. Guilt that I’ve put his life in danger. And now, I doubt I’ll ever be able to apologize. All I can hope is he stays safe. And alive. Lying down on the lumpy cushions, I pull the blanket up to my chin and close my eyes, hoping tonight won’t be another sleepless night. You’d think by now I’d have learned how to turn my mind off and forget the pure madness surrounding me, but I haven’t. It follows me everywhere. Eating away at what’s left of my sanity. Bit by bit. Soon, there will

be nothing left of me for them to take.

“That’s it, sweet girl. Slow and steady. Let me take care of you.” Madden’s voice washes over me, soothing any anxiety I have about what’s about to happen. I know he won’t hurt me, as my pleasure is his primary concern. He owns it. Owns every part of me. Including my heart. “Let me know if it’s tied too tight or becomes uncomfortable at any time, and I’ll free you immediately,” he

assures me as he tugs on the knot binding my wrists to a slat on his headboard. “Same for the blindfold. You want it gone, just tell me. Do you understand?” “Yes.” I nod, licking my parched lips, desperate for his kiss. Tingles of anticipation climb up from the tips of my toes and descend down from the top of my head, converging at the apex directly between my legs. My panties are already damp, my nipples pebbled into hard peaks, and he hasn’t even touched me. This isn’t the first time Madden has

bound and blindfolded me, but it’s still a huge step each time he does. Giving up control to him—fully submitting to his will—is something I never in a million lifetimes dreamed I’d be able to do after my life with Ish. But there’s something about this man that makes me want to do it. My desire to please him overrides any fears and insecurities I still have. It frees me from the darkness. “Yes what?” His warm breath drifts over my bare stomach as he slides down my body, causing goose bumps to spread across the exposed flesh.

My lips curl up in a coquettish smirk, but I purposely refuse to answer him, finding rare confidence in my vulnerable state. Barking out a deep chuckle at my playful disobedience, he leans down and draws one of my hard rosy buds in between his teeth, biting hard enough to make my back bow off the mattress. I gasp, excited. “Yes what?” he repeats, flicking his tongue torturously over my nipple. The sharp pain in my breast quickly morphs into a thrum of erotic pleasure, and the vibration of his voice adds an additional layer of stimulation to his

roguish teasing. Again, I refuse to answer, knowing exactly where this little game is heading. From the first time we were together, Madden has always liked when I call him Sir when we’re in bed. It makes him feel in complete control, his cue I’m handing over the reins to my body, freeing my mind of everything except the sensual gratification he bestows. For whatever reason, taking care of me, worshipping my body with never-ending reverence, is what makes him happy. And what kind of girlfriend would I be if I didn’t want him happy?

But I do like to make him work for it . . . His mouth moves from one breast to the other, performing the same tantalizing trick to the other sensitive tip. “My sweet girl likes being bad?” He releases me with a loud pop then I feel the tip of his nose resting against mine. His mouth hovers directly above mine, and there’s nothing I want more in this moment than to feel our lips fused together. I need it like I need my next breath. “I bet you can’t hold out five minutes before you’re begging for

this,” he taunts, grinding his erection into my throbbing mound. Groaning, I pull against my restraints as I buck against his hard body. The man may be in his midthirties, but he’s got the toned physique of someone a decade younger. I lift my head, a hasty attempt to capture his mouth with mine, but he’s too quick and retreats to the foot of the bed. “Uh-uh. No kisses for you either until you answer my question correctly,” he warns lightheartedly. “Now I’ll ask again, Blake. Yes what?” A blaze of rebellion sweeps through

me, and with a boldness I’ve never felt before, I tip my nose in the air and shake my head, a wicked grin threatening to break through my compressed lips. Warm laughter fills the air and my heart swells at the sound of his amusement, but then, the next thing I know, he’s flipped me over on my stomach in one swift motion. Seconds later, my lacy panties disappear from my body and he’s kneeling between my ankles, my drenched sex open to him to do as he pleases. Slowly, he drags his fingers up the inseam of my calves then thighs,

stopping just before he reaches the spot I so desperately need him to touch. Arching my back, I lift my bare ass into the air. A silent plea. “What? You want my fingers playing with that tight little pussy you’re offering up to me?” His vulgar words cause my gut to clench, but instead of with disgust, it’s pure carnal desire that his dirty talk ignites. Each time we’re together, he strips away more and more of my inhibitions, and I’ve begun to crave the freedom it allows me to indulge in. “Please,” I whimper, spreading my

legs wider for him. “Please touch me.” An unexpected smack across my right butt cheek startles me, but before my brain has time to register any pain, he’s kissing the spot of impact. “Answer me, stubborn girl, and I’ll touch you.” “Yes,” I sigh, leading him to believe I’m going to give in, but then stop at the single word. Another smack, this time to the other cheek, which is also followed by a soothing press of his lips. “Yes what?” “Please,” I beg again, my voice breathy and low. “I need you.”

My thoughts are blurred; swirls of iridescent light dance behind my closed lids. Every nerve ending is on high alert, waiting to see what he’ll do next. The intensifying ache in my core is becoming unbearable. With a feral growl, he grabs my hips firmly and yanks me higher up on my knees, falling into place directly behind me. The tip of his cock presses up against my wet slit, rubbing up and down between my swollen lips. “Feels so fucking incredible, Blake. Don’t make me wait any longer. Tell me.” His fingers bite into the skin covering my

hips, holding me perfectly still as he spreads my juices from my clit to my puckered asshole. “Do you want my dick inside you? Do you want me to make you come all over it?” Unable to resist him any longer, I accept defeat and cry out, “Yes, Sir!” as he claims my body for his own. Feverish kisses to my neck and a fast-paced rhythm bring me to my first orgasm rapidly, and I explode blissfully as he thrusts behind me, seeing a galaxy full of stars through my euphoric climax. However, as I collapse onto the sheets with

exhaustion, needing a few seconds to catch my breath, a strong hand grabs a handful of my hair and yanks my head backward. “Bitch, I didn’t tell you it was time to rest,” Ish’s loathsome voice snarls in my ear. “Get your ass up and please your husband.” Frantic and hysterical, I jerk against the ropes tied around my wrists like a wild animal unwilling to be tamed, but the restraints won’t budge. I try to kick my legs, to fight him off of me, but I’m no match for Ish. He pins me down with his weight, straddling my

hips as he forces himself into me. It feels like he’s ripping the flesh off of me each time he pulls out and plunges back in, my body trying its damnedest to reject his advances. As hot tears spill from my eyes, soaking the sash that covers them, I scream over and over again, “No! No! Get off me!” The nightmare stops suddenly as two burly but gentle arms wrap tightly around me and my face is buried into a warm, inviting chest. Then a voice that’s neither Madden’s nor Ish’s, yet oddly

familiar, murmurs into my hair, “Quiet there, kotyonok. You’re gonna be okay. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

ANY MAN WHO MURDERS ANOTHER man in his sleep is a worthless coward. Never have I taken another life without first looking into my victim’s eyes, making them aware I own what I’m about to do. One hundred fucking percent. I’m a man of conviction. A man who never second-guesses himself. Unfortunately, there are a lot of

goddamn cowards in this world, which is why I learned early in life to function on very little sleep. In my line of work, I can’t afford to be left vulnerable to my enemies, and more often than not, my enemies are lying in the shadows, patiently waiting for me to let my guard down. A moment of weakness when I keep my eyes closed just a second too long . . . only to ensure I never open them again. The girl asleep on the couch in the next room is no exception. Her physical appearance is misleading. She may appear to be a tiny, frail little thing—

standing at least a full foot shorter than me and weighing a hundred pounds soaking wet, with a sweet, innocent face to boot—but I see the way she tracks my every movement, mentally cataloguing where everything is kept in this isolated cabin. The amount of time she stares at the kitchen drawer where the knives are kept isn’t lost on me. I know she wants to kill me. She wouldn’t think twice about bludgeoning me to death if it meant her freedom. But I can’t let that happen. And she’ll never be free. Yesterday, when she thought I wasn’t looking, I caught her peeking out the

small window, frantically surveying her surroundings. I then saw the despair settle in her eyes when she realized we’re in the middle of nowhere, and that even if she were to miraculously escape from my custody, she’s got nowhere to go. This safe house—hidden in the Sierra Nevada Mountains of Northern California—was built by my family in the early eighties for exactly this type of situation. Disappearing from the face of the Earth. Only, the ironic thing right now is that the place I most want to disappear from is this fucking place. Because of her.

As if on cue, I hear her moving around in her sleep in the next room, the old couch squeaking its complaints as she shifts her weight. Then she begins to murmur something I can’t quite decipher, so I slide off of the rock-hard mattress to go check on her and make sure she’s actually asleep. Ever since our first night here, especially after she spit in my face and told me to fuck off, I’ve been trying my best to put some distance between us, her presence disarming in a way it shouldn’t be. It was easier that first day back at my place in L.A., when she

stayed locked in her room and I had the whole rest of the house to do my thing. But here in these close quarters, it’s not that simple. Peering around the doorframe a second before I step into the living area, I freeze mid-stride at the mind-blowing sight laid out before my eyes and I hiss in a sharp breath. Ty che, b`lyad’? With her blanket in a heap on the floor, apparently having fallen off when she was moving around, she is completely uncovered as her oversized t-shirt is bunched up around her waist. Sheer, white lacy panties are on full

display, revealing her soft, milky thighs, but that’s not even the worst of it. One of her hands is resting just on top of the elastic waistband, her fingers slowly stroking back and forth across the exposed skin of her lower stomach as a playful smirk tugs on the corners of her lips. My dick stirs to life at the erotic image. Apparently, my little captive is having quite the pleasant dream, and as much as I know I need to spin my ass around and return to the bed I was just in, I don’t. I can’t. It’s too much like watching my Darya again, the way she

used to enjoy playing with herself for me, purposely driving me mad with lust. In my family, I am known for my exceptional self-control and unwavering willpower, but this is something I can’t deny myself. She may be my biggest threat yet. When the muffled whimpers pass through her lips and she arches her back like a sleepy kitten, pressing her taut nipples against the thin cotton of the shirt —my shirt—it takes every ounce of resolve I have not to stalk over to the couch and touch her. Just once. Just a reminder of what a woman’s smooth skin

feels like beneath my hands. Somehow, I refrain. However, I find myself rubbing my thick shaft outside my black athletic pants as I leer at her, imagining how it’d feel if it were her hand on my dick instead of mine. Or better yet, her mouth. My entire body tenses at the visual, a feral growl rumbling inside of my chest. “Please . . . please . . . oh, please,” she begs repeatedly while squirming on the couch, clenching her upper thighs together. My hand moves inside my pants, my fingers wrapping securely around my

shaft as I begin to slowly stroke. She lifts her arms above her head, causing her hands to fall over the side of the arm rest, wrists crossed like they’re bound together, and the memory of her tied to the bed the first night she was in my house flashes in my mind. I feared then she would ruin me. When I looked into her eyes the first time, I knew she would. Those fucking eyes. A blue with such depth that not even the most expensive sapphire in the world could compare. A blue that I’ve only seen once before. Moi Darya. My fucking kryptonite. A loud moan followed by a clear

“Yes, Sir” demands my attention, and I begin to increase my tempo. I’ve jacked off hundreds of times in the last couple of years, been to so many strip joints that seeing a naked woman isn’t even exciting for me any longer, but this . . . watching her like this is one of the fucking sexiest things I’ve ever seen. She’s my best dream and worst nightmare all in one package. And I’m fucking powerless. Just as I feel my balls contract, my orgasm threatening, she winces and coughs out a scream, her expression instantly changing from one of pure

ecstasy to that of complete horror. Immediately, I release the grip on my cock, confused. Her arms swing down and wrap around her midsection like a coat of armor. Then, drawing her knees up to a fetal position, she begins to tremble as she shakes her head repeatedly. “No! No! Get off me!” The panic in her voice slices through me, and straightaway, all of the sexual hunger in my body is instantly replaced by concern. Her neck twists violently from side to side as her body contracts, all while she continues to cry out her

pleas for whoever to stop what they’re doing. My heart sinks as my stomach clenches, slamming into one another in a powerful explosion that hurls me toward her. Scooping her into my arms, I lower myself into the chair adjacent to the couch and hold her close to me, desperate to soothe her. I rock my upper body back and forth slightly while pressing my lips to the top of her head in a comforting kiss. “Quiet there, kotyonok. You’re gonna be okay. I won’t let anything happen to you,” I whisper, my brain still dealing

with the whiplash of the previous couple minutes. Thankfully, she snuggles deeper into my chest, and her frantic breathing gradually begins to even out, the sobs subsiding. I have no idea what the fuck just happened, but I know all too well dreams like that aren’t the product of an active imagination. Whatever nightmare she just faced while asleep is one she knows all too well while awake. And it makes me want to fucking kill whoever did it to her. After I torture them for hours upon endless hours. The moment she shakes off the

lingering slumber haze and realizes she’s tucked up against me, every muscle in her body pulls taut and she stops breathing. I can almost hear the war going on inside her brain. Part of her wants to push off of me, to scamper back to the couch and put some distance between us, but at the same time, she’s shaken and distraught over whatever she just remembered, and finds much-needed security and solace in my arms. My hold on her never wavers. I can’t forget what I just saw, and even though it was quick, there’s no denying the intensity of whatever she experienced. I

have to know what happened. I have to make sure she’s okay. I don’t know why, but I have to. “Are you okay, girl?” I finally ask, my throat feeling thick. “Yeah.” Nodding, she hiccups back a sniffle. I’m pleased she makes no effort to break free from my lap, and I take it as my cue to keep talking. “Do you remember what you were dreaming about? I heard you calling out, so I came to check on you.” It wasn’t a total lie. She nods again. “Yeah.” “Vincent?”

“No,” she mumbles. “Much worse.” I go with the natural second guess. “Ish?” She clings tighter to me at the sound of his name, answering my question without any words. For a few minutes, we sit there silently, each lost in our own thoughts. I wonder if it was Ish or Madden—who I now know is the guy she’s been seeing recently—that she was imagining during the first part of the dream. Then, I’m curious why she considers Ish much worse, since he’s obviously not a threat to her anymore. She made sure of that.

“Why?” The word tumbles from my mouth before I can think. She tilts her head back to peer up at me through her wet, spiky eyelashes. “Why what?” Our eyes meet, a cerulean collision that momentarily steals my breath. Her resemblance to Darya is even greater cradled in my arms. I swallow hard before finding the words. “Why do you consider Ish ‘much worse’ than his father?” She doesn’t even blink. “Because those you love always have the power to hurt you the most.”

“Smart girl,” I reply. There’s a hint of surprise in my voice, but it’s not because of her answer; it’s due to this sudden shift in the atmosphere between us. I’m not sure what it is, or quite how to describe it, but it’s different. We’re different. For some reason, I find myself hoping we stay this way. I meant it when I told her I won’t let anything happen to her. She’s not only under my watch, but she’s my responsibility, and that makes my chest swell a little. Using my hand to cradle the back of her neck, I gently guide her head back down to lie on my chest and rest my chin

on her forehead. “Get some more sleep, kotyonok. I promise I’ll keep you safe.”

THE EARLY MORNING SUN FILTERS through the sheer curtains drawn across the window, providing a warm glow in the downtown Chicago hotel room. Unfortunately, as I sit on the plush kingsized bed, drinking a cup of coffee while reading old newspaper articles online, I feel anything but warm inside. After reading the details of Blake’s life as Bryleigh, the blood running through my

veins is as cold as an arctic glacier. Colder even. Thinking about what she was forced to endure—the things she must’ve witnessed, and even worse, experienced —makes me downright murderous. Maybe it was a good thing I didn’t find Vincent Ricci yesterday on my initial recon mission here in the Windy City. I probably would’ve woken up in a sterile prison cell this morning, instead of the Hilton. A knock at the door temporarily interrupts my homicidal thoughts, and I slide off the mattress to let the room

service attendant in, throwing a t-shirt on with my pajama pants before opening the door. I’m not even sure why I ordered food in the first place. It holds no appeal; my appetite vanished with Blake. Sleep evades me as well. I either dream of my sweet girl being with me, only to wake to the nightmare she’s not, or I dream of the horrifying events she suffered through that brought her to California to begin with. “Good morning, Mr. Decker,” a young man dressed in a standard hotel polo and slacks greets me cheerily. “Where would you like me to set your

breakfast?” I motion him inside with my hand and shrug. “Wherever. The bed is fine.” He lowers the tray on top of the comforter then turns around and hands me the charge slip to sign. “Is there anything else I can get you?” Scribbling my name along the bottom line after I add in the tip, I shake my head and mutter under my breath, “Not unless you can tell me where I can find Vincent Ricci.” I don’t intend for him to hear the remark, and I especially don’t expect him to answer me, but as I hand over the

leather bill folder, he tilts his chin with curiosity and looks me straight in the eye. “Are you serious? Do you really want to know where to find him?” “E-e-excuse me?” I stutter, feeling my eyes grow wide with disbelief. “Do you really know where he is?” The kid, who’s probably in his early twenties, nods nervously. “Well, I don’t know exactly where he is, but a friend of mine used to work at this shop over on the south side of town, a place that sells aftermarket car stuff, and he said Vincent and his boys hang out there a lot. I’m not sure if he owns it or what, but Nick

mentioned him a few times. Maybe you could try . . .” “Yes!” I exclaim, mentally berating myself for not thinking of this before. Of course the guy would have other businesses, probably to launder mafia money through. I was so caught up in retracing Blake’s life yesterday— running into dead end after dead end— that I failed to take a step back and look at the bigger picture. “What’s the name of the place?” “Capo Car Creations. It’s on Northcutt Avenue, but be careful, man,” he warns. “Those aren’t the kinds of

people you want to go looking for trouble with.” Waving him off, I pad across the carpet to the nightstand and pull a hundred dollar bill out of my wallet. “Yeah, no worries. I know exactly who they are,” I reply, shoving the additional tip in his hand. “Thanks for the info. I really appreciate it.” For a split second, he stares hesitantly down at the cash then smartly shoves it into his pocket. “Anytime, Mr. Decker. Let me know if you need anything else.” He gives me a quick nod before

turning around to leave the room. Thirty minutes later, after I’ve picked at my breakfast, showered, and dressed for the day, I’m climbing into the backseat of a taxi with a ball of nervous energy bouncing around in my gut. I’ve got only one destination in mind. “Capo Car Creations. 819 Northcutt Avenue.” A bell tied to the glass door leading into the shop chimes loudly as I step inside, announcing my presence. A group of three guys dressed in navy mechanic coveralls are huddled around the register area in what seems like a deep

conversation, and after a quick glance in my direction, they all turn right back around, assuming I’m just a regular customer. To not build suspicions right off the bat, I meander up and down the aisles for a little while, pretending to check out the various car stereo accessories on display. I try a couple of times to eavesdrop on their discussion that seems to be growing more intense by the moment, but each time I draw near the front of the store, they lower their voices to a whisper. After the only other customer in the

store pays for his purchases and leaves, I decide to make my move before anyone else comes in. As I approach the men, I ball my hands into tight fists by my sides then release them, over and over, as I attempt to reign in the frenzied adrenaline surging through me. “Can I help you find something you’re looking for?” the tallest of the trio asks casually while the other two step off to the side, still engrossed in their heated conversation. According to the patch sewn on his shirt, his name is Tony. Clearing my throat, I nod. “Yeah,

actually, I think you can. I’m looking for Vincent Ricci. Is he here today?” The moment I say his name, an eerie silence falls over the place, and three sets of cagey brown eyes are fixed directly on me. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear there’s a red laser beam pointed directly in the center of my forehead. Tony slams his hands down on the counter and leans toward me, his brow pinched together with clear suspicion. “Who’s asking?” “I am,” I answer, stepping closer to him. My heart is beating wildly in my

chest, but I refuse to let this guy intimidate me. “Madden Decker.” In a blur of action, the next thing I know, one of the other men is behind me with one brawny arm wrapped around my neck and the other holding a switchblade to my throat. “What the fuck are you doing here?” he growls in my ear. “You must be as stupid as that little cunt of a girlfriend you got.” The hold he’s got on my neck is so tight I’m unable to speak, but I don’t think he really wants an answer anyway. With a shit-eating grin on his face, Tony strolls around from behind the counter

and gets right up in my face, while their other friend flanks his right side. “Madden Fucking Decker,” he sneers. “I’ve heard a lot about you in the last few days. Seems we may owe you a thank you for bringing our attention to where our little American Princess has been hanging out lately. You know, we’ve been looking for that little bitch for quite a while now, and to think, the whole time she’s been playing house with you in your fancy California home, living the fuckin’ life, all while one of our brothers rots in the ground.” The cold metal of the knife

disappears, but before my brain can register the movement, Tony punches me in the stomach. Harder than I’ve ever been hit before. “All.” He swings again, and I grunt at the white-hot pain burning in my gut. “Because.” Another blow. “Of.” And again. “Her.” With the final strike, the man behind me releases my neck and violently shoves me down to the ground. On my hands and knees, my chest heaves up and down rapidly as my lungs absorb every ounce of oxygen they can get. The throbbing in my midsection is excruciating, and I’m not sure I’ll be

able to stand on my own, but that doesn’t keep me from trying. The physical pain is nothing compared to the anguish I’ve felt since Blake disappeared. Using all my might, I push off the tiled floor so I’m on my knees, and just as I’m about to attempt to rise to my feet, the bottom of Tony’s shoe meets the side of my face, knocking me back down. All I can taste is blood. “Don’t you worry, pretty boy.” He squats next to me, grabbing the back of my hair and jerking my neck sideways so I’m looking at him. I fight the urge to spit in his face, to tell him what a piece of

shit he is. Taking in everything about these people could be the key to finding her. “I know you think you’re about to die, but that’s not gonna happen just yet. First, I want you to witness what we do to her once we bring her home. It’ll make anything Ish ever did look like child’s play. I hope you don’t have a weak stomach.” With an evil laugh, he rams my face back into the ground, my nose crunching on impact. “Take him to the back,” he orders, but before anyone picks up my limp body, the sound of the bell echoes through the room just before I hear

someone shout, “Nobody move or I’ll shoot! FBI!”

“WHAT DO YOU LIKE TO eat?” Peering up from the adult comic book—the one completely in Russian with a lot of scantily-dressed cartoon women that I’ve been making up my own story to—I stare blankly at Raze, who’s leaning against the doorframe between the living room and the bedroom, not sure I heard him correctly. “What did you say?”

Chuckling, he shakes his head and strides over to ‘his’ chair, carrying a pad of paper and a pen. “I asked what you like to eat. One of my men will be dropping off food and supplies this afternoon, and I wanted to make sure I got some things you like. It appears we’re going to be here a while longer than I originally expected.” Groaning, I toss the book onto the coffee table, choosing to ignore his polite gesture of asking for my input. All I hear is the bad news. “How much longer? Why can’t we just do this and get it over with? I want to go home.”

Despite my previous vow to not help these people, I’ve now accepted that killing Vincent is my only hope for ever having a chance of freedom. I’m not sure what will happen afterward¸ or how it’ll all be handled, but I do know if I don’t do it, I’ll be dead for sure. And the more I think about, the more getting vengeance on the bastard who murdered my mom and brother appeals to me. I’m not sure if that makes me just as despicable as these people I hate, but if that’s the case, then so fucking be it. “I want to go home too, girl, but organizing the hit on one of the most

powerful Italian bosses in the country doesn’t just happen. There are a lot of factors in play,” he explains casually, almost as if he talks about murdering people every day. Then I remember, he probably does. Just like Ish. He notices the way I’m looking at him and drops the paper and pen, his intense blue eyes pinning me in my place on the couch. Raze has to be the most perceptive man on the planet. “I know what you’re thinking, girl. And I thought I made it clear to you the other night. I’m not anything like that monster you were married to. I’ve done

a lot of wrong, fucked up things in my life, and I’m sure I’ll do a lot more before I die, but I’ve never once hurt someone who’s innocent to this life, and especially not someone I claimed to love. Not fucking once,” he growls. I don’t respond right away; the lump lodged in the back of my throat won’t let me. My desire to believe the things he says scares me. I know who he is, what he’s about, and I can only imagine the things he’s done. Yet there’s still this part of me—a big part, if I’m being honest with myself—that wants to trust him.

The night before last, when I had the nightmare about Ish, I was completely caught off guard to find myself wrapped in Raze’s arms when I regained consciousness as he did his best to comfort me. With a warm tenderness I’ve only experienced with Madden, he didn’t push me to talk about the specifics of my nightmare or about my life with Ish. Instead, he stayed with me until I fell back asleep. And when I awoke the next morning, he was still by my side. I’m still uncertain of what to make of him. He’s a brutish Russian mobster who runs organized crime and kills people

for a living one minute, and then a compassionate, gentle giant who consoles his prisoner the next. And I’m not sure which one frightens me more. Reaching across the small table, I pick up the pad of paper, add a few grocery items to his list, and then set it back down, offering him a feeble smile as an apology. “Thank you for asking me.” He grunts as he stands, taking the paper and pen with him, but before he returns to his bedroom, he mumbles, “You’re welcome, kotyonok.”

The rest of the day mirrors the three previous ones: me on the couch, doing a whole bunch of nothing, and Raze in his room, working on his laptop and talking on the phone. Sometime in the early evening—or at least that’s my guess, based on the muted sunlight shining through the window—he emerges from his cave carrying a thin rope. My stomach plummets. “Calm down, girl. My men are about to be here with the delivery,” he

explains softly. “Pakhan will expect them to give a full report of what they see, and I’m supposed to be treating you as a prisoner. I promise you as soon as they’re gone I will untie you, but this is something I must do. Otherwise, I’ll be replaced with someone else, and I can assure you no one else in the Bratva will treat you the way I have. Do you understand?” He lowers himself down to the couch next to me and lifts his eyebrows, awaiting my answer. Instead of giving him a verbal response, I extend my arms in front of me, offering up my wrists.

“Spasibo,” he tips his chin with appreciation. “They will not stay long, and after they’re gone, you can choose dinner.” Mere minutes after he has bound both my hands and feet, a forceful knock on the door announces their arrival. Instantly, any kindness in his expression is replaced by a cold, hard mask. With vacant eyes, flared nostrils, and a tight jaw, my bipolar captor stalks toward the door to let in his men. An icy, bitter wind howls outside, but even after the pair of Russians is ushered inside, the chilliness in the room

remains. Raze greets them with a kiss on both cheeks, and then they all make their way back outside. He holds up one finger to me once the others are out the door, indicating he’ll be back in one minute. They each return carrying several boxes, and I begin to wonder just how long we’re going to be here. Even though Raze said he wasn’t sure how much longer he thought we’d have to stay, I assumed a few extra days, maybe a week. By the looks of all this stuff, we may as well be moving in permanently. Once everything is unloaded, Raze

and the older of the two men step into the bedroom and close the door, leaving me alone with the other guy. I’m not sure why they need privacy, seeing as how I can’t understand anything they’re saying anyway. At first, I don’t think much of it, assuming they’ll speak quickly about whatever the business is, and then these other men will be on their way. But after a few minutes, the young Russian begins to move towards me with a wolfish grin spread across his ugly face. Panic swells inside me with each daunting step he takes, and because of the restraints, I’m unable to do anything

but lie here and wait. Dropping to a squat next to the couch, he reaches out and rubs the pad of his thumb over my dry, cracked lips. “Raze is a lucky fucking bastard. He gets to be locked away with a hot piece of ass, passing the time by burying his dick in every tight little hole you have, while the rest of us are out there doing the real work,” he snarls spitefully as he shoves his thumb into my mouth. “Suck it. Show me what it would be like to have your pretty whore lips wrapped around my cock.” I’m paralyzed with fear, unable to

move until a loud crack echoes through the room, followed by a sharp sting, which blooms across my cheek. Instinctively, I cry out in pain, which results in a slap to the other side of my face. “Don’t pretend you don’t want it, you little bitch,” he spits, yanking my tshirt up to my neck and exposing my breasts and thin panties. Unzipping his pants, his intent is clearly stamped across his acne-laden forehead as pure evil dances in his wanton gaze. “All of you American girls are little sluts for Russian co—”

He doesn’t finish the last word before he’s jerked up from behind and hurled across the room, slamming into a wall. So lost in what was happening, I didn’t even hear the bedroom door open or the other two men come out, but it’s obvious Raze heard enough. Pure rage encompasses his entire being as he prowls over to the younger man, who looks more confused than anything as he furrows his brow and says something in Russian. Raze answers him with a punch to the face, followed by a knee to the stomach. The guy crumbles, falling to his knees as he

attempts to hold his nose with one hand and lifts the other up in surrender. Unaccepting of the concession, Raze grabs hold of the arm in the air and twists it behind the man’s back in a manner an arm is not meant to be twisted. The sound of bones shattering mixed with screams of agony makes me nauseous. And even though I’m aware if he hadn’t been interrupted that he would’ve raped me, I can’t take any more. “Stop!” I scream, tears flooding down my cheeks as I watch Raze kick the man repeatedly in the ribs with his

heavy combat boots. Splatters of blood decorate the wall and carpet, and based on his limp body, I’m pretty sure he’s unconscious, if not dead. “Please stop! Raze, you’re scaring me!” The sound of his name jolts him from his vehement frenzy and he stops immediately. Neither the other man, who’s been watching the events unfold, nor I say another word or attempt to move as Raze leans his forehead against the wall, struggling to regulate his breathing and reclaim his composure. Finally, after what seems like an eternity, he barks out an order that has

the older guy scrambling to pick up the battered, insentient youngster and carrying him out of the cabin without a second glance back. Once the door closes behind them, Raze slowly spins around to face me, his eyes red and glossy. “I’m sorry I frightened you, kotyonok. That was not my intention.” His shame-ridden gaze drops to the floor, his voice full of remorse. “I thought he was hurting you, and I lost control of myself. I gave you my word to protect you, and I’m a man of my word.” “P-please come here, Raze.” My

teeth chatter as I talk, more from being shaken up than the chilly temperatures. “I-I need you t-to untie me, th-then we can t-t-talk about it.” He’s by my side in a flash, on his knees, unraveling the secure knots that bind my hands and feet with trembling fingers. Once he’s removed the rope, I push up to a sitting position while rotating my wrists and ankles until the tingles subside. He waits, silent and motionless, for me to say or do something. “Thank you for saving me from him. He would’ve hurt me if you wouldn’t

have come.” Watching Raze beat the shit out of that guy did, in fact, scare me. I hate violence. Loathe it after what I was exposed to during my life with Ish. But there’s no way I can possibly be mad at him for saving me from what that monster was about to do to me. “I’m not upset with you.” I reach my hands out and grab his, lifting his tattered, bloody knuckles into the air. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard. “You said I scared you.” “You did. I didn’t want you to kill him and get in trouble with your Pakhan

because of me,” I reply in a half-lie. Despite the circumstances of this entire fucked up situation, I have the overwhelming desire to comfort him. The troubled eyes staring into mine right now are that of a young boy trapped inside a grown man’s body, a boy who knows no other way to deal with conflict than with violence, and it makes my heart hurt. “My job is to keep you safe, even from my own people,” he rasps, glancing down at our joined hands suspended in the air between us. “I’ll kill for you, and I’ll die for you, all to ensure you can

carry out your assignment.” “Let’s hope that isn’t necessary.” My lips curl up in a half-hearted smile, trying to lighten the mood. “You’ve done enough damage to your hands as it is. We need to get these cleaned up so they don’t get infected, and then we have groceries to put away.” He nods and stands after I release my hold on his fingers. “There’s antiseptic and bandages in one of the boxes. I added them to the list for the abrasions on your ribs.” “I’ll find them. You go wash up in the bathroom,” I reply, hiding my

surprise that he not only noticed the lacerations I caused during my nightmare, but cared enough to have something to treat them brought in. Thankfully, the first box I open is filled with the bathroom toiletries, including vanilla-scented shampoo and conditioner, a hairbrush, ponytail holders, razors, and even a box of tampons. My face heats up when I think about Raze ordering this stuff for me. What kind of big, badass mafia man thinks about these kinds of things? Then, it dawns on me. Raze must’ve been married before.

Or at least been in a serious relationship with a woman. Or maybe still is . . . Grabbing the cream and box of bandages, I hurry to the bathroom to help him treat his injuries. Injuries he got because of me. “Raze?” I ask timidly, unsure how he’s going to react to my question. His focus snaps up from the sink to the mirror, where we stare at each other’s reflection. “Yes, girl?” “Are you married?” An unmistakable flicker of soul-deep heartbreak flashes in his cobalt eyes. “Why?” he barks gruffly, visibly gritting

his teeth. Shaking my head, I wave my hand in front of my face and try to play it off. He doesn’t need to say anything else; I already know the answer. “Never mind. I was just curious. I didn’t mean to pry. Let’s get you fixed up so we can eat.” His jaw relaxes as he spins around to face me, but I keep from making eye contact with him, focusing on the task at hand. He watches intently as I clean and cover the wounds, and the air inside the tiny washroom quickly becomes thick with unspoken words. Once I’m finished, I turn to make a hasty retreat,

but he catches me by the elbow, forcing me to look back at him. “Her name was Darya,” he confesses, his voice barely more than a whisper. My chest constricts with dread as I ask the next question. “What happened to her?” “She was brutally raped and murdered.” Somehow, I already know the answer, but I have to hear it from him. “Who?” I croak. “Ish.”

AT RAZE’S REVELATION, I FLY into his arms in the tightest embrace possible, wishing . . . hoping . . . praying it’s not true, even though I know it is. He has no reason to lie to me. I don’t need any additional reasons to detest the man I was once married to. But now I have more. We stand like that—clinging to each other, words unnecessary—for minutes.

Maybe hours. I don’t know. I don’t care. If my arms wrapped around him provide even a tiny bit of solace for what he had stolen from him, for the love he lost, then I’ll stand here all night. I feel like I owe it to him. At some point, we eventually break apart and make our way to the kitchen. Neither of us are ready to discuss everything that’s happened in the last hour, so we keep ourselves busy by unpacking the boxes of supplies, working around each other like we’ve done this hundreds of times. First, we get all of the cold

groceries put away in the refrigerator and freezer. The amount of food he’s ordered concerns me, indicating we’re going to be here for quite some time. I may feel differently about Raze now, but I still want to leave as soon as possible. This is not a life, being confined to a five-hundred-square-foot cabin in the middle of nowhere with no connection to the outside world. As he puts away the last of the dry goods in the small pantry, I open the next package, only to find myself, once again, shocked at the things he’s had brought in. The entire box is filled with women’s

clothes in my size—thermal tops, sweatpants, a pair of jeans, flannel pajamas, and undergarments. Peering up at him, my jaw falls open and I shake my head incredulously. I don’t know what to say. And he ordered all of this before what happened with that sick freak earlier. I’m not sure who this guy is, but I can admit to myself that it was wrong of me to ever compare him to Ish. “What? What did I do?” he asks when he notices me staring at him, lifting his eyebrows in his best innocent face. I don’t even bother fighting the

genuine smile that tugs the corners of my mouth up. “You had them bring me clothes?” I phrase it as a question, even though the physical evidence in front of me makes the answer quite clear. Faintly embarrassed, he shrugs his shoulders nonchalantly. “It’s not that I don’t like seeing you in my shirt every day, but I know you get cold, especially at night. And I know you’re having to hand wash your, um . . . your underwear. I just guessed on the bra size too, so I’m sorry if it’s off.” His awkwardness discussing this is endearing. I like knowing I can bring up

lingerie and make him uncomfortable. It’s not much of a weapon, but I’ll store the knowledge for future use, if necessary. Glancing down at the tags of the bra, I’m not surprised to find it’s exactly my size. 34C. I lift it up and dangle it in the air, and on cue, he squirms and takes a step backward, away from me. “You did good. Thanks for all of this stuff.” “I would’ve had them bring you your own stuff, but the feds are crawling all over your apartment complex right now. It wasn’t worth taking the chance,” he explains, his mention of the federal

agents searching for me grounding me from my temporary high. “Yeah.” I nod, feeling my face fall. “Thanks again. You didn’t have to do this.” “Sure I did. If we’re gonna be here a while, you’ll have to wash that shirt eventually, and unless you want to wear that uncomfortable looking dress you had on at work last Friday, you needed some clothes.” Wrinkling my nose, I cock my head to the side, puzzled. “My dress from work last Friday?” He closes the cabinet door and

moves toward me. “Yes. The one you had on when you were delivered to me.” “No, I know what dress,” I clarify. “It’s just the last Friday part that threw me off. What day is it today?” “It’s Wednesday evening,” he pauses to sneak a peek at his phone, “seventwenty-three.” Wow. It feels like I’ve been with Raze much longer than five days. I hate that I’m so unaware of what’s going on that I’ve lost track of the days and time. “Right. Wednesday night.” Again, with his exemplary perceptiveness, he realizes I need a few

minutes alone to come to terms with numerous things. “In the other box, there should be books, magazines, a DVD player, and a bunch of American movies I’ve always wanted to see to keep us from going absolutely stir-crazy in here. Go through it, and anything you want to read or watch, help yourself. I’m going to take a shower and change out of these clothes. I’ll put the toiletries up while I’m in there.” Not waiting for me to respond, he walks past me, careful not to allow our shoulders to brush against each other’s. But just before the bathroom door

closes, I speak out. “Raze.” He shifts his attention to me. “Yes, girl?” When I say his name, I have no idea what I am going to say to him. I just can’t let us separate with this weird tension between us. “What does kotyonok mean?” The words tumble mindlessly from my lips. A warm chuckle rumbles deep in his chest as he flashes me a boyish grin. “It means kitten,” he replies, shutting the door before I have a chance to respond.

“Wow, this is delicious,” Raze manages in between bites of the homemade cheeseburgers I made while he was in the shower. Once I realized I didn’t have anywhere to store my new clothes since I was actually living in the living room, I slipped on a pair of sweatpants then left the rest in the box and scooted it to the corner, back behind the couch, where it’d be out of the way. Then, while Raze was still in the shower, I began

preparing dinner for the two of us. My way of saying thanks again for everything. Protecting me. Making sure I had what I needed in this shitty situation. Being a decent human being. “Bacon and ranch,” I divulge my mom’s super-secret recipe for the best cheeseburgers ever. He eyes his half-eaten burger skeptically and shakes his head. “What? Where? I don’t see any bacon or ranch.” “It’s mixed inside the meat. I usually fry the bacon fresh and use a packet of the powdered Ranch dip, but I made do with what we had—bottled Ranch

dressing and jarred bacon bits. It still tastes pretty damn good.” I smirk as I bite into the greasy, but delicious dinner. “Careful,” he warns with a teasing tone in his voice. “You may have just won yourself cooking duties while we’re here.” Rolling my eyes, I toss my paper towel at him. “Uh-uh. I’ve had your omelets. No way I’m letting you off the hook on those. You keep breakfast, and I’ll do dinner. Whoever doesn’t cook is in charge of cleanup.” “You’re quite the little negotiator. Where did you learn that?” he asks as he

begins to work on cheeseburger number two. So much for leftovers for lunch tomorrow. “My brother, Brandon. We were always swapping out chores and whatnot, covering for each other when we got older,” I answer, surprising myself with my candidness. “What about you? Do you have any siblings?” He wipes a dribble of grease from his chin with a napkin as he nods. “Like you, I have a younger brother, Ivan. He and I grew up very close, only a year apart in age.” “When did you move to the U.S.? Is

all your family here?” Suddenly, I have an abundance of questions for Raze as I realize I know very little about this man who has vowed to keep me safe, even if it means risking his life. That fact still freaks me out a bit, so I choose not to dwell on it. For a second, a glimpse of sadness eclipses his expression, but he hastily pushes it aside with a forced smile. “I’ve been here a little over fifteen years, since I was seventeen. My parents are in L.A., but my brother is in Houston, running the family business with one of our cousins out of the port there.”

“My mom and brother are dead.” I don’t know why I blurt that out, but for some reason, I feel infinitely better when I do. “Yes, I know.” Stretching his arm across the small dinette table we’re using for the first time, he rests his hand on top of mine and lightly rubs his thumb back and forth. “You feel guilty. Think they’re gone because of you.” I know he’s read up on me. Shit, he probably knows more about me than I do. And I like how he doesn’t ask me if I feel guilty, but acknowledges it for what it is. A fact that can’t ever be changed.

Only someone who feels the same way could understand. “Vincent didn’t try to hide his handiwork from me.” I grimace, trying my best not to think about the gory scene found at my mother’s house the day after I shot Ish. He purposely chews slowly, giving me time to settle my thoughts. “That alone doesn’t make you want to kill him? ‘Cause I know if you hadn’t taken care of Ish when you did, I was going to have my way with him pretty soon thereafter. You did the bastard a fucking favor. Gave him a painless death.”

“Does that make you resent me? That I took that away from you?” With his hand still on mine, he turns it over and brings my palm to his mouth, kissing it softly. “Not at all, kotyonok. I’m glad he’s dead, but now I want the man truly responsible to pay. I don’t care if it’s you or if it’s me who does it; either way, he owes us both more than his life can ever pay for.” The strangest feeling washes over me as Raze and I sit together after eating dinner, discussing which of us is going to murder someone, his mouth pressed against my hand. It isn’t sexual, though I

can’t deny there’s something innately attractive about his rough and tough exterior. But it’s something. Some kind of connection I’ve never experienced before with another person. I know it sounds crazy, but I almost feel like he’s my guardian angel. I knew from the moment I was released into the Witness Protection Program that eventually someone would figure out who I was, and my fake world would come tumbling down around me. I wasn’t wrong, but somehow, despite the insanity in all of this, I ended up with Raze, a gentle giant who probably hates

the people I hate just as much as I do. Our common enemy brought us together, but now something else is making us . . . friends? Unfortunately, I don’t have long to contemplate that scary word, because the high-pitched shrill of Raze’s cell phone shatters the silence. He jumps up and answers it, disappearing into the bedroom to hold the conversation. Since we’re both finished eating, I take the time to wash our plates and clean the crumbs off the table. A few minutes pass before he reappears in the kitchen, and

immediately, based on the concern in his gaze, I know something is wrong. “What? What is it?” Releasing a loud sigh, he scrubs his hands up and down over his face before dropping them to his hips. “Madden. He went to Chicago to find Vincent and ended up getting roughed up by some of his boys before the FBI intervened. The shit’s hit the fan. Vincent’s left the country, hiding out somewhere in Italy, because the feds have shut down all of his businesses, looking for you, and your boyfriend’s unconscious, laid up in a hospital.”

“Oh, my God.”

“WHAT PART OF ‘LEAVE IT to the professionals’ didn’t you understand?” Marshal Doherty roars so loud I’m sure everyone in the hall can hear him. “You nearly got yourself killed! Not to mention, you completely screwed up the sting operation the FBI was planning on Capo’s, when they had to jump early and go save your ass. Come on, Decker! You’re an intelligent man. What were

you thinking?” As I lean back in the uncomfortable hospital bed, I watch him pace across the linoleum floor, wishing he’d finish the lecture and leave so I can go about checking myself out of this hellhole. I agreed to stay forty-eight hours for observation, as they were concerned about the results of my MRI, and now the doctors are trying to make me stay another night, because the brain swelling isn’t subsiding as fast as they’d like. Ain’t fucking happening. It’s been six days since Blake was taken, and these “professionals” aren’t

any closer to finding her now than they were then. A concussion, broken nose, and shattered ribs aren’t going to keep me from searching for her. I won’t stop until I find her or take my last breath. “You told me you were doing everything in your power to find her. It’s been almost a week, and you still have no fucking idea where she is,” I snap, my tone clear I don’t appreciate being reprimanded like a child. “Did you even know she’s not in Chicago? Those goons mentioned ‘when they bring her back home,’ indicating we’re all looking in the wrong place!”

The other man in the room, who’s been uninvolved in the conversation up until now, stands up from the chair in the corner and pads over to the bed. He’s a short, round man with dark hair and darker eyes, dressed in black slacks and a light blue button-down business shirt. “Mr. Decker, I know you think you’re helping us out, but—” “First off,” I cut him off, holding my hand in the air, “I have no fucking idea who you are or what us you’re referring to, but my intentions aren’t to help anyone. The woman I love has been abducted, most likely by some very

dangerous people, and my only priority is getting her back, safe and sound. Secondly, I understand that Marshal Doherty shares a similar goal, and I can only assume you do too, since you’ve spent the better part of the morning sitting in my hospital room. So if sharing information with each other leads to bringing her home quicker, then I’m all about playing for the team. But you’ve lost your fucking mind if you think I’m gonna sit around and do nothing while I wait to hear from one of you assholes.” Clenching his jaw, he glares at me in what I can only assume is supposed to

be an intimidating look. “I apologize for not properly introducing myself,” he replies in the most insincere tone imaginable. “I’m Agent Craig Diomassi, FBI. I’m the man who saved you Tuesday from getting yourself killed. And it was also my six-month undercover investigation you managed to unravel the minute you stepped foot into that shop. One of those three goons was one of my men, and we were so close to getting the last piece of evidence we needed to formally indict Vincent Ricci . . . but now he’s fled the country, gone into hiding somewhere in Italy, and the

whole operation has been exposed.” “Oh, I’m sorry. Is it a thank you or an apology you’re wanting from me?” I sneer, heavy on the sarcasm. “Either way, I wouldn’t hold my breath. If you’ve been running surveillance for the last six months and have had a man on the inside, then you should’ve known the fucking Dagos don’t have her here.” “We did know that!” he bellows angrily. Shifting my attention over to Doherty, I raise my eyebrows. “If you knew she wasn’t in Chicago, then why are you here and not out there looking

for her? Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t it your job to make sure your witnesses in the Witness Protection Program stay fucking protected?!” The machine hooked up to read my vitals screams at us as my blood pressure skyrockets. I don’t care who the hell these guys are with their fancy bureaucratic titles. It seems they’re just as efficient and effective as everyone else who works for the damn government. It’s a good thing I have an IV needle buried in each arm, or I’d probably be getting arrested for assaulting one of these fuckers.

A nurse rushes into the room as a result of the monitors blowing up, probably thinking I’m suffering from a massive heart attack. But as soon as she realizes the three of us men are involved in a heated standoff—or sit-off, in my case—she pulls up short of the bed, eyeing each of us warily. “Gentlemen? Is there a problem?” she addresses Doherty and Diomassi with a no-nonsense tone. Apparently, she’s not impressed with their badges and guns either. “If you’re going to upset the patient to the point he’s bordering on a code blue, I’m going to have to ask you

to leave.” Marshal Doherty offers her a complacent smile. “No need to worry, Kristin,” he replies, his gaze lingering a few seconds longer than necessary over the nametag pinned above her left breast. “Mr. Decker just got a little upset, but everything is fine here. We assure you it won’t happen again.” She turns and eyes me, clucking her tongue. “You press that call button if you need me, okay? I have no problem asking them to leave.” I don’t hesitate. “I want them to leave. And I want to leave, too. Please

have the doctor prepare my discharge papers.” Her face morphs from concern to surprise to suspicion in less than ten seconds. “But, sir, Dr. Rodner recommended that you stay until we do another MRI tomorrow.” “I’m well aware of the recommendation, Nurse Kristin, but I’m ready to go home,” I respond with forced politeness. “So either you can discharge me, or I can get up and walk out. Either way, I’m leaving this hospital today.”

Five hours later, I’m sitting in a firstclass window seat on a flight back to L.A., washing a pain pill down with a vodka cranberry, minus the vodka. My entire body throbs in agony. My face looks like I got in the ring with Floyd Mayweather, and feels about the same. But it’s the gaping hole in my chest slowly filling with helplessness and despair that hurts the worst. My body and face will heal in time, but I’m not sure I can survive losing Blake forever.

“What if we don’t find her?” I ask as I lean my head back on the leather seat and close my eyes. “We will find her,” Marshal Doherty, who’s in the seat to my right, grunts. “People don’t just vanish off the face of the earth. She’s somewhere, and whoever has her is just waiting for the right time to do whatever they’re planning.” I open my eyes and stare at the rounded ceiling of the plane, ignoring the sharp pain that shoots through my midsection with each breath I take. After the nurse left my hospital room earlier,

Doherty, Diomassi, and I decided to call a truce after they ensured they’d keep me in the loop about what’s going on with the investigation, as long as I promised not to do any more renegade missions. I’m aware they were lying to get me to agree, and that they’ll probably feed me as little of the information as possible to make me think they’re holding up their end of the bargain, but so was I. My only problem now is that Diomassi is insisting I have an agent assigned to me for protection purposes. He claims after my stunt at Capo’s I put a target on my back for not only the

Ricci clan, but also for whoever really has her. And though I understand his concern, I think the point of the detail is more to make sure to keep tabs on me than anything else. Whenever I figure out what my next move is, I’ll have to figure out a way to be extremely discreet. I already have plans to get an untraceable phone first thing tomorrow. There’s no way the feds won’t be tracking my current phone for calls and texts, making sure they know what I know. “Do you have any leads at all? What’s the next step?” I want to wrap my hands around Doherty’s neck and shake

him until everything he knows falls out of him. “We don’t have a lot, to be quite honest,” he replies, his voice low. “The thing I keep coming back to is the text that came from your phone, arranging the meeting. Whoever sent that message had to know your role in her life and had to manage to get your phone away from you. It can’t be a coincidence that the day your phone just happened to disappear, this whole thing went down. It was premeditated. And either someone close to the situation is the mastermind, or was used as a middleman.”

Emerson. I still think she’s involved. I need to figure out a way to get her to talk. Clearing his throat, he squirms uncomfortably in his seat. “Are you sure you don’t remember when you had your phone last? What you could’ve done with it?” Blood roars in my ears at the accusation in his tone. “Are you fucking serious?” I hiss incredulously. “You think I’m involved? That I’ve been making this all up? That I would nearly get myself killed by those guys if I had something to do with this?”

He holds his hands up in surrender as he scoots as far away from me as the armrest will allow. “No! No! Not anymore, at least. Before you showed up in Chicago, I have to admit you were moving up the board of potential suspects, but after your rash and reckless near-suicide mission, you’ve been removed.” Blowing a huge sigh of relief through my pursed lips, it takes me a few seconds to calm down before I can speak. I was about to lose my fucking shit on this guy. Thinking I was somehow involved with Blake’s abduction . . . I

want to beat his ass just for entertaining such a preposterous idea. “Madden, we have to carefully explore every possible option . . . including you,” he continues, relaxing his posture once he sees I’m cooling down. “I understand your life has been completely flipped upside down in the last week. The woman you’re in love with goes missing. You find out she’s a member of the WITSEC, and the life she lived before you met her was something you only thought happened in twisted, psychological thrillers. And to top it all off, someone used your phone to set the

whole thing in motion. I know you feel like you’re spinning out of control, but you can’t make impulsive, thoughtless decisions. It hinders our efforts, puts you in danger, and possibly jeopardizes Blake’s life.” I nod my understanding. Before I made the trip to Chicago, I hadn’t really thought about any other consequences besides me getting hurt, and I was willing to risk myself if I could save her. The overwhelming need to do something, anything, controlled my actions, and though the trip was successful in finding out Vincent Ricci

isn’t who kidnapped Blake and clearing my name from the list of suspects, I’m now afraid I’ve made things worse for her. “I told you I wouldn’t make any more careless decisions,” I grit through my teeth, more upset with myself than anything. “Good.” He tips his chin approvingly. “I expect, with the excitement we just left in Chicago, for whoever has her to lie low for a bit, but if you are contacted in any way, or if anything seems off to you, call me immediately. We’ll have to act quickly.”

Mumbling my concurrence, I’ve already started to tune him out and focus on what all I need to do when I get home. In my head, all signs still point directly to Emerson, and I’ve got a plan.

RAZE’S PHONE CHIRPS WITH AN incoming text, and I jump nearly ten feet in the air, praying it’s an update on Madden. Yesterday evening we learned about the FBI’s raid on Vincent’s car shop and Madden’s subsequent hospitalization. It was now over twentyfour hours after everything had gone down in Chicago and since then, there’s been minimal contact with whoever it is

feeding him the information. According to Raze, the feds had done everything possible to keep it off the radar, trying to prevent an all-out uproar among both the allies and enemies of the Ricci family throughout the country. But of course, the details eventually leaked, and now the power play for Chicago has begun. His exact words were, “People like me, we’re sharks. A family gets the tiniest nick in the skin of their operation and a single drop of blood escapes . . . the rest of us smell their vulnerability from miles away.”

He seems pleased that Vincent’s empire is faltering, and if I thought about it long enough, I’m sure I would be too, but I can’t think about anything but Madden. If he’s going to be okay. Why he was there. What all he knows about me now. If I’ll ever get a chance to tell him I love him. “Well?” I stare expectantly at Raze from my couch to where he’s typing out a return message, standing by the dinette. “Are you going to tell me?” “Yes, impatient girl. Hold on one minute. I’m trying to find out as much as I can.”

Chewing on the inside of my cheek while I wait, it seems like an eternity passes by the time he finally raises his head and locks his gaze on me. “Your boy was discharged from the hospital this afternoon and was on a flight back to L.A. this evening with U.S. Marshal Owen Doherty. I still don’t have confirmation of his exact injuries, but obviously he’s well enough to travel. No one knows for sure why he was at Capo’s, what he hoped to accomplish, but my informant at the bureau confirmed he was there on his own and ended up getting into a skirmish with some of

Vincent’s men. Things got out of hand and, luckily for him, surveillance was being run on the place, so the FBI was able to stop it before he got in too much trouble.” Pausing, he shakes his head in disbelief. “This guy is either really fucking stupid or he really fucking loves you.” A flood of emotions washes over me when he finishes the recap, and immediately, I burst into uncontrollable tears. Relieved Madden isn’t seriously hurt. Angry at myself for getting him involved in my mess of a life. Worried he’s already begun to resent me. Scared

he’ll do something else reckless and put himself in another dangerous situation— one he may not be able to walk away from. Confident he truly meant it when he whispered he loved me. Devastated I may never be able to tell him the same. “Why are you crying, kotyonok?” In a flash, I’m cradled in Raze’s arms, my face buried in his chest. I welcome the human contact and melt into him. “I thought you’d be happy to hear he’s okay and going home. Tell me what’s wrong.” “I . . . I . . . I . . .” Each time I try to start talking, I hiccup back a sob. “I nnever told him . . . I never told him I

love him.” The moment the confession leaves my lips, I erupt into another fit of hysteria, clinging to his brawny back while I use his shirt as a handkerchief. He tightens his arms around me, holding me closer while he soothingly strokes my hair. “Shh, there. Everything’s gonna be okay,” he whispers softly. “Once this is all over, you’ll be able to tell him whatever you want. Just calm down, sweet girl. No need to get this upset.” Sweet girl—Madden’s nickname for me—echoes loudly in my ears, and

instead of calming me down, the words rip my soul from me. Breathing is difficult. I can’t get enough air. My chest feels as if it’s cracked open, exposing the carnage of what’s left of my shattered heart. In a last-ditch effort to anchor myself to reality, I dig my fingernails into the soft flesh beneath them, craving the pain that follows, the pain that reminds me I’m alive. Except, it never comes. Frustrated, I bite deeper, burying the keratin into my sides and dragging downward, and when I still don’t feel anything, I realize it’s because I’m

holding onto Raze and not myself. Hastily releasing him, I gasp with horror as I lean back to look into his face. “Oh, my God. I’m so sorry! Did I hurt you? I thought I was—” He holds a finger up to my mouth to quiet me. “I’m fine, but you need to calm down, kotyonok. Upsetting yourself like this doesn’t help anything. I know you miss him and you feel guilty for not telling him how you felt before all of this happened, but you have to believe you’re going to see him again.” “What if I don’t? What if something goes wrong with the whole Vincent thing

and he kills me first? What if Vincent never comes back from Italy? What happens to me then? You’re just gonna let me go?” I sniffle while wiping the tears away with the back of my hand. “There are all these what-ifs, Raze, and you know as well as I do that anything can happen. The actual chance of Madden and me ever being reunited is slim, and even if we are, I doubt things will ever be the same again between us. “I mean, how will he look at me now that he knows who I am and what I’ve done? He’s probably disgusted at the thought of me. Not to mention, our

relationship has now nearly gotten him killed. He probably hates—” This time, two fingers pressed to my lips cut me off. “He definitely loves you,” he states without hesitation. “And none of that will matter to him. Not even a little bit. Trust me on this. I would’ve died a thousand deaths for my Darya to live her one life.” With no intelligible response to his profound assertion, I curl back up against his chest and close my eyes. The next thing I know, I’m waking up to the smell of maple syrup and bacon, tucked into Raze’s bed, alone.

DESPITE THE DOCTOR’S STRICT ORDERS about staying in bed and resting for at least seven to ten days, the morning after I arrive home from Chicago, I step out of the elevator onto the tenth floor, which is exclusive to Decker Enterprises. Lance, the personal bodyguard assigned to me by the FBI despite my reluctance, steps out with me, undeterred by the leave-me-the-fuck-

alone vibe I’ve been giving since he followed me into the building. Already irritated, when I’m greeted cheerfully by the receptionist with a “Welcome back, Mr. Decker!” I just scowl and make a beeline for my office without saying a word. I’m not in the mood for fake pleasantries. I feel like I’ve been hit by an eighteen-wheeler, I’ve got an unwanted shadow, and my girlfriend is still fucking missing! “Oh, good God, Madden,” Caroline, my personal assistant, exclaims when she sees me approaching. “You said you got in a little scuffle, not that you got the

bloody snot beaten out of you. And you didn’t tell me you were bringing anyone with you to the office.” “Caroline, this is Lance, my assigned security. He’s gonna hang out here with you when I’m in the office,” I announce, shifting my focus back and forth between the two of them. “Lance, this is my assistant, Caroline. If you need something, she can help you.” I don’t wait for either of them to respond before I spin on my heel and stride toward my office. Grabbing a legal pad, Caroline jumps to her feet and circles around her desk to join me for a

briefing, which is how we start every normal workday. “I’m fine, Caroline. There’s no need to make a bigger deal out of this than necessary, and no, I don’t want to talk about it,” I clip, tossing my briefcase on the back credenza before settling in my chair. “Obviously, we need to go over what I’ve missed this week at some point, but first I want to let you know I’ve already sent an email to accounting to properly compensate you with a bonus for what I’m sure have been four days of complete hell. I appreciate not only you stepping up and keeping this place from

falling apart, but also for allowing me the time I needed without being constantly harassed with emails and calls.” She smiles humbly, tucking a strand of gray hair back behind her ear. “I appreciate your faith in me, Madden, but I haven’t been doing it alone. Your brother has been here, before me every morning and after me every evening, personally reviewing all the documents I’ve prepared and answering most of the emails.” “Easton? Are you serious?” I peer up at her, my forehead creased with

suspicion. Caroline nods emphatically, her mouth curving into an eager grin. “Yes, and he’s already hired a replacement for Emerson. A woman I recommended to him from my Bunco group.” The mention of Emerson’s name nullifies any positivity from the conversation, but it reminds me of my priorities this morning. “Very well. I’ll speak with him later. I’m only here to grab a couple of files off the server to review this weekend. I don’t plan on staying long.” Glancing down at my desk, the memory of the evening Blake

surprised me by bringing dinner flashes in my mind. The way my sweet girl looked spread out naked atop the wooden surface makes my dick twitch. Fucking hell. Not now. “Have you heard anything about where Ms. Martin is? Who might have her?” Caroline asks, her hushed tone snapping me from my daydream. “No.” I shake my head. “I ruled out a place she’s not, but no new leads.” When I called to let her know I wouldn’t be at work this week, I confided in my longtime assistant about what had happened, trusting her not to

tell anyone. She doesn’t know details about Blake’s past, but is aware of the situation and more than willing to help me in any way possible. Her smile fades and she looks down at the notepad in her hands, like she’s not sure what to say. I mean, honestly, there’s nothing that can be said to make the situation any better, unless it’s the location of my girlfriend. Saving her from any lingering awkwardness, I change the subject and keep talking. “I’m meeting my parents for lunch, since I missed Sunday brunch last weekend with everything going on. I

told my mom I was out of town on business, but I failed to mention that my face looks like it’s been through a meat grinder, so I need to stop and pick her up some flowers beforehand to soften the blow. Would you mind calling that florist I like to use on Justine Street and have them put together something she’d like?” “No problem. Budget?” She jots down a note to herself. I shrug as I power on my desktop computer. “Whatever. Will two hundred get me something nice?” “Definitely. Anything else you need from me?”

To ensure Lance—or anyone who may have bugged my office—can’t hear me, I motion for her to approach my desk. On a piece of paper, I write out instructions for her to go at lunch and buy me a phone with a prepaid plan then to personally deliver it to Easton and tell him to bring it to my house tonight. After she reads it, she nods to let me know she’s finished and understands, and then I feed the paper through the shredder I keep under my desk. “I think that should take care of everything, Caroline. Thank you again for everything.

Once she’s gone, I slide open the desk drawer to grab a flash drive to save my files on, when the picture of Blake as a teenager pushed all the way to the back catches my eye. Unable to resist the temptation, I take it out and stare at it for a good five minutes. My throat thickens as tears prick the backs of my eyes, the thoughts of what she endured at such a young age rocking me to the core. It all makes better sense now. My initial draw to her, the irresistible desire to take care of her, to absorb her darkness as my own. That’s who I am as a lover. A guardian. A protector. I find

my ultimate pleasure when she willingly gives me control of her body, mind, and soul, and allows me to free her from the demons that haunt her. Knowing she trusts me with all of her is the highest of highs. And knowing I failed to keep her safe is the lowest of lows. Pissed off, I slam the drawer closed and stand abruptly. Fuck the files. Who am I kidding? It’s not like I’m really going to work on any of this shit this weekend anyway. I’ve already got a full agenda. My first stop when I leave the office

is to swing by Franci’s Flower Shop and pick up the arrangement Caroline ordered for me. From there, I drive the long route to my parent’s Malibu home, mentally preparing myself for the endless questions my mom is going to throw at me about my injuries, the bodyguard, and, of course, about why I fired Emerson. By the time I pull up into the driveway, I’ve decided lying is the best game plan. About all of it. Two and a half hours later, I’ve successfully managed to convince my parents that a four-wheeling accident is the reason for my battered face and

wrapped ribcage, that Lance is a friend from college who’s staying with me for the weekend, and that I let Emerson go, because I caught her embezzling money to support her cocaine addiction, but I promised not to tell her parents or the authorities if she returned the money and entered a rehab program. I know it’s a bit of a stretch, but fuck her. I’ve got a feeling that what she’s actually done is way worse than the story I made up, and if it turns out I’m right, I’ll tell my parents the truth about everything. By the time I get home, my head is pounding and my torso feels as if

someone’s hitting it over and over again with a baseball bat. I need a pain pill, a shower, and a nap. But first, I have a text to send. Me: Hey, Emerson. Are you free tomorrow night? I’d like to apologize to you in person. Dinner at my place, 7:00? The response is almost immediate. Emerson: Absolutely. I’ll see you then. XXX

THE HOUR BEFORE EMERSON IS to arrive, I check, double-check, and even triple-check that everything is exactly where it needs to be. I’ve only got one shot in pulling this off. After tonight, I should know exactly who has my sweet girl. Then, all I’ll need to do is figure out how to get her back. Opening the front door, I stride across the front lawn to where Lance

patrols my house from his black, latemodel Tahoe. I thought he would’ve been briefed on other people close to me or those associated with the case, but after he nearly attacked my brother last night when he stopped by, and Sarah again this morning when she showed up for work, I assume I need to give him a heads up about visitors. “Hey,” I force a polite smile as he rolls down the window, “I just wanted to let you know my friend Emerson is coming over for dinner tonight. I’m not sure what the protocol is, if you have to check her ID or whatever, but I’d be

happy if you could stay as far out of sight as possible. Nothing says romantic dinner like knowing you have a babysitter watching from outside.” His face remains impassive as he glances down at some papers in the passenger seat. “I need a physical description, as well as the color, make, and model of her car.” “Tall . . . thin . . . long, curly red hair. She drives a new, silver C-class Mercedes,” I spout off the top of my head. Nodding once, he jots down something on the paper. “Got it. I won’t

approach her.” “Yeah, thanks,” I reply, tapping my fist on the hood of his car before disappearing back into my house. God, I want this all to be over. I just want my Blake back. At five minutes until seven, Emerson’s car pulls into my driveway, and for once, I’m thankful for the fact she thinks she’s important enough to pull up to the garage and come in through the backdoor like she fucking lives here. All I care about is that she didn’t notice Lance’s presence. The second she steps through the

backdoor—without knocking, naturally —and sees my face, she drops her purse and rushes over to where I’m waiting for her on a barstool, sipping a glass of wine. “Oh, my God, Madden! What happened to you?” she screeches, the concern in her voice sincere. “Who did this? I’ll kill whoever it is!” Sliding off the stool, I stand to greet her with a fake grin plastered on my face. My stomach turns with disgust at the sight of her, and I have to keep reminding myself of the end game to this night.

“Hey, Em!” I open my arms, inviting her into a hug. “Don’t worry; it looks much worse than it feels. I went out with a friend of mine on a four-wheeling excursion, and I misjudged a jump. It’ll all heal soon. I already got everything checked out.” Hesitantly, she steps into my embrace, but as soon as I wrap my arms around her, pressing our chests together, she relaxes and sags into me. “Oh, Madden,” she whispers. “I’ve missed the way you smell.” I nearly vomit in her hair. I hope she likes the smell of a prison cell.

“I’ve missed you too. So much,” I lie, kissing her forehead as we break apart. “Can I pour you a glass of wine? I picked up a couple of different Pinot Noirs today. I know that’s your favorite.” She beams up at me like I just asked her if she wanted to get married. Stupid whore. “Yes, definitely! I’ll have whatever you’re drinking.” Padding my bare feet across the tiled floor, I reach up to grab another wine goblet from the cabinet, making sure to get one from the top shelf so my shirt rises up. Her eyes follow my every

move, and when I feel the cool air kiss the exposed skin of my stomach, directly above where my worn jeans hang loosely on my hips, she hisses like the conniving snake she is. I pour the wine slowly, still with my back to her, as I count backward to keep my cool. Then, with a cocky smirk on my face, I turn around and close the gap between us. “I think you’re really gonna like this.” Licking her lips, she ogles me shamelessly, too self-absorbed to realize how bizarre it is that my attitude toward her has suddenly done a complete one-

eighty. Of course, she doesn’t question it. She probably wonders why it took me a week to come crawling back to her. “I already know I’ll like it,” she replies, making it clear she’s not talking about the wine as she takes the glass from my hand. She’s making this way too easy. I’ll have her eating out of my hand by dessert. “Are you hungry now? I had Sarah prepare us beef tenderloin with garlic risotto. It’s warm in the oven.” Her eyes light up as she sips the wine, nodding excitedly. “Sounds delicious.”

Over the next hour, after I apologize for the mistake of her being fired, we reminisce about our childhood over dinner and two bottles of wine, most of it being poured in her glass. I’m careful not to bring up Blake or the events of the last week in any way, purposely reminding Emerson of her and my long history together and why she should trust me. I do it, because I know I have to do it, but throughout the meal, the rage inside me begins to grow until I literally have to bite my tongue to not ask her what I really want to. Patience is not a virtue I’ve been blessed with.

By the time we stand up to clear our dishes off the table, she’s giggly and giddy, definitely feeling the effects of the wine. She nearly trips over her own feet on the short trip to the sink, grabbing onto my arm to keep her balance. I flinch at her touch, but luckily she’s too busy hiccupping and laughing about her misstep to notice. I rinse the plates and silverware while she continues to hang on my left side, rubbing her boobs back and forth against my bicep. “How much longer are you gonna make me wait?” “Wait for what?” I ask as I turn the

faucet off and twist to face her, a sly smile curling up only one corner of my mouth. Lifting up on her toes, she brings her lips up to my ear, nipping at the lobe. “That apology fuck you promised me,” she rasps. “I only remember the apology part of that promise,” I tease, playing the game. She leans back slightly and peers up at me through her eyelashes. “Are you telling me you didn’t invite me over to fuck?” she asks, emphasizing the last word by cupping my flaccid dick through my jeans.

“Maybe we should skip the banana pudding and go straight upstairs? I think you might be the sweetest thing in this house anyway.” I hate myself before I even finish the sentence, despite knowing it’s necessary to get her where I need her. Her face lights up and she takes off running for the stairs, stumbling and sputtering the entire way to my room. I remind myself over and over again as I follow her that I’m doing this because I love Blake. She will understand why when I’m finally able to explain it to her. And if I don’t do it, I may never get that

chance. By the time I cross the threshold into my bedroom, Emerson has already shed her dress and shoes, and she’s lying spread eagle in my bed, wearing only a black thong. She’s got one hand stuck down the front of her panties, petting herself, and the other rolling her left nipple between her fingers. “Wow, you move fast.” I chuckle, glancing over at the closet door to make sure she didn’t accidentally close it as she ran by. Relieved, I see it’s exactly how I left it. “It’s been too long since I’ve been in

this bed,” she says breathlessly, her eyes locked on me. “It’s where I belong.” Walking toward the nightstand, I’m unable to watch her touch herself on my bed without dry heaving. I’ll have to buy new furniture tomorrow. And burn the sheets. “Where you belong, eh?” I ask flirtatiously as I pull the handcuffs out of the bottom drawer then dangle them over her face. “Then you won’t mind if I keep you where you belong with these, will you?” Excitement flashes across her face. She thinks I want to play. Stupid bitch.

“I don’t mind at all, Mr. Decker,” she purrs, batting her fake lashes while lifting her arms above her head. “Are you gonna punish me for being a bad little assistant?” After I thread the chain through the slats of the headboard and secure her wrists together, I grin wolfishly down at her. “That depends on if you’ve been bad or not. Is there anything you need to tell me?” She wrinkles up her nose, pretending to think, then shakes her head. “Not that I can think of.” The next thing I pull out of the

drawer is a blindfold, and I waste no time in slipping it over her eyes. She doesn’t resist. I move to the end of the bed, positioning myself to the side so she can clearly be seen on the camera. Then, after several deep breaths and a silent prayer, I pick her leg up and begin to massage it. My fingers blister against her skin, the ugliness in her bubbling just under the deceitfully attractive exterior. “Oh, that feels so damn good,” she moans as I rub from the arch of her foot, up the back of her ankle, to her calf. “You missed me, Em?” I lead her

into the conversation I’ve been dying to have all night, my hands gradually traveling north. “Missed being here in my bed? This is what you want?” She whimpers and nods. “You know I have, Madden. It’s always been you for me. I’d do anything for you.” I reach the back of her knee and ease up on my touch to a light stroke back and forth. “I made a mistake by getting involved with Blake. I was too blind to see what’s always been right here in front of me. Never thought you took what we had seriously, but I realize now I was wrong.”

When I stop talking, I resume the kneading motion as I inch up the inside of her thigh. I close my eyes so I don’t have to look at my hands on her body. “That doesn’t matter anymore,” she pants while writhing under my touch. “I’m here, and she’s gone.” “That’s right.” My hand gets dangerously close to her apex, but stalls out before giving her the contact she so desperately craves. “I never properly thanked you for taking care of that . . .” I lightly drag one fingertip over the thin piece of lace covering her sex then retreat back to her inner thigh. “I

should’ve trusted you to know what’s best for me. You always have.” Her back arches up off the mattress as she presses her hips down toward my hand, and a cocky smile curls up the corners of her mouth. “Always,” she breathes. “You’ve always been mine, and always will be. You just needed a reminder.” Tracing the edges of her panties, I occasionally dip my finger under the thin fabric, eliciting a gasp from her each time. “I just can’t figure out how you did it.” I brush my thumb over her clit and she jerks. “How you discovered who

she really was.” Another stroke, this one more forceful than the first. “Please, Madden,” she begs, spreading her legs wide to give me full access. “Rip my thong off and touch me. I need you.” A deep growl rumbles in my chest as my endurance for this charade starts wearing thin. She’s right on the fucking cusp. All I need is for her to say it. To admit she knows what happened to Blake. Granting her wish, I grab hold of the panties and tear them from her body, squeezing my eyes shut again. “You want

my hands in your pussy, Em? Or how about my mouth? Would you like that?” “Yes! God, yes!” she shouts. “Please lick my pussy, Madden!” “Tell me how you did it, and I’ll eat you until the sun comes up, baby. I’ll let you ride my face for as long as your little heart desires.” Tugging against her restraints, her resolve rapidly begins to unravel. “The photo . . . the photo in your desk,” she starts to say then stops as if she’s caught herself. I playfully slap the side of her ass before she has a chance to think sensibly.

“Keep talking, beautiful. I can’t wait to bury my face in your sweet cunt and get that dessert you promised.” “I ran a Google image search on the picture and hundreds of articles popped up. That’s when I knew.” Her confession, though not at all a surprise, rips through me like a rusty, jagged edge. It’s my fault Emerson figured out who Blake was . . . all because of a photo I shouldn’t have had in the first place. If I hadn’t taken it that day from her room, where it was obviously hidden, none of this would’ve ever happened.

“Who has her now?” I press for as much information as possible while smacking her other cheek. “I don’t know what the Russians did with her, and I don’t really care,” she groans, her frustration building. “Now come over here and fill me with your tongue.” The Russians. The motherfucking Russians have her. Easton’s face pops into my mind immediately, and I’m afraid my head may literally explode with the sheer amount of rage that surges through me. I trusted him when he swore he wasn’t involved, and this whole time,

it was my own flesh and blood. “You fucking bitch!” I roar, shoving her legs away from me as I scramble backward off the bed. If I’m within arm’s reach of her, I may actually kill her. Bile rises in the back of my throat, and I know without a doubt I’m going to be sick. Dashing to the bathroom, I unload the contents of my stomach into the toilet, ignoring Emerson’s hysterical screams once she realizes what’s happened. Once I’m sure there’s nothing left inside me, I collapse to the floor, pressing my cheek against the cold tile.

I’m going to murder my brother.

AS I STEP OUTSIDE THE cabin to make the phone call, I stare up at the starry midnight sky and question my sanity for the hundredth time today. If I get caught doing what I’m about to do, we all die. No questions asked. I would be remembered as the most disgraceful, dishonorable man in my family’s entire history. A man who would risk the entire Bratva for a woman. An American

woman I’ve known a week. But it’s not just for her. It’s for moi Darya too. My way of making it up to her. Everything I did wrong the first time, at least I can get it right now. ‘Cause she was right . . . love is the only thing that can heal our fucked-up brokenness. I may not be able to fix me, but there is a way I can help fix that innocent girl in there. A girl who needs the one person she has in this world who truly loves her. With that mental reminder, I scroll down my contact list until I land on the name Easton Decker, then press the

green connect button. The phone rings several times, and just as I begin to fear I’m going to get his voicemail, I hear his voice. “Hey, Raze. I’m sorry I haven’t called. Things have been kinda crazy around here, some family stuff, and I . . . uh, I just haven’t gotten a chance to get the funds together.” He rambles on nervously, not letting me get a word in, and it’s then I remember he’s unaware that his friend, Emerson, exchanged Blake for his gambling debts. He thinks I’m contacting him about the money. In my hastiness to put this ridiculous

plan in motion, I failed to realize they don’t even know I have the girl they’re looking for. This conversation is going to go a little differently than I planned. “Easton, I’m not calling about that,” I reply gruffly, careful to keep my intimidation factor at play. Him thinking he still owes me a bunch of money, I can definitely use in my favor. “I have a different matter I need your help with, and if you do what I need you to do, without asking questions, I’ll consider calling us even.” The line goes quiet as I imagine he’s contemplating all of the illegal acts I

could possibly ask him to carry out. “I’ll even tell you what it is before you agree,” I offer, holding back a chuckle. “Okay,” he responds immediately. “I need your brother to call me on this number from a secure line.” Another moment of silence. “Madden? Why? What’s going on?” “I told you no questions, and the first thing you did was spout off three in a row,” I snarl into the receiver. This guy wouldn’t make it a week in my life without his mouth getting him killed. “Yeah, uh, okay. I can do that. When? In the morning?”

“Tonight. As soon as possible.” I hear keys jingle in the background and a door close. “Leaving for his place now. I can be there in about fifteen minutes.” “I’ll be waiting.” Disconnecting the call, I exhale the deep, anxious breath I held throughout the entire conversation then begin counting the minutes.

“HOLY SHIT, MADDEN! WHAT THE fuck is going on?” My eyes snap open when I hear my brother’s voice shouting from the doorway of the master bathroom. “Are you okay?” His head swivels back and forth between where I’m lying face down on the floor next to the toilet and a still naked, blindfolded Emerson handcuffed to my bed. One minute, she’s screaming

how much she hates me and wants to chop by balls off, and then the next, she’s crying about how sorry she is and begging me to forgive her because she loves me so much. I have no clue why he’s here or how long I’ve been in this position. After I threw up, everything started spinning and I thought my heart was literally going to explode out of my chest, so I closed my eyes. And now, somehow Easton is here. His name flashes red in my mind as Emerson’s words from earlier reverberate in my ears. ‘I don’t know what the Russians did with her, and I

really don’t care.’ With a surge of manic energy, I leap to my feet and charge Easton at full force. Catching him completely offguard, his eyes bulge and jaw drops to say something, but he doesn’t get a sound out before I full-body tackle him onto the ground and begin swinging my furious fists. “You. Fucking. Piece. Of. Shit. You. Promised. Me.” With each word, I throw a punch to his face, and despite his efforts to defend himself, I land several good blows before he manages to knee me in the gut and shove me off of him.

The brutal force from his jab slices through the adrenaline, and all of the pain from my encounter with Tony earlier in the week returns tenfold. Afraid I’m going to pass out, I stumble to the sink and grab hold of the countertop, struggling to catch my breath. Wiping at the blood streaming from his nose and mouth with his forearm, he staggers to his feet, a combination of confusion and annoyance radiating from him. “What the fuck is your problem, Madden? What happened? And why is she here?” He glances back toward the bedroom, where Emerson has now

grown quiet, listening to the scuffle between us. “She told me!” I roar, squeezing my eyes shut to block out the unbearable agony. “She told me everything!” He stomps over next to me and slams his hands down on the vanity so hard the mirror shakes. “She told you what exactly?” he seethes. Prying my lids open slightly, I glower at his reflection, unable to even turn to look at him. “About the Russians, Easton. You don’t have to play stupid anymore,” I spit. “You turned in the woman I love to the goddamn fucking

Russians. And I swear to God, if you don’t get her back to me in one fucking piece, I will kill you with my bare hands.” All of the color drains from his face as alarm glazes over his shocked expression. “Don’t act so surprised. You had to know Emerson wouldn’t keep her fucking mouth shut. The second I got her naked in my bed, she couldn’t wait to tell me of y’all’s little secrets,” I hiss, my body trembling with pure hate. “Madden, listen to me right fucking now.” His voice drops several octaves

lower than normal as he grabs my shoulders and forces me to look him directly in the eye. “I don’t know what in the hell she told you, but I swear to God, on our parents’ lives: I had nothing to do with Blake’s disappearance. Absolutely fucking nothing!” He pauses a few seconds to allow his words to sink in then continues, “The reason I’m even here at your house is because I got a phone call tonight from Raze, Kabinov’s grandson. I thought he was calling about the money I owed, because with everything that’s happened this week, I haven’t even thought to

touch base with him, but that wasn’t it . . .” “Raze? Are you fucking kidding me, Easton?” I almost have to laugh at the absurdness of my life. “You got involved with a Russian mobster named Raze? And no alarms went off in that fucking thick skull of yours that maybe, just fucking maybe, that wasn’t a good idea?” Scrubbing his hands over his face, my younger brother blows out an exasperated sigh and mumbles, “I know. I know. I’m a dumbass, but it all makes sense now.”

“What?!” I snap. “What makes sense? What are you talking about?” “H-he wanted me to have you call him. On an untraceable line. Said it was urgent.” Sharp, shooting pains in my chest steal my breath yet again as I try to process all of the information. “Why? What? That’s all he said?” “Yeah,” he nods, extracting his phone from his back pocket and bringing it to life, “he called at nine-forty-two. Look. Right here.” I drop my gaze down to the call history screen and confirm he received a call from a Raze K. at the

time he claims. “I don’t know why. He wouldn’t answer any questions, but obviously, when he told me to have you call him, I assumed it had something to do with Blake. I just . . . I just didn’t know the hows or whys or anything about Emerson. I jumped straight in my car and flew over here then let myself in with my key after you didn’t answer the door or your phone. Only to find her like that, and you nearly comatose on the floor in here.” I want to believe him. God, I want to believe him so badly. I look into his eyes for any indication of him not telling the

truth. He’s my brother. My own flesh and blood. But I don’t know who to trust anymore. It feels like the entire universe is working against me. “Madden?” Easton pulls the guy’s contact information up on his cell and hands it over to me. “You knew you were going to need that extra line I dropped off yesterday. Now it’s time to use it. Let’s get your girl back, and we’ll deal with Emerson and prove my innocence later. Time is of the essence with these people.” I accept the rectangular device and tip my chin toward the door. “Let me

grab it from the safe, and we’ll go to another room to make the call. I don’t want her to hear any of this.” Five minutes later, I’m standing in the guest room down the hall, punching in the numbers with my shaking hands. I say a quick prayer as I press connect and hold my breath while I wait. Luckily, it only rings once before a gruff male voice answers. “Decker.” He states my name with full certainty it’s me on the other end of the call. “Are you confident this line is secure?” Clearing my throat, I nod like he can

see me. “I am.” “Good. I’m sure you’ve got a pretty good idea about why I’m calling, and it’s not about your brother’s gambling debts.” “Blake.” Her name falls from my lips with a breath of hope. “You have her.” He grunts something in Russian then replies, “I do, but before you start asking a thousand questions, let me talk. You interrupt me and piss me off, I’ll hang up and this offer is dead.” My ears perk up at the word ‘offer’, and I agree to hear him out. After all, I

have no leverage to make any demands at this point. So as he begins to speak, I pace in a circle around the room, listening closely to what he has to say. “For the safety of both of us, I’d prefer to answer most of the questions you have—the whos, hows, and whys of everything—in person. In addition, she has asked to see you, and I’ve granted her this wish. However, make no mistake about it, if you decide to agree to my terms, your life will be in danger. No one else is aware of this phone call, and as I’d be the one getting you in to see her, we will both be putting our lives

on the line in the event we’re caught.” Even if I wanted to ask questions, I couldn’t. I’m speechless. I don’t know what to say or think or do. This could very well be a setup to kill me, to get rid of the pain-in-the-ass boyfriend who won’t stop sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong. But that seems too messy and like too much risk for an outfit the size of the Kabinovs. It would be too obvious. Or maybe I just want it to be. The Russian takes my silence as his invitation to continue. “I’m aware you’ve been assigned an agent full-time, so you’d need to find a way to evade his

watch. Also, it goes without saying, but if you whisper a word of this to any authorities whatsoever, you may as well pull the trigger yourself on your sweet Blake, because that’s the only option you’ll leave me. And, Decker, I promise I will find out.” “H-how do I know this isn’t a setup?” I sputter nervously. “That you’re not just luring me somewhere to kill me?” He snickers. “If I wanted you dead, you’d know it. ‘Cause you’d already be fucking dead. I don’t play games. I don’t talk shit just to talk shit. I’ve got a girl

here who’s got some pretty fucked up shit on her plate right now, and that’s not even talking about her god-awful fucking past. She wished she could see you, so I’m trying to help her out and let that happen. For Blake, not you.” I don’t miss the subtle change in his intonation when he talks about her, his voice softening involuntarily. Then he barks, “Now either you’re in or you’re out.” I stop walking. Every nerve ending in my body is tingling. My tongue feels like it’s swollen to twice its size, and my salivary glands have completely dried up. My heart is fluttering faster than the

wings of a hummingbird. So fast it may not be beating at all. This. This right here. This is one of those self-defining moments. My decision, whether I choose to put my trust in this crazy Russian murderer named Raze or not, will forever shape the outcome of who I become. If my life was a choose-your-own-adventure book, right now I’d be deciding whether or not to continue on to chapter fifteen, which is the safe, responsible choice of calling the FBI and telling them what I know, or jumping straight to chapter twenty-three, where I find out just how dauntless I can

be, going up against the big, bad captor who has fallen in love with my woman. I choose chapter twenty-three; there’s really no other choice. “I’m in. Tell me what to do.”

SIX. IT’S BEEN SIX LONG, miserable days since I spoke with Raze on what has to be one of the craziest nights of my life. After he gave me the details of when and where to meet him, I flat-out asked him about Easton’s involvement, and he verified my brother has no idea what’s going on. Then when I told him about Emerson’s confession, he asked that I hold the phone up to her ear. I’m

not sure what he told her, but based on the terror streaked across her face, you’d have thought she heard the voice of the devil himself. Even with the blindfold still on, I could tell she was scared shitless. When I got back on the line, he instructed me to let her get dressed and leave so that Lance wouldn’t be on alert outside, and then gave me his word that she’d be properly dealt with. I have no idea what that means, but I don’t fucking care what happens to her. She’s been off the map since she walked out of my house that night, and I can only hope I

never have to see her again in my life. Now the day is here. Friday. Exactly two weeks since this entire nightmare began. Two weeks since I spoke to her, and eighteen days since I’ve held her, touched her, or kissed her. And if all goes as planned, at the very least I’ll be able to see my sweet Blake again tonight. “Are you ready to head out?” Easton asks as he sticks his head into my bedroom. “You guys need to leave soon if you’re gonna make the flight.” Nodding, I shuffle through the documents in my hand for at least the

hundredth time, making sure I haven’t forgotten anything. “Yep. I’ve got your ID, a credit card in your name, the plane ticket, and my boarding pass.” He offers a supportive smile. “See? Looking so much like me is finally coming in handy.” “Yeah, if we can pull this off, it will more than make up for all those times I nearly got my ass kicked because you messed around with someone else’s girlfriend.” I chuckle nervously as I take a last glance in the mirror. Dressed in black jeans with a matching t-shirt and baseball cap, I’m thankful the swelling

in my face has receded and the abrasions are beginning to fade. I definitely don’t look my best, but at least I won’t scare her when she sees me. “All right, let’s do this,” I announce as I join him on the top landing of the staircase. “Enjoy being me. I’ll let you know when I book my flight home.” Surprising me, Easton pulls me into a warm, brotherly embrace and pounds my back with his closed fist. “Be careful, bro. I know you’re a badass and all, but think before you speak or act. This guy is a scary fucking dude.” I hug him back, hoping this won’t be

the last time, but understanding that’s a realistic possibility. Neither of us knows for sure what’s waiting for me when I get off that plane in Reno, but it’s a chance I’m willing to take. Careful to not be seen through the windows opening to the front of the house, where Lance could possibly catch a glimpse of him, Easton disappears back into my room. He’ll be staying there until I return home, as he’s pretending to be me, home for the weekend. Sneaking him inside this morning from Jae’s trunk wasn’t too difficult, while I kept the federal agent’s

attention by walking outside to let him know who Jae was and that she was visiting for breakfast. At that exact time, she pulled around to the back of the house, up near the garage. Getting me out of here inside her vehicle won’t be nearly as easy. Easton can’t go out to distract him, since Lance obviously has no idea he’s even here, so Jae struts out to the government-issued SUV, sidetracking him by asking random questions, while I make a mad dash to the unlocked back door. I dive in, quickly closing the door behind me, and pray it works.

It’s nearly five excruciatingly long minutes before the driver’s door swings open and Blake’s friend slides onto the driver’s seat. Cool as a cucumber. Like she’s got no idea at all I’m stowed away on the back floorboard of her Infiniti. Neither of us says a word for at least a couple of miles until Jae feels positive no one’s following her, and then she finally exhales a giant sigh of relief. “Okay, I think we’re good,” she mutters, taking a big swallow from the bottle of water in the drink holder. “I’ll let you know when I’m exiting the freeway for the airport, and you can crawl up here so

you look like a normal person getting out of the passenger seat at the drop-off.” “Sounds good,” I reply, dropping my head back against the door as I close my eyes and focus on the low hum of the tires against the pavement. Since the night everything went down, I’ve been a fucking basket case. Work is out of the question. The one day I attempted to go in, I made the mistake of opening my desk drawer, and the second I saw the picture of Blake tucked away in the back, I lost my shit. Like a pissed-off bull in a china shop full of red dishes, nothing was spared from my

wrath. After that episode, Easton and I agreed it’d be best if I stayed home until after whatever happens this weekend. But home hasn’t been much better. With my ribs still pretty sore, I can’t use working out as an outlet to release my tension. I’ve even tried jacking myself off in the shower every morning, but that just increases my frustration, not finding a release with Blake slipping further and further away from me. At night, I’ve been lying awake in the guest bedroom, staring at the ceiling as every possible scenario of what could

happen on this trip runs through my head. I could get caught by the TSA, FBI, or the US Marshal Service for using a fake ID on a flight, which, in and of itself, is a felony with guaranteed jail time. This could all be a set-up to take me hostage, to torture me for information, or worse, to be killed. I could discover they’ve been brutally mistreating Blake. And that’s the one that gets me every time. Makes me physically sick to think about. The thought of my suffering for a chance to get to see her is nothing compared to the possibility of me having to witness her being abused. Beaten.

Molested. Dehumanized. I will probably end up dead if that happens, so I’m really fucking praying that’s not the case. This Raze guy seems to have a soft spot for her, and if what he said is true about doing this as a favor for Blake, and my gut says it is, then I doubt he’s letting someone mistreat her. But then again, he’s a Russian mobster and trained killer, so he could be blowing smoke up my ass, as I’m sure lying is second nature to him. Trying to stay optimistic in this entire fucked up situation is proving to be a major task. About an hour or so after we leave

my house, Jae taps the back of her headrest to get my attention. “We’ll be there in about five minutes or so,” she announces. “Go ahead and climb up here.” Grateful to finally unfold from the cramped position, I crawl over the center console and slide down onto the seat, fastening my seat belt, even though we’re almost there. I don’t want to give the police any reason to pull us over. She drives up to the drop-off zone and shifts the transmission into park. Even though Jae and I don’t know each other all that well, I know she’s one of

Blake’s only friends and that she cares about her quite a bit, and she just put her neck out on the line to help make this trip happen. I smile at her appreciatively. “I can’t thank you enough, Jae. As soon as I know what flight I’m coming back on, I’ll text you.” “I’ll be here to pick you up, Easton,” she teasingly reminds me of my alias for the next however long this takes. “Good luck, and bring our girl home.” I hop out of the car and onto the curb, giving her one last wave before she pulls away into the busy merging

traffic of LAX. Turning around on my heel, I pull the baseball cap down low on my head and stride inside. Here goes nothing.

The Reno-Tahoe airport is a lot smaller than I expected. And a lot seedier. I guess I assumed it’d be a lot like the Vegas airport, but as I walk from the gate to the exit where the buses are, it’s clear I was way off base. The furniture is outdated, a funny odor lingers in the air, the few workers I’ve

seen are not exactly approachable, and everything is so dingy and weathered that it feels as if I’m viewing it all through a hazy yellow camera lens. Like a B-list movie from 1980. Oh, and don’t get me started on the old people. At least seventy percent of the people I pass are eligible for social security benefits. I’ve even seen six or seven with oxygen tanks strapped to them. That’s when I place the odd smell: a nursing home. I move quickly to get outside into some fresh air, hoping I won’t have to wait long for the bus I need to catch. The

online schedule indicated an eleventhirty departure time, but was footnoted that based on traffic and weather conditions, the times could vary by up to an hour. The last place I want to hang out for an hour is on the splintery wooden bench outside the most depressing airport in the country, and luckily, when I approach the line of buses parked outside, I immediately see mine. Truckee, California, here I come. In a back row by myself, I sit with the bill of my ball cap pressed against the window, half-listening to the music playing in my headphones, but mostly

trying to memorize every sign and landmark we drive by. If I ever need to find my way back here again, I want to have as much information as possible. It’s just after twelve-thirty when the bus driver pumps the brakes several times before bringing us to a complete stop in front of a tiny bus station. We all stand to get off, beginning with the front rows first, and by the time I hop down the two big steps and onto the cement, my teeth are chattering uncontrollably with nerves. I’m almost there. As instructed, I hoof it the two blocks north to the famous golden arches

high in the sky. When the soles of my shoes hit the blacktop of the parking lot, I slow my pace and scan the vehicles around me. At first, I don’t see the old blue and white Ford pickup I was told would be here, but as I reach to the back corner of the fast-food restaurant, I see the truck parked next to the dumpster. Swallowing back my fears, I lower my chin to my chest and walk as inconspicuously as possible to the passenger side of the truck. I grab the handle and open the door, hauling myself into the cab, before I talk myself out of this. Only then do I turn to look at my

girlfriend’s captor. Face-to-face. Manto-man. And he might just be the most intimidating man I’ve ever seen in my life. As if his enormous body frame isn’t threatening enough, the broken nose that was never fixed and the ugly jagged scar on the side of his face definitely seal the deal. “Decker.” He tips his chin in acknowledgement as he grunts my name. “Raze,” I reply, praying he doesn’t hear the shakiness in my voice. Then, without another word, he turns the key over in the ignition and the

engine roars to life. And we’re on the road. He finally breaks the silence after we’ve been driving for about ten minutes. “I’m gonna pull over off the highway once we’re out of town and blindfold you for the rest of the trip. For obvious reasons, I don’t want you to know where we’re going. You know too much already. I won’t bind your feet and wrists, unless you give me a reason to. I’m trying to make this as easy as possible. No one else other than you, Blake, and myself will be at our final destination, but to make sure none of my

men show up unexpectedly, I will stand guard outside while you are with her. Do you understand?” Nodding, I keep my eyes on the road in front of me. “How long do I have with her?” “One night. We will leave before daybreak in the morning, and I will drop you back off at the McDonald’s for you to go back the same way you got here.” His accusing eyes cut over to me, pinning me to the seat. “And don’t try anything fucking stupid like taking her back with you. That can’t happen yet. It’ll fuck everything up, and then we will

all be running for our lives.” I hang on the yet he drops, hoping that’s a good indicator he’s eventually planning on letting her go. “You have my word. I won’t try to take her back home with me this time.” Conversation halts for a little while, and then as promised, Raze steers the truck off onto the shoulder of the highway and pulls out a black sash. Before he covers my eyes with the dark piece of fabric, he inhales a deep breath, holds it for a few seconds, and then releases it in a whoosh. For a brief moment, he actually looks vulnerable.

But then it’s gone. After securing the blindfold around my eyes, he makes me huddle up on the floorboard so nobody who may possibly pass us in traffic can see me. Never in my life have I spent so much time on the floors of vehicles until today. And this ride, wherever it is we’re going that’s somewhere north of Truckee, is a curvy, bumpy one that has me struggling to not be thrown around between the door and glove box. Raze isn’t much of a talker, but he said on the phone he’d answer some of my questions in person, so I build the

nerve up and take a chance. “Emerson told me she figured out who Blake was by an old picture she Google searched, but I’m still not sure how or why she handed her over to your family. Are you at liberty to tell me?” “Well, I never knew how she discovered who Blake was, but somehow she was aware of the money Easton owed us. It was really kind of bizarre.” Until now, that I can’t see, I never realized how much I use people’s facial expressions to read the other half of the story they’re telling. “Bizarre?” I push him to keep

talking. “Yeah, I got this strange call one afternoon,” he divulges, “and I almost didn’t answer it because I didn’t recognize the number, but for whatever reason, I did. It was Emerson on the other end of the line. She said she was good friends with Easton and wanted to pay off his debt, but instead of using money, she wanted to trade Blake, or Bryleigh . . . whatever. “At first I thought she was crazy and told her to stop playing games, but she swore she could deliver her that night. It had to be that night, though. It took us

about twenty minutes to verify she was telling the truth, and then the drop-off was set up. And that was that.” I don’t ask any other questions for a while as I try to piece together the details of times and happenings from that Friday, even though it really doesn’t matter much anymore. It happened, and there’s nothing I can do to go back in time to prevent it. Now, I have to move forward. I have to focus on getting her back. “Can you tell me what you plan to do with her?” “No. Not yet.”

There’s that yet word again. We ride for the next couple hours or so without talking. My legs cramp up several times throughout the trip from being bent into positions they’re not used to going in, and just as I’m about to ask him if I can get out to stretch for a few minutes, the truck slows to a halt and he turns it off. “Okay, we’re here. You can sit back on the seat now.” He unties the sash from behind my head, and it takes my eyes several moments to adjust to the afternoon sunlight. As soon as I can focus, I scan the surrounding area, taking

in nothing but a heavily wooded forest and a rustic cabin. “She’s inside, and she doesn’t know you’re coming. I didn’t want to get her hopes up in case something happened on your trip,” he explains. “So expect her to be more than a little surprised when she sees you.” I sit and wait for what happens next, as I fail epically in trying to keep my emotions in check. This is all too much. “Well? What are you waiting for?” Raze barks, causing me to jump in the seat. “I didn’t bring you all this fucking way so we could hang out in my truck. Go inside and see her. You’re on the

clock.”

AS I CHOP AN ASSORTMENT of vegetables for the stew I’m making for dinner, I hear Raze’s truck pull up outside the cabin and shut off. The truck I didn’t know he had here until this morning, when he woke me up to tell me he was going to take care of some business and would be back later. “Business? What business?” I rubbed my sleepy eyes, sitting up in the

bed he now insisted I sleep in, extremely confused and a little panicked. “How? Why? Are you leaving me here?” “Didn’t anybody ever tell you that curiosity killed the cat, kotyonok?” He patted the top of my head and chuckled. “It’s nothing for you to worry about. I’ll be back in a little while, but I need you to give me your word that you won’t leave this place for any reason. I know you want to go home. I do, too. And you have to trust I’m working toward that for both of us. But if you run . . . there’s a good chance I can’t

save you out there. Too many bad guys.” Instead of commenting on the irony of his statement, I sighed and fell back on the hard mattress with my eyes closed, hating that he was right. “I know, Raze. I give you my word I won’t leave. But how are you getting wherever it is you’re going? You gonna walk?” He pushed off the bed and stood to his full, towering height. “No, I’m most definitely not gonna walk, girl. I have a truck here, parked around back. You think I’d leave us stranded somewhere

in case the shit hit the fan?” “A truck?!” I screeched as my eyes flew open. “Why didn’t you tell me you had a truck here?” Amusement danced across his face as he shook his head. “I’m pretty sure the first rule in Abduction 101 is not to tell the captive about their escape options,” he joked. “What? Should I have had a spare key made for you too?” Again, he’s fucking right, and it annoys me. “So why are you telling me now?” “Because if you’re smart enough to

not bolt today, I’ll prove to you why you should trust me for doing what’s best for you.” He spun around to leave the room, but looked over his shoulder and added one last thing before disappearing. “I got word late last night that Vincent has emerged and is interested in meeting with Pakhan as soon as he’s back in the States. Things will begin to move quickly now. I need you to trust me now more than ever.” So he left to take care of business— whatever that meant—and I spent the morning cleaning the inside of the cabin instead of worrying more about the fate

of Vincent Ricci and myself. Something I have little control of at this point. Don’t ask me why, but I found some general household cleaners under the kitchen sink the other day, and since I’m not sure I can watch one more movie or read one more book this week, I went on a scrubbing, dusting, and scouring rampage. And damn did it ever feel good! That’s how I got inspired to make this beef stew. Some domestic switch went off in my head and I needed to cook and clean. Because even if my life is the furthest fucking thing from normal

as you can get, doing these things at least makes me feel normal. The sound of the key turning in the locks, followed by the squeak of the door hinges opening and closing, makes me smile. I doubt Raze will notice the missing layer of dust on the mantle, or that the kitchen sink no longer has rust caked around the faucet, but just him being back improves my mood. He and I may have gotten off to a rough start—I mean, I still haven’t forgotten he’s a crazy, twisted mafia dude who played a part in my abduction—but things have changed between us. Not everyone is

always what they seem. “Did everything go okay? You were gone for a while,” I call out when Raze doesn’t say anything at first, not bothering to turn away from the potatoes, onions, carrots, and celery I’ve got laid out on the cutting board. A few seconds longer of chopping, and he still hasn’t greeted me, so naturally, I’m curious about what he’s doing or why he’s ignoring me. Dropping the knife, I wipe my hands off on a nearby wadded-up paper towel then spin around to peer into the living room. And that’s when time stops around

me. I blink hard. Once. Twice. Maybe a hundred times. Then, still not believing the image in front of me, I rub my eyes with the backs of my hands before focusing yet again on a man who looks exactly like Madden. I have to be hallucinating. He’s staring straight ahead, looking at me the way only Madden Decker can look at me. Like he has tunnel vision past all of the bad shit and can only see the best parts of me. He knows about the light buried in my soul. “Blake.” He inhales deeply as he

says my name, like it’s the most important breath of his life. “It’s really you.” I’m not sure why, but I look down at my body to ensure it really is me. I’ve got on fleece gray sweats, a solid red tshirt, and matching fuzzy socks—all clothes Raze had brought in for me—but it’s definitely me underneath the layers of clothing. Then, I lift my focus back up to take him all in, looking even more gorgeous than I remember, dressed in black from head to toe. “It is,” I whisper, still not sure this isn’t a dream. “But is it really you?”

Nodding, he hastily removes the baseball hat from his head and flashes me a smile so big, so full of love, that I swear my heart melts to liquid. “I had to grow my hair out this week, ‘cause I had to pretend I was Easton to get out of the house.” Keeping the tears at bay is an impossible task. I don’t understand what is going on right now, and this entire thing is so incredibly fucked up. I’ve almost convinced myself the man I dream about every night is actually standing in the middle of the cabin. “H-how did you find me? How did

you get here? Are you taking me home? Where’s Raze? Oh, my God, did you kill him? Madden, we’ve gotta get out of here. They’ll come looking for us.” Once I ask the first question, I can’t stop the rambling. My brain is in freak-the-fuckout mode, and I don’t know whether to laugh, scream, cry, or pass out. Thankfully, Madden recognizes me teetering on the edge of lucidity, and in the blink of an eye, I’m crushed against his chest. Surrounded by him. Engulfed in him. Clinging to him. And then, and only then, I know it truly is him. My Madden came for me.

“Shh. Slow and steady, sweet girl.” He rests his cheek against the top of my head while rocking me against him. “I didn’t kill anyone to get here. Raze knows; he brought me in so I could see you.” Tilting my neck back so our eyes meet, I crinkle my forehead, utterly dumbfounded. “Raze brought you here? Why? Did he tell you why they have me? Do you know Emer—” His mouth slams down on mine in a commanding kiss, cutting me off before I can continue. My lips part for him instinctively, and our tongues stroke and

caress each other’s, wild and untamed, making up for the days we’ve missed. And as I share his breath, as I savor his taste, all of my worries and concerns melt away. Vincent. Ish. Emerson. The Russians. All of it, gone. The only thing that matters is this man. This kiss. This moment in time. “Talk later,” he mumbles against my mouth. “Us first. Been too long.” I don’t dare argue. I want to us forever with him. Threading his fingers through my hair, our tongues tangle in a dance of desperation as my heart pounds out a

bass line of devastating pleas. His hips push me backward until I feel my back hit the wood-panel wall then his firm thigh nudges my legs open so that he’s pressed up against my pulsing center. I whimper into his mouth, powerless to deny myself the urge to rock against him as I feel his thick shaft begin to harden. I think I may be dreaming again, and if so, I don’t ever want to wake up. As our mouths break apart for air, he falls to his knees in front of me and pulls off my socks, tossing them out of the way, then hooks his thumbs in the waistband of my sweats, peeking up at

me through his thick lashes with the silent request. Nodding, I draw my bottom lip between my teeth and roll it anxiously as I watch him slide the pants down my thighs and calves. Straightening his legs, he extends to his full height as he grabs the bottom hem of my shirt and hauls it over my head, allowing his fingertips to drag across my stomach and breasts in the process. Left in only my plain white cotton bra and matching panties, he takes a step back and allows his intense stare to roam up and down the length of my body.

“You’re so fucking beautiful, Blake. I was scared I’d never see you again,” he confesses as he quickly closes the distance between us and scoops me up in his arms. “Is there somewhere more private we can go?” I latch onto his neck and nod my head in the direction of the only bedroom. “I can’t believe you’re really here,” I whisper, rubbing my nose against his stubbly cheek. Madden carries me the few steps it takes to reach the bed then, as he leans down to lay us on top of the comforter, he catches my lips with his in a tender

kiss. “Believe it, sweet girl. I’ll follow you to the ends of the earth if I have to. Nothing can keep me away from you.” “But what about—” This time, two fingers cover my mouth to cut my question short. Smirking, he shakes his head while situating himself between my legs. “I said ‘talk later.’ There are other things I want to do with my mouth first.” He drops his lips to my throat and swirls his tongue over the delicate skin covering my pulse. “Please don’t ask me to stop.” Intuitively, I lift my arms above my head to the headboard and relax the

muscles in my neck, allowing my head to fall back onto the pillow. He now has complete control to do with me what he pleases. My trust in him is unwavering. My love for him, unbreakable. As his lips begin to trail downward, across my collarbones, and then to my chest, I blurt out, “Wait!” Popping his chin up to look at me, I lift my head and meet his curious gaze. He’s confused on why I stopped him, nervous I’m going to say something bad. “I just wanted to tell you that I love you, too. I know you thought I was asleep when you’d whisper it to me at

night, but I wasn’t. I was just scared to say it back.” Releasing the bedframe with one hand, I reach up and cup his face, stroking my thumb over his beautifully swollen lips. Swollen from our kisses. “But now, I don’t want to be scared anymore. I want to be brave. Brave for you. Because I love you. And no matter what happens, I always want you to know that.” There aren’t words to properly describe the expression that settles on Madden’s face at my confession, but a peaceful serenity soothes out the worried lines on his forehead as his eyes

twinkle with exhilaration. “That right there—what you just said —is worth every single ounce of pain and agony I’ve endured in the last two weeks and more.” His mouth finds mine yet again, this time in a soft, gentle kiss filled with nothing but adoration and love. “So fucking much more.”

SHE IS THE MOST BREATHTAKING sight I’ve ever seen. Laid out beneath me atop the sorry excuse for a mattress with her blonde hair fanned out on the pillow, she peers up at me with unadulterated love and longing in her crystal blue eyes. I grab her wrist that’s near my face and drag her hand to my mouth, kissing her palm before guiding her arm back over her head, where the other one remains.

Lowering my mouth to her ear, I trail my nose around the outer shell, stopping to suck on the lobe when I reach the bottom. “Will you let me show you how much I love you now, sweet girl?” I rasp. “Yes,” she answers with a small seductive smile before correcting herself. “Yes, sir.” My cock goes wild at the sound of those words leaving her mouth, and within seconds, my clothes, along with her bra and panties, are in a messy pile on the floor. I reposition myself in between her spread thighs, my body

hovering inches over hers. I palm one of her perfect breasts as my lips find the other. Kissing, flicking, and teasing. Kneading, tweaking, and caressing. Her back bows up off the bed as I continue the tantalizing ministrations, and I’m afraid I may come just by watching her writhe under my touch. “Please, Madden," she moans. “Please . . . I need you.” Her begging my name may be the sweetest sound I’ve ever heard, an enticing song of desperation and desire, and it takes every bit of willpower I

have not to sink deep inside of her with one greedy thrust. Primed for the taking, her naked body sprawled out is nearly my undoing. But I force myself to slow down. Descending down her tight body, I use my shoulders against her inner thighs to keep them spread wide. My mouth shadows my hand's pattern, taunting and teasing as I slip between her soft petals and flit across her swollen bundle of nerves. Up and down, back and forth, my fingers and tongue torment her relentlessly as I revel in the feel, smell, and taste of her arousal.

"Inside," she pants, her knuckles turning white as she squeezes the slats in the headboard. "I need you inside me now, Madden." My entire body trembles with anticipation as I glide back up her frame, lining my throbbing head up with her drenched slit. I can’t deny either of us any longer. I need to feel the connection to her as much as she needs it from me. Fully consumed by all things Blake, I slowly work my way inside of her tight core. With each sweet inch I get closer to be being fully buried, I can feel her body stretch to accommodate my girth.

And it’s fucking heaven. Careful not to pin her with my weight, I prop myself up on my elbows so that my face is directly above hers as I begin to stroke my steeled shaft in and out of her warm, welcoming center. Gradually. Deliberately. Lovingly. “I love you so much,” I murmur against her mouth, my rhythm steadily increasing. “I’ll never stop.” Letting go of the bed, she wraps both her arms and legs around me, her heels digging into my ass as her fingers twist in my thick, unkempt hair. Our bodies are pressed so tightly together I’m not

sure where I end and she begins. Yet I still feel the need for her to be closer. We move as one. We breathe as one. And we love as one. Our climaxes build together, fueling one another as we race toward the peak of ecstasy. I’m not sure if it’s her release that triggers mine, or vice versa, but either way, when we fly off the cliff into our blissful nirvana, we’re there together. Our fingers interlaced. Our lips locked. And our hearts fused together. Forever.

“So let me make sure I get this straight.” Blake places a bowl of some delicious smelling stew in front of me then slides onto the other chair at the dinette I’ve moved close to me. “You just walked into Capo’s Car Creations, unarmed, and asked to speak to Vincent?” After I had my wicked way with her twice more, Blake suddenly remembered all the food she’d left out to prepare when I’d arrived, so we reluctantly left

the bed and moved into the kitchen for her to cook. I’m happy to see she’s being well fed and that there aren’t any new scars on her sides. I’ve spent countless hours not only worried about her physical safety, but also her mental state. Seeing her look ‘normal’ eases a tiny bit of my concern. At her request, I’ve recounted every possible detail I can remember from the time I realized she was missing until the moment I walked through the door to the cabin several hours ago, and she’s done the same. Nothing she reveals to me surprises me much, but I’m thrilled to

find out she hasn’t been mistreated once. And although I’d rather not discuss it at all in our limited time together, I understand it’s a necessary evil. Nodding once, I grimace along with my confession. “Yeah, I realize it wasn’t the best thought-out plan, but I was outof-my-mind crazy, Blake. I had to do something.” “Please eat your food before it gets cold.” She stares at my spoon until I pick it up then returns to the original conversation. “What were you gonna do if he was there? Demand he release me? Challenge him to a fist fight?”

“I don’t know,” I reply honestly after taking a bite. “I’m sure it’s a blessing he wasn’t there and that I was only left to deal with Tony the Tiger. He may have gotten the best of me that day, but if I ever see him again . . .” Her silverware clinks against the bowl as she throws it down, shaking her head. “No! You are not doing anything else crazy or stupid. I’m already responsible for you being involved in this nightmare of mine. I won’t be able to live with myself if something else happens to you.” “But I can’t live with myself without

you, sweet girl.” Reaching out, I grab her arms and drag her over to sit in my lap. I need to feel her against me as much as possible. Thankfully, she doesn’t balk, and instead, slides her food and drink next to mine. “Raze told me this morning that Vincent has come out of hiding and been in contact with Pakhan,” she says in a hushed voice. “Pak-who?” “Pakhan. Anatoli Kabinov. It’s like the Russian’s equivalent to the Godfather,” she explains matter-offactly. “Anyway, Raze told me that talks

have started, so hopefully we can all just get on with this soon, and I’ll be free to move on afterward.” I sigh as I rest my temple against hers, trying my best to fight back the trepidation threatening to consume me. “I don’t like this plan, Blake. First, I don’t understand if they’re using you to lure Vincent to wherever, why can’t one of them kill him? Why does it have to be you?” She doesn’t offer up an answer, so I assume that means she doesn’t have a good one. Then I bring up my next point, which is the one that concerns me the

most. “And do you seriously think that after all of this—with everything you now know about their organization and this job—that Kabinov is really just gonna let you walk away? Free and clear?” Skepticism washes over her face as she contemplates my questions, and it’s not that I have any alternatives or suggestions, but I’m afraid the stress and trauma of the entire situation is hindering her ability to think this through. “Raze gave me his word that he’d keep me safe. He won’t let anyone hurt me,” she contends stubbornly.

Dropping my face to the side of her neck, I nuzzle the smooth, soft skin as I pepper kisses all around. “Look, I understand this Raze guy has been good to you, and I know he’s the one solely responsible for my being here right now . . . God, I can’t tell you how much this means to me. But his loyalty is to his family, sweet girl. If shit hits the fan when this all goes down, I have a hard time believing he’s going to choose you over one of his own.” She doesn’t reply, and rather than pressuring her to speak, I start to feed her the hearty soup with her spoon. I

love taking care of this woman, providing any and every thing she needs or wants, and it’s killing me that I can’t fix this situation. Other than alerting the FBI or Doherty to her broad whereabouts, which I’m afraid would lead to serious repercussions for all of us once the Kabinovs and Riccis found out, I have no solutions. I’m trying not to dwell on it, but the reality remains that unless Blake or I can get her out of this mess—and quick-like —there’s a very real possibility this may be our last time together. The thought of that makes me manic, suicidal even,

because I don’t want to live the rest of this life without her. I have to save her. She’s my Blake. I simply don’t work without her. After both of our bowls are empty, she slides off my thighs and rinses our dishes out in the sink. Then, pulling a thermos down from one of the small cabinets, she fills it with the stew. I can do nothing but sit and watch her. I’m so fucking overwhelmed by her, especially now that I know the life she’s had to endure. “He lied to his family to get you here today. They’d kill him if they knew he

put the knowledge of our whereabouts in jeopardy,” she says lowly, keeping her gaze lowered on the counter. “I don’t know why he did it, but he did. So until I have a viable option to get me out of this mess without lingering consequences, I’m taking his word for the truth.” Slowly lifting her chin, she brings her eyes up to meet mine. “Now, I’m not supposed to leave this cabin for any reason unless he tells me it’s okay, so I’d appreciate it if you’d take this out to him so he doesn’t have to starve, in addition to freezing, while spending the night in his truck. Then, I want you to come back

inside, and allow me to show you again how much I love you. As many times as I can before you have to leave.” I stand up without hesitation and grab the thermos, kissing the tip of her nose before delivering the food to the man who’s responsible for keeping the love of my life safe in the middle of a mafia war. Perplexed at first, he grumbles a thank you once he realizes what I’m handing him then hastily rolls the window up to keep the cold out of the truck. The rest of the night, Blake and I take turns pleasing one another while

whispering our declarations of love, and before I know it, my time with her is up, and I’m forced to leave her someplace I can’t protect her. Neither of us uses the word goodbye during our last few minutes together, refusing to accept this as our final farewell. And when Raze secures the blindfold over my eyes, I’m thankful for the fabric to help soak up the watershed of tears streaming down my face.

I DROP MADDEN OFF AT the same McDonald’s I picked him up at yesterday, and for the first time in a long fucking time, I feel good about something I’ve done. But the feeling is short-lived. As I drive back to the cabin, the alarm on my phone dings, alerting me that it’s time for my daily call in to headquarters. Immediately, I know something is awry when the Pakhan

himself answers instead of Aleksandr, who is both my uncle and second-incommand. “Dedushka.” Startled at the sound of his voice, I acknowledge him with the Russian word for grandfather instead of his proper title. Then, remembering my manners, I follow up in our native language with, “For what do I owe this honor, Pakhan?” He is short and to the point as he lays out the plans for the job. A job that will forever change the future of my family. A job that I am solely responsible for executing.

The orders are simple: Collect the money from Ricci in exchange for the girl. Confirm Ricci’s death. Leave no witnesses. The time for retribution is here. In less than a week, the man I’ve dreamed of brutally persecuting for the better part of two years will be standing before me. The mere thought of how sweet it will taste to finally get revenge on the man who ordered Darya’s murder makes my mouth water. But there’s only one problem. Leave no witnesses means leave no witnesses. Including her.

I ALLOW MYSELF EXACTLY ONE minute to be sad after the truck pulls away. Only sixty seconds to stare out the tiny window, watching until the red taillights disappear into the earlymorning fog surrounding the trees, to feel wrecked and ruined over the thought that last night and this morning could be the last time I ever see Madden Decker. Then, when that minute is up, all the

disparaging thoughts and negative energy are tucked away, and I leap off the couch with an encouraging smile on my face. My situation may not be ideal, but things are starting to look up. Madden knowing the truth about my past and still loving me despite it all is the ultimate reason I need to do whatever it is that’s required of me here, and then return to my life with him. Even if it means murdering a man in cold-blood. I’ve done it before to save my life, and it’s exactly what I plan to do again. Grabbing the bucket of disinfectants and wood polish, I clean the cabin from

top to bottom, just like I did yesterday while Raze was gone. I’m desperate for something to keep my mind occupied until he returns. I can’t wait to tell him thank you for what he did, and even more than that, I’m eager to find out if he has more information on Vincent and Anatoli’s discussions. I’m ready to get this shit over with. By early afternoon, there’s not a speck of dust in the entire place and the toilet is more sanitary than most people’s kitchen table. But still no Raze. I briefly consider taking a shower, but I’m not ready to wash Madden’s

scent off my skin just yet, so I opt for reading on the couch, randomly selecting one of the books Raze had brought for me. Unfortunately, I don’t make it past the second page before the lack of sleep from last night catches up with me, and I pass out cold.

I’m not sure if it’s the cabin door slamming shut or Raze’s boots stomping across the floor that jolts me from my slumber, but whichever it is, it’s clear by his brusque movements and lack of

words he’s pissed about something. As he makes a beeline for the safe in the corner of the bedroom, I prop myself up with my elbow on the armrest of the couch, which provides me an unobstructed view to what he’s doing. Hurriedly, he enters some numbers on the keypad then presses his thumb against a small rectangular scanner, and the door releases with a loud click. Pulling the laptop out first, he sets it to the side before digging through a stack of file folders, his jaw clenching tight when he finds the one he’s looking for. Something Russian is muttered under his

breath as he opens it and scans the first couple of pages, and then he tosses it back inside with the others and snags the computer. “Is everything okay?” I ask meekly when he stalks back out into the main room and throws himself into a kitchen chair. Ignoring my question, he plugs in the device and glowers at the screen while it boots up. He doesn’t look in my direction once, like I’m not even here. Clearing my throat, I repeat my question louder. “Is everything okay?” Again, no response. Just angry

fingers vehemently punching away on the keyboard, stopping every few seconds to jot down a note on a piece of paper. “Raze, damn it, I know you can hear me,” I snap, jackknifing up to a ninetydegree angle as worry about Madden’s wellbeing seeps in. “Tell me what happened. I know something’s wrong with you.” He growls, cutting his intimidating stare in my direction. “You know nothing about me, girl. Go back to sleep.” Incensed at the sudden cold-shoulder act, I toss the throw blanket aside and scramble to my feet. “You’re wrong,” I

seethe, crossing my arms over my chest. “You think I’ve learned nothing about you while we’ve basically been living together over the last couple of weeks? Like I can’t tell when something’s happened that’s clearly upset you? ” Fisting his hands, he pounds them on the table as he shoots up to standing. His nostrils flare and I swear I see foam gathering at the corners of his mouth. “This is your last warning. Shut your fucking mouth or I will gag you and shut it for you.” I don’t. “No! You fly in here after being gone

all day, don’t even bother with a hello, and frantically search for shit in your safe. Then, when I ask you if you’re okay, you flat out ignore me until I throw a fit. And all of this is coming from the person who just went through the trouble of sneaking in a man to see me so I could get a chance to tell him I love him . . . it doesn’t make any sense, Raze. Now tell me what’s going on!” Slumping back in the hard wooden chair, he pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger as he shakes his head, muttering something I can’t understand. Suddenly, I’m no

longer irritated with him, but filled with worry instead. The only other time I’ve seen him look so vulnerable was when he mentioned his late-wife. And despite the fact he towers over most everyone, is built like the Rock of Gibraltar, can kill a man with his bare hands, and has a vicious scar marring his face that would intimidate Tony Montana himself, right now he looks like a helpless, lost soul. Struggling to find answers. My feet move on their accord across the dingy carpet, and before I even realize what I’m doing, I’m on his lap, wrapping my thin arms around his neck,

and pulling him into my embrace. I half expect him to resist, to jerk out of my hold, and the fact that he doesn’t speaks volumes. Whatever happened while he was gone today must’ve really hit him hard, and rather than asking about it again, I shut my mouth and allow him to deal with it however he needs to. “I was supposed to go to Chicago that day. It should’ve been me that died, not her. It should’ve been m-me.” His voice cracks as he nuzzles his face into my neck. Offering solace the only way I know how, I squeeze Raze even tighter to me

and soothingly thread my fingers through the short blonde hair at his nape. I don’t push. I don’t ask questions. My actions let him know I’m here if he wants to continue to talk. And even though I desperately wish I knew what happened, I know all too well that everyone has to face their demons on their own time, at their own pace. Some of mine I still leave locked away in the dark recesses of my mind. “I still remember the first day I saw her,” he says after several minutes of silence. I relax my arms to allow him to lean back in the chair, our gazes locking.

“It was right after we moved here, and my grandfather hosted a big party to welcome his youngest son—my dad— and the rest of our family to the States. I walked into that house full of people, and it was like I could only see her. Her beauty commanded my full attention. I knew I’d marry her before we ever said a word to each other.” I smile at the thought of Raze as a love-struck teenager. I bet he was a great husband to his wife. “Hold that thought,” I blurt out as I jump off of his lap and head into the kitchen. Reaching up on my tiptoes, I grab the bottle of vodka from

the top shelf in the cabinet, along with two small glasses. After I pour the potent liquor in each, I return to the table —opting for the chair next to him this time—and slide the glass with more to him. “Okay, now we’re ready. Tell me what happened after you saw her.” Lifting the drink up in the air, he swirls the clear liquid around. His shoulders relax and the anguish slowly evaporates from his face. “Well, the first thing I did was ask my cousin and best friend, Alexei, whose daughter she was and if she had a boyfriend. If there’s two things you don’t do in my family, it’s fall

in love with a rival’s daughter or another man’s woman. Both will get you dead pretty quickly.” “So I take it she was single and of good bloodlines?” “Yeah, she was definitely single,” he replies with a soft chuckle. “Her dad is the most feared man in the Bratva. We call him Palach, the Executioner. No sane male would get within fifty feet of her, fearing they’d have to answer to him first.” He stops to take a swig of vodka and I mimic the motion. “But you weren’t scared of him?”

“Hell yeah, I was. How do you think I got this fucking terrible thing on my face?” he jests, pointing at his gnarly scar. I blink hard and take another drink, smaller this time, as I wait for him to explain. “I was a stupid, arrogant kid who thought with my dick first, heart second, and brain third. That night, I got her to sneak off with me into an empty room, and I kissed her and told her she was mine forever,” he continues with a faraway look in his eye, like he remembers every single thing about that

moment. “She laughed at me, but the next week when I snuck in her room and claimed her properly, she knew she was too. We saw each other secretly for almost a year before her dad caught us together. Of course, it had to happen when I was butt-naked and pinning her against her bedroom wall with my cock, leaving me completely unarmed.” “Oh, my God!” My hands fly to cover my open mouth. “What did you do? What did she do?” Raze downs the rest of his drink then gets up to refill it before resuming the story. “The question you should ask is

what did he do, because neither she nor I were in the position to do much of anything. You think you had a crazy father-in-law,” he shakes his head as he lowers himself into the seat, “but you have no idea what that word really means.” “Okay.” I take the bait. “What did he do?” “He jerked me away from her by my hair, splitting my scalp with the force he used, and put a knife to my throat. Then, in the calmest voice you can imagine, he asked Darya if she loved me and wanted to marry me. She answered yes, but

before she could even finish the word, he moved the blade up to my temple and dug into the skin, dragging it down an inch or so. Then he asked her again if she still loved me and wanted to marry me. And again, she said yes, this time as she watched blood trickle down my cheek. So he carved a little bit more and asked a third time. Then a fourth and a fifth.” I’m not even sure he realizes it, but as he relives the story, he traces his fingertip over the red, jagged mark. “To her credit, she didn’t flinch, cry, or beg even once while he did it. Instead, each time she answered, her

voice grew more confident, more assertive, until she was practically screaming ‘Yes!’ Once he was convinced of her sincerity, he stopped and released me then kissed my cheeks —open wound and all—and welcomed me to the family. Six months later, we were married, and for anyone who ever asks me if it was worth it, I tell them all the exact same thing. I’d do it again a hundred out of a hundred times. She was worth every fucking second of it. I was a lucky son-of-a-bitch to be loved by a woman as incredible as Darya Stoliyaski.”

Now it’s my turn to take a gulp of the strong stuff, not sure if there’s even a proper response to a story like that. I’m not sure whether I’m more horrified at what he had to endure or impressed by the intensity of his love for her. “That’s how he feels about you, ya know?” He tilts his head to the side and reaches out to place his large hand over my small one. The gesture is warm and heartfelt. “Though your boy, Madden, may be reckless and foolish, he does it because he loves you fiercely. He’ll take his chances marching up on Vincent Ricci’s home turf and allowing a crazy-

looking fucker like me to blindfold and drive him to the middle of nowhere, knowing damn well he could be tortured or killed. But he’d rather die than be without you.” “Is that how you feel? Would you rather be dead, now that you’re without her?” The questions tumble off the tip of my tongue before I think about what I’m asking, but instead of seeing grief or sorrow darken his striking blue eyes, I see a spark of something. Hope? An idea of some sort? I’m not sure what exactly, but it’s definitely something that brightens his thoughts and puts him in

motion. After briefly glancing down at the laptop pushed off to the side, he stands up and grabs both of our glasses, taking them to the sink. “It’s late, kotyonok, and you didn’t sleep much last night with your guest here. You need to get some rest. We’ve got busy days ahead of us.” I don’t mention the fact he completely ignored my last question, seeing as how I basically asked if he had suicidal thoughts, but my ears perk up at his comment about busy days, reminding me of what he’d mentioned yesterday morning before he left to get Madden.

“Oh?” I question, following him into the kitchen. “Is there more news on the talks between Vincent and Anatoli?” He turns to me with a tight-lipped smile. “Things are going as hoped. It should be soon, which is why it’s important for you to rest well. You take the bed. I’ve got some work to do out here.” Nodding, I spin around on my heel and shuffle off, but right before I disappear into the bedroom, I twist and look at him over my shoulder. “For the record, Raze, I think she was the lucky one to be loved by a man as incredible

as you.”

“I STILL CAN’T BELIEVE HE took you to see her. I don’t get it. What was his motive?” Jae narrows her suspicious eyes across the booth at me as she picks up the steaming cup of coffee and brings it to her a mouth, taking a long sip. I’ve just finished recapping the past thirty-six hours to her, from the moment she dropped me off at LAX yesterday morning until now, late Saturday night, at

a local ma-and-pa-type diner, and honestly, I’m still somewhat in disbelief myself. Shrugging, I glance out the window to my right, quickly perusing the cars in the parking lot, then look down at my watch, wondering where the hell Easton is. He was supposed to be at my house, pretending to be me until I returned, so my federally-appointed shadow, Lance, would think I’m spending the weekend holed up at home, nursing my injuries. Instead, when we pulled up in my driveway a little over a half hour ago, Easton, my car, and the annoying FBI

agent were all gone, and inside there was a two-word note left on the refrigerator. Be back. That’s all it said, with absolutely no explanation on what in the fuck could be so important that he would need to leave the house and put all of us at risk of getting caught in this scheme we put together. I’m irritated. I’m exhausted. And I’m nervous about going back to my house now in case he comes driving up with Lance in tow, blowing all of our covers. Despite my assistant Caroline’s claims that my brother has suddenly become Mr. Responsible and

Dependable at the office in my absence, it’s clear he’s still the same old Easton I’ve always known. A liability and a selfish prick. “I don’t know,” I finally respond. “I don’t get it either, but Blake seems to trust him, and obviously with good reason. He’s not mistreating her. She’s got plenty of food to eat, a shower to bathe in, and a bed to sleep in. She didn’t have any bruises or contusions— self-inflicted or otherwise—and she seemed to think he brought me there on his own doing, without any of his people knowing about it. But I’m not sure how

she’d know that or not, since she had no idea I was coming.” “Do you think he’s gonna k-kill her, and he was giving her a chance to say goodbye?” She visibly shudders when she says the word kill, and I can tell she’s struggling to keep her composure at the thought of Blake dead. Sadly, that exact thought has crossed my mind no less than a thousand times since Raze dropped me off under the fast food icon this morning—the exact place he’d picked me up less than twenty-four hours before. As a matter of fact, since I stepped foot off the flight from Reno this

evening, it’s been the only thing I can figure that makes sense. But still . . . why do that for someone you’re holding captive? My shifty gaze scans the restaurant, looking for people overly interested in our conversation. I’m already pretty sure either the FBI, the Italians, or the Russians—and quite possibly a combination of all three—have bugged my place of residence and office, so it’s no longer a safe place to discuss important matters. But I wouldn’t put it past any of them to have someone eavesdropping on me out in public

either. Or maybe I’m becoming a paranoid freak. Bending forward, I lower my voice to a hushed whisper. “That’s what I’m afraid of, but if that’s the case, I’m not sure what our next step should be. If I get the feds involved, I take the chance of pissing the Russians off and forcing their hand to act prematurely and hastily. And if by some chance killing her isn’t their end game, that they truly are planning on letting her go after she takes care of Vincent, then I’ve put her, me, all of us in unnecessary danger. Plus, it’s not like I know exactly where she is, other than

some remote, heavily wooded place a couple hours from Truckee.” “I’m sure with the technology the FBI has they could use some kind of thermal lenses or something to search the area,” she contends, obviously choosing the route of me telling the authorities what I know. “Maybe . . . probably . . . I’m not sure what the fuck to do.” I check my phone again. Still nothing. Growling, I drag my tense fingers through my overgrown hair. “Right now, though, my biggest concern revolves around where Easton is and why he hasn’t texted or

called back. What in the hell was that note? He knew how important it was for him to stay at my house. You told him you were on your way to pick me up at the airport, right?” Jae nods as she slumps back on the vinyl-covered bench. “I texted him with the code word we’d discussed, so yeah; as long as he had his phone on him, he should’ve known.” I blow out a frustrated sigh and tap my fingers on the tabletop, feeling like a caged animal inside. The woman I love more than life itself is being held hostage by one mafia family, while

preparing herself to murder the leader of another. My brother is MIA, probably getting himself involved in shit that will lead to problems for all of us. And other than the friend sitting across from me now, and possibly my housekeeper and personal assistant, I trust no one. I have no clue what I should do next, but I have to do something. “I guess I’m going to get you to take me back home,” I say after the two of us sit in silence for several minutes. “If we get caught, we get caught. I can’t spend the night in this diner, and I know you need to get home too. I’m going to pull

up the satellite view of Google maps around Truckee and see if I can narrow down her location. At least it’s something—” “Don’t use your computer,” she cuts me off, holding her hand up in the air. “Not unless you want them to know what you’re searching. We can stop by my place and you can use mine. Plus, that buys us a little more time to try to locate Easton too.” I knew I liked this woman. “Good point and good plan.” Digging my wallet out of my back pocket, I toss a twenty on the table, which should be more than

enough to cover the two coffees and a tip. “Let’s go.” We make our way out of the restaurant and across the pavement to her SUV, and just as I open the passenger-side door to climb in, a very familiar bright red sports car zooms wildly into the parking lot with a blacked-out Tahoe right on its tail. Not even bothering to park in an actual spot, Easton jumps out of his car and rushes over to us, frantic and frazzled. “What? What happened? Where were you?” I demand as Jae and Lance join us. My heart is thudding

uncontrollably in my chest, because I know by the wretched look in his eyes whatever he’s about to say is going to bad. Struggling to find his voice, he attempts to speak a couple of times before the words finally spill out. “I-I swear I wouldn’t have left, but . . . but I got a call from the Listers. It . . . it . . . it’s Emerson. She’s dead.”

THE MOANING AND HISSING OF the hot water heater outside the cabin, just on the other side of the thin bedroom wall, wakes me up just as it’s done every morning since I started sleeping in this room. The poor thing sounds like it’s on its last leg, and if it wasn’t for the fact I really enjoy taking hot showers, I’d probably take Raze’s gun out there and put it out of its misery once and for

all. But as I roll over in the bed onto my back and stare at the white popcorn ceiling, I remind myself this nightmare is almost over. Cabin fever. I suffer from it in the most literal form. And if I wasn’t already planning on killing someone soon, I’d definitely be contemplating it after being cooped up in this cabin for the last two plus weeks. Even though I enjoy Raze’s company for the most part, and I’ve accepted the fact that not all men who live the ruthless mob lifestyle are heartless monsters like Ish and Vincent, I’m ready to return to my life . .

. to Madden. After having him here several nights ago—touching him, holding him, kissing him, loving him—I now know without a shadow of a doubt where my place is in life: By his side. He offers me physical exhilaration, emotional security, and an overall happiness I never knew possible. And after all I’ve been through in the past few years, I deserve it and am willing to do whatever it takes to get it back. With a loud sigh that’s for no one’s sake but my own, I toss the covers to the side and slip on a fleece hoodie over the

tank top I slept in, along with one of my two pairs of sweatpants I alternate in between. Once I’m nice and warm and properly covered, I venture out into the main living area of the cabin only to stop dead in my tracks at the scene awaiting me. Raze—who has been dressed in head-to-toe black since the day I first saw him—is wearing fitted Wranglers, a plaid flannel on top of a white thermal, and tattered brown work boots as he waits for the coffee maker to finish brewing the morning pot of joe. I’m not sure whether to gawk at him, never

having realized how handsome he is when he doesn’t look like a trained assassin, or to crack up laughing at the Russian lumberjack. Sensing my presence, he twists his neck to look over at where I’m frozen mid-step and pinches his eyebrows together. “What’s wrong?” “What’s with the outfit? Are you going to chop down trees today?” I tease, resuming my stride to join him in the kitchen. He glances down at his clothes, as if he doesn’t know they’re nothing like what he usually has on, then looks back

up at me, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “I won’t be chopping down any trees, kotyonok, but I’m happy you like the outfit. I have to go in town for some things this morning to prepare for our big day, which is rapidly approaching.” His tone grows more serious as the amusement rapidly disappears from his face, and my stomach tightens in a hard knot as I grab my own mug. “I got the call last night after you were already asleep,” he continues after a short pause, holding my gaze with fierce intensity. “Three days. I’ve got a

lot to do between now and then, but in three days, this will all be over . . . one way or another.” It’s the news I’ve been waiting for. Finally. There’s an end date. Light at the end of the tunnel. But something feels off. Very off. “This is a good thing, right?” I ask, hoping the unsettled churning in my gut is just a reaction to the realization that in just a few days, I will point a gun at a man and pull the trigger. And honestly, I doubt I’ll feel much remorse at all. “We can go back to our old lives and put this all behind us.”

He hesitates for only a split-second, but it’s a split-second I don’t miss. Forcing a tight-lipped smile, he nods and fills his thermos then steps to the side to allow me to do the same. “Yes, put this all behind us,” he repeats my words, but when he says them, the feel of dark foreboding hangs on each syllable. I don’t respond as my mind goes into overdrive, suddenly fretting about every possible outcome that can occur at the end of three days. As much as I hate to admit it, I’ve become way too comfortable in this fake sense of normalcy Raze and I have created here,

and perhaps I’ve put too much trust in this man who I only think I know. When he showed up late Saturday night after taking Madden back to wherever, it was obvious something was bothering him then, and then instead of answering my demands to tell me what had happened, he distracted me with a story about his late wife. He knew I’d take the bait, wanting to know more about her and forgetting about whatever had really gotten him riled up, yanking files out of the safe and punching the keyboard of his laptop. If something would’ve happened to remind him of

her, it wouldn’t have warranted that kind of reaction. No papers or computers are going to bring her back, so he was obviously doing something else. “Are you actually going to pour the coffee in your cup, or just drink straight from the pot?” Breaking through the onslaught of apprehensive thoughts flooding my mind, his deep voice startles me and I jump in response, sloshing the scalding hot liquid over the sides of the pot. My first reaction to the searing pain on my wrist and forearm is to release the handle, and as the glass shatters into a million tiny pieces on the

floor, I fall to my knees and clutch my throat. I can’t breathe and the darkness is back. “Father is coming for dinner tonight. I hope you made something he’ll like,” Ish announced as he walked in the door, home from a day of work. “He should be here in ten to fifteen minutes.” I plastered a smile on my face as I swallowed back the acid that built in the back of my throat at every mention of my father-in-law then turned away from the sink to greet my husband.

“Yes, of course. The pork loin will be ready in half an hour, and I’ve got garlic risotto and steamed zucchini to go with it. Do you want me to join you while you two eat, or do you prefer if I eat after he eats?” Please say later. Please say later. “He’s asked that you join us tonight,” he said proudly as he walked over to me, kissing me with putrid cigarette breath. “I told you he’d come around and see what I see.” His hand slid inside my shirt and pinched my nipple so hard it brought tears to my eyes. “Now go fix your face and put on

something decent. If he’s pleased with you tonight, I’ll be sure to reward you later.” I scurried away from him to the sanctuary of the bathroom—the only place in our home that I felt some sort of solace. Though it wasn’t as if I was stupid enough to believe the flimsy wooden door would keep him out if he wanted to get to me in there, but usually he left me alone for at least a few minutes. Quickly, I brushed my teeth and hair then freshened up my makeup before venturing into my closet to find something appropriate.

Just as I secured the last button on my blouse, I heard the front door open and close, followed by the sound of my father-in-law’s voice. “It smells like something is burning. I thought you said the bitch could cook?” Ish mumbled something in response that I couldn’t quite make out, but there was no misunderstanding his father’s next words. “I told you she was a worthless little American cunt, but you couldn’t see past that bloody virgin pussy. I should’ve had her snuffed out the first time you mentioned her to me, and insisted you marry someone I

chose. Then maybe people would’ve forgotten you’re a bastard.” And the fun began. Pretending I didn’t hear him, I emerged from our bedroom and welcomed him as I was expected to. “Good evening, Vincent,” I forced out politely, kissing him on both cheeks. “I’m so happy you’re joining us for dinner.” He didn’t bother acknowledging my greeting, other than staring at my breasts long enough to make me uncomfortable then barking out his drink request, which I hurried to fulfill.

The rest of dinner followed along the same lines. Vincent and Ish talked about ‘business’, while I waited on them hand and foot. I was basically ignored, which I honestly preferred to the alternative—being degraded and humiliated. And when they both cleaned their plates of all of the food I’d served them, I took it as a good sign that they enjoyed the meal, ‘cause Lord knew they sure wouldn’t give me a compliment. Once I’d cleared the table of the dishes, I brought them dessert and coffee, but stupidly, I forgot that

Vincent didn’t take his coffee the same way Ish did—no milk, two sugars. After taking the first sip of the sweetened drink, he spit it out all over the table and then threw the cup at me, burning my arms, chest, and neck with the scorching liquid. “You stupid fucking whore! Are you trying to poison me with that shit?” he screamed, jumping up from his chair as he glared at me like I was the scum of the earth. No, but I wished I would’ve thought of that. Ish followed suit, leaping to his feet

and throwing his napkin on the table. “Bryleigh, what the fuck did you do? Are you so stupid you can’t remember Father drinks his coffee black?” he scolded as he helped Vincent wipe up the dark brown spots speckled across his own shirt. “And look what else you caused! His shirt is now ruined.” Neither cared to ask me if I was all right as red blisters appeared on my pale white skin, and after Ish ushered his dad to the front door, apologizing profusely the entire time, he returned to the kitchen to punish me properly. When I woke up the next morning, the

small burns from the coffee looked like child’s play compared to the insides of my thighs and my backside. It would later take multiple plastic surgeries to remove the skin where my husband branded me with his initials, using only a lighter and personalized cufflinks, over and over again across my most intimate areas. Cold water beating down on my face jolts me from the memory, and as I turn my head to escape the icy spray, my eyes flutter open and frantically scan my surroundings. Raze’s worried gaze is the

first thing I lock onto, and a huge wave of relief rolls through me. “Are you okay kotyonok . . . what happened . . . where did you go . . . I thought I lost you there for a minute.” The words and questions come out so rushed, border-lining on hysteria, it all sounded like one long sentence. “Yeah, I’m okay,” I reply through chattering teeth. “Cold.” As he turns the water to warm, I smile to myself, thinking how glad I am I didn’t shoot the water heater this morning. “Is that better?” he asks, looking

over his shoulder at me. I give him a quick nod. “I apologize for doing that, but I couldn’t get you to wake up and I thought you were going to hurt yourself. You kept trying to rip your sweater off, clawing wildly at yourself and crying that you were sorry.” I glance down at my fully clothed, soaking-wet body and chuckle to myself at the ridiculousness that is my life. “Just a flashback,” I say with a weak smile. “Give me a few minutes to reset and I’ll be fine.” He tips his chin with approval, but reaches out to grab my hand, silently

letting me know he’s not leaving my side. Slumping back until my head rests against the side of the tub, I close my eyes and remind myself of what’s important. I’m safe. It was just a flashback. Ish is dead. And in three days, Vincent will be too.

AS I SIT IN THE hard, uncomfortable pew of the chapel, dressed in my best suit, blending in with the sea of other dark fabrics and shaken faces, I tune out the funeral officiant’s droning voice and mentally run through the incredulous events that have taken place over the last few weeks, yet again. Blake’s abduction. Emerson’s confession. The secret trip set up by the Russian mobster. And now,

Emerson’s death. It feels as if I was living a halfway normal life, and then one day, I woke up trapped in an alternate universe, where crazy shit I never could’ve even dreamed of happens. But unfortunately, as I steal a confirming glance to my left to where my parents and brother are seated, and then across the row to where the Listers are huddled together, I’m forced to accept this has become my reality. And I don’t know how to make it stop. If things weren’t fucked up enough with everything involving Blake’s

situation concerning two rival mafia families, the FBI, and the US Marshals, they only became more convoluted Saturday night when Emerson’s parents found a suicide note at her townhome, stating that she couldn’t go on living after she had messed everyone’s life up the way she had—namely mine. At first, when Easton told me what had happened, I didn’t believe it. As bad as it sounds, I thought Emerson was much too self-absorbed to take her own life, and I assumed it was only a ploy to get attention and make me feel sorry for her. However, after a homeless man

reported seeing a red-headed woman throw herself from a fishing jetty at one of the pocket beaches not far from where she lived, and the police subsequently found Blake’s empty car parked nearby, it appeared I was wrong. Even though they’ve been unable to find her body— which most likely became shark bait not long after she flung herself into the Pacific Ocean—and the case is still under investigation, for all intents and purposes, it seems that Emerson Lister is indeed dead. And I’ve had to answer to a thousand questions, not only from her family and my parents, but also the

authorities. After showing them the footage from the night in my bedroom, neither Marshal Doherty nor Agent Lance were too thrilled to discover the method I’d used to coax Emerson’s declaration of guilt out of her, both implying I probably was the reason she ended her life. But even more than that, because Easton blew our cover when he left my house while I was on my way home from seeing Blake, they were downright furious with me for flying to Reno on another renegade mission. Of course, I haven’t admitted to them any of the details of my trip, and

thankfully, neither have Easton or Jae. All of us have stuck to the story we’d agreed upon prior to the mission that I’d seen a piece of mail at Blake’s apartment with a Lake Tahoe address, so I’d gone to investigate. And even though they can’t prove any of us are lying, they’re all extremely suspicious, and I’d bet money they’ve got people up there combing the area now. “Madden, honey, it’s over,” my mom whispers as she nudges my shoulder, pulling me back to reality with her touch. “Please tell me you’ve changed your mind about coming this evening. I need

you there.” I turn to face her and wrap my arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. “Mom, I know these last couple of days have been hard on you and Dad, seeing as though you knew Emerson since the time she was a kid, but I’m serious about not coming to the dinner. I agreed on the funeral, for your benefit only, but I refuse to sit around and listen while everyone talks about how wonderful of a person she was. I’m sorry she’s dead, but I can’t forgive her for what she did to Blake. And to me.” More tears spill from her eyes,

causing additional black streaks to stain her pale cheeks, and even though it kills me to upset her, I’m not giving in on this. She’s brought it up no less than five times since yesterday, and my answer remains the same. I’m not going. “Keep your voice down, son. And can’t you stop by, even if it’s only for a few minutes? Your brother has agreed to come for a little while.” My dad leans over Mom’s shoulder and pins me with the look that reminds me no matter how old I am, they are still my parents. But even that isn’t going to work this time. “Dad, I’m sorry,” I give a stern

shake of my head, “but the answer is no. I understand why you guys feel the need to do this for Mr. and Mrs. Lister, and Easton is free to do whatever he wants; however, I will not be coming. And that’s the last I’m discussing the matter. Now, please excuse me. I have someone I’m meeting with this afternoon.” Spinning around on my heel, I leave my distressed parents and spineless brother behind and push my way through the crowd of people still loitering in the center aisle and back area of the sanctuary. No one besides the authorities, my family, and the Listers

knows the details of the suicide note left by Emerson, where she eludes to what she did, so most of these friends and family members can’t understand why a beautiful, well-educated young woman with a great job and wealthy, supportive parents would choose to end her life so suddenly. I’ve been asked repeatedly by her parents and mine to not make public the story of what happened, and even though I’ve agreed in principle, if someone straight out asked me for the truth, I doubt I’d lie. Special Agent Lance is waiting for me in the parking lot when I burst

through the stained-glass and wood door, leaning against the side of his black SUV parked next to my car, talking to someone on the phone. As soon as he sees me, he ends the call and straightens his posture, and when I approach the vehicles, he tips his chin to acknowledge my presence. “Where are we heading now, Mr. Decker? To your parents’ house?” he asks assumingly. “No,” I snap as I unlock my car with the keyless remote. “I’m meeting Jae for dinner.” I slide onto the leather driver’s seat

without any further information. It’s a given that he’s going to follow me, and probably even come inside to eat at a separate table while we’re there, all the while keeping his trained gaze fixed on me, making sure I don’t attempt another sneaky getaway. All I can hope is to keep Jae’s and my conversation as private as possible and pray they aren’t tracking her laptop activity. The drive to the small Mexican food restaurant I chose for us to meet, not too far from her condo, takes longer than I anticipated, thanks to some construction work and the beginning of rush hour

traffic. Ever since all of this started with Blake’s disappearance, the project she and Jae were working on for Decker Enterprises—my company—has been put on hold. Indefinitely. The only reason I ever fucking said yes to Easton in the first place about that stupid video game project, seeing as how it has absolutely nothing to do with what we do, is because I thought if he had an interest in something at work, he’d actually care. Sadly, I was wrong, but the silver lining of it all is that it resulted in me meeting Blake. But now with everything going on,

and upon my request, their employer has agreed to grant Jae a paid leave of absence—one I’m virtually paying for— while he waits for me to give him direction on the next step of the contract. I don’t mind though; Jae and I have quickly become good friends in the last couple of weeks, as neither of us have anyone else we can talk to about what’s going on. It’s amazing how much it can help sometimes just to rant to someone, knowing damn well they have no answers, but that they’ll just sit there and listen to you get it all off your chest. Plus, she’s always quick to fill in the

holes of my plans when the thoughts in my brain are whirring too quickly and I leave gaping indiscretions. Well, she’s the only person other than Easton, and at this moment, I’m not sure how I feel about my little brother. Despite his change of attitude and actually showing up around the office, I still partially blame my brother for everything that’s going on. No, he wasn’t the one who turned Blake over to the Russians, but if he weren’t involved with them in the first place, Emerson wouldn’t have had that point of contact to make the deal happen. However, I

have to give him credit in that so far he hasn’t breathed a word of what’s going on to anyone. Not even when they kept him the entire day after Emerson’s note and car were discovered, trying to coax any information he may have about the Kabinovs out of him. After nearly an hour on the road, I finally pull up to the hole-in-the-wall cantina and notice Jae’s Infiniti already in the lot. Doing my best to ignore Lance parking a few spots down, I hurriedly get out of the car, open the glass door to the restaurant, and duck my head inside. It doesn’t take me long to find Jae in a

back corner booth, and when I see the promising smile on her face, illuminated by the computer screen already set up on the table, I add a little pep in my step and hightail it over to her. “Did you find something?” I ask, the hope in my voice evident as I drop down on the bench next to her. With the news of Emerson’s death, I’ve spent the time I’m not at odds with my parents at the local FBI office, lying to federal agents about what all I know about the Russians. The fact they’re now aware of who has her scares me more than anything, and I hope to God Raze

knows I’m not how they found out. I eavesdropped on one of Lance’s phone conversations yesterday, so I know for a fact they’ve raided several of the Kabinov homes in Southern California, looking for her, but have come up empty. And what concerns me the most is they’re either going to get hasty in the whole lure-Vincent-Ricci-to-her-andkill-him plan, or they’re going to make her disappear. Permanently. “Maybe,” Jae replies quietly, glancing up to take note of where Lance settles across the room at a table by the window. Once she’s convinced he’s out

of earshot, she drops her chin to her chest in order to prevent lip-reading and continues. “I’ve been working on zooming in with this one satellite all day, and I’ve definitely found a road that’s being used about a hundred and forty miles northwest of Truckee, up in the Cascades. And the interesting thing is, I can’t tell where it leads. The forest gets too thick to see below.” I stare at the image she’s got pulled up on the screen—a satellite snapshot taken and stamped with this morning’s date and time—and sure enough, there is a road with what looks like fresh tire

marks that leads from a mostly deserted highway into the mass of trees limbs and dying foliage. I’m not sure, but it could be it, and I tell her as much. We look through some of the other aerial footage taken in the last few days of that spot, hoping to get a speck of color on the road that could be Raze’s truck, but we aren’t so lucky. She agrees to continue to monitor it, as well as look for other possibilities. Once the computer is put away, I swing around to the other side of the table so that we’re not doing that awkward side-by-side in a booth thing,

especially since we aren’t a couple, and we make small talk about the funeral and the lack of any updated news over enchiladas and a Corona. Just as I’m getting my wallet out to pay for the meal, my second phone, which I’ve got tucked away in the inner pocket of my jacket, begins to vibrate. Startled, I initially jump to reach for it, curious about who in the hell is contacting me via that line, but then remember I’m being watched. “I’m going to check it out in the bathroom,” I murmur to her. “I’ll be right back.” She nods as I excuse myself from the

table, and as soon as I’m safely inside one of the cramped stalls, I dig the cell phone out and stare at the message on the screen from Raze’s number. Raze: Things are moving faster than expected. Be on standby in Reno by tomorrow morning. Bring the cavalry with you. I’ll give you instructions then.

I SIT DOWN ON THE couch with a freshly poured cup of coffee and a bowl of cereal, just as I do every other normal morning. Well, as normal as it can be, considering I’m being held against my will and still mentally processing the fact that I’m going to murder a man tomorrow. It’s a strange set of emotions I doubt I could properly put into words— killing another person, that is—but one

thing is for sure: guilt is at the top of the list. Even though I know I’m doing society, and myself, a huge favor, I was taught from an early age that only God should pass judgment and persecute those who deserve it . . . yet here I am, with my finger already on the trigger. I’ve tried to stay focused on mundane tasks around the cabin, instead of my shredded conscience, ever since I made the decision to value my life over Vincent Ricci’s. Because at its core, that’s the ultimate choice I have to make. If I don’t kill him at the first opportunity I’m given, either he or the Kabinovs are

most definitely going to eliminate my existence from this planet. Only my demise will most likely involve quite a bit more pain than taking a bullet between the eyes . . . especially if my father-in-law gets his hands on me. A loud banging noise outside, followed by angry grunts and what I assume is a slew of Russian curse words from Raze, steal my focus away from the bland breakfast and my repetitive thoughts. Carefully placing the bowl and mug down on the coffee table, I unfold my legs from underneath me and tiptoe over to the door to press my ear against

the cold wood surface. At first, I don’t hear anything, so I assume he fixed whatever pissed him off out there. For the last couple of days—after all the details about the plan were finalized —he’s been working like a mad man. And in a terrible mood. Every hour of daylight is spent either making trips to get supplies or building something in the shed I now know exists next to the cabin, while after night falls, he’s constantly on the phone or the computer, reminding me of one of those frantic people you see on TV working the stock market at the closing bell. I understand he’s preparing

for Vincent’s arrival, though I have no clue what that all entails, but surely, it can’t be that hard. The guy shows up thinking he’s being handed over a prisoner, probably in restraints, and possibly blindfolded or gagged, and I’m going to pull out a gun and shoot him. Then, they set it up to look like he was the one keeping me here, and that after I somehow managed to escape, I murdered him to get free. Then we all go home and return to our normally scheduled programming. Seems easy enough to me. “I told you exactly what you were

supposed to do, and you didn’t do it. I gave you a time, and you didn’t meet it. How fucking hard is it to follow simple instructions?” I hear Raze growl, obviously infuriated at whoever he’s talking to on the phone. The cruelty in his tone I’ve only ever heard him use when speaking to those first guys who dropped off supplies, and I was afraid he was going to kill that man. Also, other than with me, it’s the first time I’ve ever heard him speak English besides that same day, and even then, I think he only did it on my behalf. My curiosity is piqued, so I push my ear

harder against the door, hoping that’ll magically improve my hearing-throughwalls ability. “It doesn’t fucking matter; the damage is done. The Feds know, and it’s all a goddamn mess.” The anger continues to seep through his voice, and I bet if I could see him right now, his jaw would be locked tight as he paces the frozen ground. A long pause ensues before I hear him snap, “Do not fucking move from where you are. I’ll be there in an hour and a half. Be ready.” Thunderous footsteps from his heavy

boots shake the front steps as I dash back to the couch, picking up my cereal just in time to see the door swing open, with an extremely pissed off Raze towering in the doorway, complete with a deep scowl etched into his face and his chest bowed up like he’s preparing to take on a daunting opponent. He’s radiating an energy so powerful that being near him may be lethal right now. “Morning.” I force a cheerful smile and pretend to have no clue about his conversation outside. “Did you already have some coffee this morning? There’s a fresh pot in there.”

My heart pounds out a nervous staccato as I wait to see how he’ll reply. Will he tell me what’s going on? Obviously something has happened. Something bad. I hope everything is still a go for tomorrow. I’m really ready to put all this behind me. Now. “I have to leave. I’ll be back in a few hours.” He crosses the floor without looking at me while he speaks then disappears into the bedroom. I sit and wait, staring at my breakfast that no longer looks very appetizing, though I’m not sure if it’s because the cereal is now soggy, or because of the

boulder of dread that’s weighing down my stomach. After several minutes of him digging around in the safe, he slams it shut and emerges from the room. Having finally built up the nerve to ask him directly what’s going on, unable to take the not-knowing, I open my mouth to talk, but before I can get the words out, he tosses me a small cell phone, which I miraculously catch mid-air. “My number is the only contact programmed in there. I’m trusting you not to use this phone to call anyone else. Not 911. Not Madden. No one.” His piercing blue gaze pleads with me to

comply. “I’m gonna be honest with you; a lot of shit got fucked up and things aren’t going down as planned. I’m doing my best to get my shit back on track before this whole thing blows up on all of us, but I’m gonna need you to trust me.” Closing the gap between us quickly with his long, certain strides, he squats in front of me and lifts his brow expectantly, our eyes locking on each other’s on the same level. “Can you do that, kotyonok? Trust me?” Nodding repeatedly, tears fill up my eyes for a reason I’m not really even

sure of. It’s all just too much. Too many emotions wound tight, ready to snap at the lightest provoking. This strangely feels like goodbye, even though he just told me he’d be back shortly. “Yes, Raze. I can trust you.” “Spasibo.” He reaches out to gently wipe away the few tears that escaped with the pad of his thumb. His demeanor is suddenly so polar opposite from what it was less than five minutes ago when he barged inside that I’m suffering from personality whiplash. “No more tears, sweet girl. This will all be over soon.” “Wh-what am I supposed to do with

the ph-phone?” I sniffle through my words. Raze bounces once in his squat before extending his legs to standing straight, the solemn mask dropping back into place. “I will call you when I’m about five minutes away to let you know it’s me pulling up. If you hear an engine or the closing of car doors outside and I haven’t called, I need you to go in the bedroom and call me immediately. I’m not expecting anyone, but just to be safe.” His ominous words do little to settle the sinking feeling in my gut, but I plaster

a brave smile on my face and nod again. “Got it. I’ll be okay. Go do whatever you need to get done.” Without another word, he slips out of the cabin, and seconds later, I hear his truck roar to life. I then spend the next three hours and twelve minutes on high alert, too scared to even go to the bathroom in case I miss the sound of my death driving up. When the phone finally lights up with an incoming call, I stare at the screen jarring around in my trembling hand for a few seconds prior to answering it. “Hello?”

“It’s me. I’m a few minutes out.” The sound of Raze’s voice on the other end of the line prompts a heavy sigh of relief. “Okay. Everything’s been quiet here,” I reply. “See you soon.” “Wait!” he shouts, catching my attention before I hang up, then continues once he realizes I’m still here. “I need you to get dressed in something warm, hat and boots included.” My first reaction is to ask him what in the world is going on, but I remind myself I promised to trust him. “I’ll change now.”

The line goes dead, and for a few seconds, I stand frozen in place, wondering what in the hell is about to happen. Then, making a beeline to where I keep my clothes in the closet, I hastily strip out of my lounge clothes and slip into a pair of jeans and a sweater then grab some socks, boots, and a knit beanie to put on in the living room while I wait for him to arrive. Just as I finish double-knotting the second set of shoelaces, I hear the rumble of his truck pulling up, and I stand in the middle of the room, waiting for him to come inside. An apologetic

expression flits across his face, but I’m not sure if it’s about being gone or what’s about to happen. “Come outside. I need to show you something,” he commands, stretching his arm out to me. It’s not without apprehension that I place my petite hand inside his monstrous one and allow him to lead me through the door into the brisk, latemorning fresh air. Squinting while trying to hide my face from a sun I haven’t seen in weeks, I stumble behind him over to the passenger side of his truck. As we grow closer, I begin to make

out noises that sound like grunts and screams, but they’re extremely muffled. Then, once we’re only a few feet away, as the ruckus grows louder, I notice the slight rocking of the cab of the truck, and immediately I know he’s got someone bound and gagged inside. My first thought is it’s Madden, and the world closes in around me. I drop to my knees with a wail, but he doesn’t stop moving forward until he’s directly next to the passenger side door. With a forceful push of his thumb and pull of his fingers on the handle, the door flies open and my eyes lock on familiar baby blues.

All of the air vanishes from my lungs as I fall forward, my quivering arms barely strong enough to hold me up. Raze swiftly returns to my side, yanking my body up next to his before whispering the words in my ear, “Forgive me, Lord, for I have sinned.” A sharp prick in my neck follows. Then, the darkness consumes me.

THE DAY PAKHAN GAVE ME my orders, I drove around for hours doing nothing but thinking. Thinking about how my life truly began the day I met Darya and how lucky I was to find love in such a beautiful creature. Thinking about how my life virtually ended the day she died and the subsequent countless sleepless nights I spent lying awake begging God to take me instead, to give me just one

do-over to make things right, the way they should have been. Thinking about innocent Blake and the fucked-up life she found herself in because she fell in love with the wrong man. Thinking about the man who loves her now, the man who has proven he’d gladly give his life in exchange for hers. Just like I would’ve. Unfortunately, God never gave me that do-over two years ago, and I know there’s nothing I can do to ever bring my wife back. But during that drive I realized that I have the opportunity to make things right for someone else. And

maybe, just maybe, Darya will be looking down from wherever she is and find it in her heart to forgive me for not insisting that I go to Chicago that day instead of her. It’s my only shot. From that day on, I’ve been working around the clock to get everything in place. It hasn’t been easy—not by a long shot—but last night I finally got the final loose ends tied up. And not a moment too soon. The suicide note Emerson Lister left explained in detail the deal she struck with my family for Blake, and within hours of the feds finding it, they were

swarming every Kabinov property in Southern California with a search warrant. Thanks to our rats inside the bureau alerting us to what happened, all top ranking members of the Bratva were far away by the time the agents showed up, but the unexpected heat of them breathing down our necks forced Pakhan to speed up the Ricci operation. If it doesn’t go down tonight, it may never happen. I double and triple check that everyone and everything is in place for their arrival. Vincent Ricci, one of his men, and Dmitri, one of our most lethal

brothers, should be pulling up to the cabin at any minute, and I’ve only got one shot to get this right. This is my doover. This is no longer only about revenge; it’s about redemption.

When I hear the vehicle approaching, I press send on the text I’ve had queued up and ready to go for this moment. Opening the bullet chamber of my pistol, I confirm one last time that it’s fully loaded before tucking it in the back of my pants. Then, a final pat on my

upper thighs verifies the small rectangular remote is in place. Voices and footsteps draw near to the cabin, and after several taps on the wood, the front door swings open. My breath hitches as I’m caught completely off-guard at the three men standing in front of me. It’s not Vincent Ricci or his sidekick that has my mouth as dry as the Mojave Desert and my entire body trembling with fear. No. It’s the Russian who escorted them here, the one who most definitely isn’t Dmitri. “Vnuk,” Pakhan uses the endearing term for grandson as he steps inside and

greets me with a kiss on each cheek. “I hope you have everything ready for our friends here.” The two Italians follow his lead, closing the door behind him and embracing me like we’re long lost friends instead of sworn enemies, but I’m too busy frantically devising a new plan to give a shit. Finally finding my voice, I extend my arm toward the small table. “Please sit and let us celebrate finalizing this deal with a shot of fine vodka, then I will bring out our lady of the hour. She’s . . . resting in the other room.”

“I’d love to toast with you, my friend,” Vincent flashes a sinister grin in my direction, “but I think I’d like to see the lady first. Then, we can share as many shots as you’d like.” I blink hard. This is it. The moment of reckoning. “As you wish. Right this way.” Striding to the closed door separating the two rooms, the three men are hot on my heels, all eager to get a look at the American Princess. Slowly, I turn the knob on the door and push it open. Then, shoving my hands inside my front pockets, I step inside and reveal

the heavily drugged young woman, naked and bound to the bed by her wrists and ankles. Her head has been shaved and every tooth has been extracted from her mouth, but there’s no denying who she is. In less than a second, I’ve got three guns pointed at my face, demanding answers louder than any words. As the victorious smile spreads across my face, I wrap my fingers around the remote concealed in my pocket and chuckle lightly as I press the button. “You should’ve had that shot first.”

IT TAKES ME A FEW seconds of staring at the text to realize the numbers on my phone’s screen are geographical coordinates, but the moment it clicks, I rush outside the Truckee diner I’ve been holed up in most of the day and wave my arms frantically in the air. Agent Diomassi and Marshal Doherty are huddled with some other men around the hood of their SUV, staring at a

topographical satellite image of the area, but as soon as they see me, they sprint in my direction. “Did he make contact?” one of them shouts mid-run. I nod emphatically, thrusting the phone into their faces as soon as they reach the sidewalk where I’m standing. “They’re coordinates. Where they are. Let’s go!” “Hot damn, boys!” Diomassi calls out to his men. “We’re in business. Convoy pulls out in less than five!” Everything after that is a blur. I’m shoved inside the backseat of one of the

Suburbans as the agents plug the coordinates into their map, pulling up the quickest route to the location. Minutes pass as we speed like a runaway bullet train through the snow-capped mountain range, but my thoughts are focused on one thing and one thing only. Blake. I’ve prayed more today than I probably have all other times in my life combined, because if I’ve ever needed anything from God, it’s for Him to return her to me safely. She’s it for me. My slow and steady. My sweet girl. My everything.

Right after the driver, who I think is named Agent Cunningham, informs us that we’re about fifteen miles out, a loud, echoing boom fills my ears and causes the SUV’s windows to rattle. My entire body tenses, and in the brief silence that ensues, the four of us exchange knowing looks. Then, as the smoke begins to rise from the treetops, all hell breaks loose. Cunningham lays the pedal to the metal, doing the unthinkable by hauling ass faster than we were already going, and I don’t even bother thinking about how dangerous our speed is as he

weaves around these hairpin curves and steep drop-offs. Diomassi, who’s in the front passenger seat, is on his phone, desperately trying to get information about what caused the noise we all so clearly heard, but he’s unable to get an answer before we turn sharply off of the main road and onto a gravel one. I can smell the fire before I actually see the blaze, but the second I see the cabin engulfed in menacing flames, I throw the door open and leap from the still-moving vehicle. Landing awkwardly on the hard, icy ground, I stumble to my feet and take off in a mad

dash toward the inferno, which might as well be Hell if Blake is inside. “Blake, please, God, no,” I cry to myself over and over as I reach the group of matching black SUVs parked just behind the truck Raze had picked me up in and a white Mercedes. All of the agents have their weapons drawn as they circle the burning structure, but I pay no mind to them, or any other threat that may be looming. I just need to get inside. Trudging forward, I ignore the throbbing pain in my left ankle, as well as the shouts for me to stop moving. Fuck my leg and fuck

them. Just as I get about ten yards away, the overwhelming heat coming from the blaze making it feel as if I’m standing on the surface of the sun, someone tackles me from behind and pushes me face-first into the cold, hard ground. “Are you fucking stupid? Do you have a death wish today?” Doherty growls, pressing his knee into the small of my back. “If she’s in there, I do,” I seethe through painful breaths. “Not on my watch, Decker. Not on my fucking watch.” Then he slams the

butt of his gun into the back of my head and everything goes black.

THE REMAINS OF FIVE BODIES were found in the pile of charred ashes after the local firefighters finally arrived and put out the blaze. Four males, one female. The men were identified by dental records as Vincent Ricci, Gabe Scalise, Anatoli Kabinov, and Rayzkin Kabinov; however, the woman’s teeth were all missing—most likely through torture, the authorities believe. With all

the information that’s been gathered, as well as my admittance to visiting Blake in that cabin with Raze, the fifth body has now been officially identified as Bryleigh Carter Oliviera, a.k.a. Blake Martin. Devastated and destroyed, I have no desire to go on. No desire to talk to anyone. No desire to get showered or dressed. No desire to go to work. No desire to open the pile of mail on my kitchen table, not even the funny-looking envelope that has no postage mark on it. Whatever it is, it can’t bring her back to life, just like my family and friends can’t

and my job can’t. None of it means anything if I can’t have her. I was supposed to keep her safe, to protect her. But I failed. And now . . . well, now the only thing I have to look forward to . . . is death.

MY EYELIDS FEEL AS IF they’ve been cemented together, making it damn near impossible to pry them open, and there is not a single drop of moisture in my mouth . . . but I’m alive. With my shaky arms, I push myself up to a sitting position in the bed I’m lying in and immediately scan my surroundings. I’m petrified of what—or who—is waiting for me to wake up, but I’m tired of

hiding. I’m ready for this to all be over, even if that means my life . . . because at least I’ll go down fighting. Upon first inspection through my hazy eyes, it appears I’m alone in this room that looks like a standard Motel 6 room. Two full-size beds with a nightstand in between. Mass-produced landscape prints in cheap frames on the wall. A single wooden dresser situated against the opposite wall, holding a TV, an ice bucket with a couple of mismatched glasses, and a tiny coffee pot. A luggage rack in the corner with a suitcase on it . . .

Wait. Why am I in a motel room instead of the cabin? Where is Raze? What was he doing with Emerson in his truck before everything went dark? And why is there a suitcase here? Scrambling off the mattress, it takes me a few seconds to catch my balance when my feet hit the floor, the remnants of whatever I was drugged with still partially hindering my movements and clouding my thoughts. As soon as I’m confident I can walk, I pad across the stained carpet floor to the lone piece of luggage. With hesitant hands, I reach out

and unzip the bag, drawing in a ragged breath as I open it. All of my clothes from the cabin that Raze had brought in for me are neatly folded and packed, along with a few other articles that still have tags on them. There are two wigs, both with jet-black hair, and several pairs of sunglasses. But the thing that has my entire body shaking uncontrollably is a legal-sized manila envelope with the word Kotyonok written on the outside. I have no clue what’s inside, but yet somehow, I know. I pick the thick, lumpy package up and take it back to the bed I was just in,

inhaling a deep breath and counting to ten before I open it. Dumping the contents on top of the bedspread, a cell phone falls out first, followed by a passport, a small change purse, and a stack of papers. There’s a handwritten note on top. Blake, By the time you read this (sorry about the high dosage of sedative, but I couldn’t risk you waking up early), I’m sure every news channel on the television will be covering the shocking deaths of Italian mob boss Victor Ricci,

the American Princess-in-hiding Bryleigh Oliveira, and the grandson of the US-based Russian mafia leader Rayzkin Kabinov. The good news is you’re not dead, but I suppose you already realized that. The bad news is the rest of what they’re reporting is probably true . . . but please, don’t feel sorry for me. This is exactly what I planned. I’m where I’m supposed to be, and soon, you will be too. I don’t want to make this too long, because well, I’m a guy and I haven’t written many letters like this before . . . but I wanted to try and answer all the

questions you must have about what’s going on, and help you get started on the next part of your life. So here’s the long and short of it. Kotyonok, you don’t deserve the shitty things this life has dealt you. You fell in love at an early age with the wrong man and got sucked into a life you had no idea even existed. Somehow you found the strength and courage in yourself to fight your way out, and even though you knew it wouldn’t be easy, you did what you had to do to save yourself. I never got a chance to tell you how much I admire you for that.

You already know everything that led to you ending up in my custody, so I’ll spare you that story again, but what you didn’t know—what I didn’t know— was that my grandfather’s plan all along was to kill you after you took care of your father-in-law. As soon as I found out, I began making other arrangements to ensure that didn’t happen, and I’m praying it’s all worked out the way I set it out. I know why Emerson Lister turned you into me, and that’s the exact reason her body is the one the authorities have now identified as yours. (All body hair

and teeth were removed as precautionary measures before the fire. And yes, all that time I spent outside recently was rigging the house with explosives so I could make sure to eliminate all evidence. When I do things, I do them right.) After Madden found out she was the culprit for your disappearance and he dismissed her from his life, she was heartbroken and distraught, and it didn’t take me many promises of giving her a new identity and a bank account full of money to get her to agree to fake her own death and allow me to set her

up with a new life. Only I lied. You’re the one I’ve set up with everything you could possibly need to start over, in hopes that you and Madden will be able to find the happiness you both deserve. In the envelope with this note, you will find a new birth certificate, passport, a driver’s license and social security card in the zipper purse, as well as a prepaid Visa with ten thousand dollars on it, and a little bit of cash. Welcome to your new life, Anastasia Kotyonok, a name that literally means Resurrection

Kitten. I hope you’re okay with the dark hair, and I thought you could choose either Ana or Stacey if you didn’t like the full name. Also in this packet, you’ll find a one-way plane ticket (The airport is about forty-five minutes from the hotel you’re in. Take a cab and pay cash.) from Reno to Brunei, a small sovereign state on an island in Asia that I promise you’ll love, for this upcoming Monday. Until then, you are not to leave this room (food in ice chest in tub). No one should be looking for you, as they all they think you’re dead and all, but

don’t take any chances. When you do leave, I’ve provided clothes and wigs and other stuff to alter your image. Once you get to Brunei, there will be a driver waiting for you to take you to the small place I’ve set up, and he will also give you further instructions about the future once you’re there. I’ve arranged for a few things to help get you started. I have also sent Madden a similar packet, providing him with a completely new identity, but because of his visibility and family relationships, his plane ticket is dated for exactly

three weeks after yours. He’s got that long to figure out what to tell everyone and ditch his life here . . . and don’t you worry that he won’t. That man loves you more than life itself. He’ll drop everyone and everything if he thinks he’s got a chance to be with you. I know, because I feel the same way about my Darya. I want you to realize this is me dropping everyone and everything to be with the woman I love. Finally, I’ve found a way to prove to Moi Kotik my appreciation of true love, by gifting you and Madden the opportunity to have a

life together, and at the same time, I’m going home to be with her. Please don’t cry for me, for this is a day I’ve dreamed about for a long time. My job here is done. I no longer want to be involved in the life I was born into; I want to be in the life I choose. And that’s with her. So much for not making this long . . . I guess I’m better at letter writing than I thought. Okay, I’m pretty sure I’ve covered all bases with everything going forward for you, but if for any reason you find yourself in trouble, I’ve already programmed the number of a

trusted associate over there for you in your phone. Just tell him you’re Raze’s kotyonok, and he’ll be there for whatever you need. Finally, I just want to tell you thank you. I had no clue that day I accepted your limp body in exchange for a gambling debt how you’d change my life for the better . . . how you’d show me my purpose. And though I wish you would’ve had a normal life without all of this in it, I’m so grateful for you ending up with me. I hope you never forget our time in the cabin. Now be a smart girl and wipe those

tears . . . ’cause I know you didn’t listen to me earlier . . . and burn this note so there’s no evidence of any of this. There’s a pack of matches in the nightstand drawer. Go ahead. Grab them and burn this paper, nice and slow so you don’t set off any smoke alarms. And enjoy your life in paradise. You deserve it. -Raze I cry and I cry and I cry. And after my tears dry up, I make myself a sandwich and watch the national coverage of the story until they show a

picture of Raze, and then I start crying again. I’m like a water faucet with no ‘off’ position. Happy tears. Sad tears. Relieved tears. Guilty tears. Every emotion that exists tears. I cry them all over the next four days. However, when Monday morning rolls around, I get up, take a shower and get dressed, position my stylish raven wig, and make my way to the airport with confidence and poise I didn’t know I had. The minute I step off the plane in my new home, with my new name and new look, I have a permanent smile stretched

across my face and begin counting the days until I become a sweet girl once again. Slow and steady.

Three Weeks Later “WOULD ROYAL BRUNEI AIRLINES PASSENGER Zachary Covey please report to the customer service desk at gate nine in terminal one? Again, Royal Brunei Airlines passenger Zachary Covey, please report to one of the customer service associates at gate nine, terminal one. Thank you.”

The announcement is repeated in Filipino throughout the Manila International Airport, but I’ve already thrown away what was left of my lunch —or perhaps dinner, as my internal clock is so jacked up from crossing multiple time zones—and I’m striding through the throngs of people to reach the gate where I’ve been summoned. Anxiety bubbles in my gut, threatening to reject the food I just inhaled. And as I step up to the small desk where an older woman, dressed in an official airport uniform, is staring at a computer screen with her eyebrows pinched together in

confusion, I’m afraid I may get sick if I open my mouth. I swallow back the bile-flavored fear in the back of my throat and say a silent prayer that this entire notion of starting over for the sake of love isn’t stopped before it ever gets started. When I first appeared at LAX however many hours ago, I knew I was taking a risk. The biggest one of my life. But I also knew it was worth it. She was worth it. And up until now, things have been seamless. No one has given me a second glance, unless you count the twenty-

something girl bartender at the restaurant in the Hong Kong airport that kept sneaking side-glances at me. But based on how she kept trying to bend over in front of me or use her arms to press her cleavage together, I’m guessing she wasn’t interested in the fact I’d just picked up and walked away from the last thirty-five years of my life and assumed a completely new identity. To her and everyone else so far today, I’ve just been Zachary Covey, another American guy with dyed black hair and matching beard, dressed in the most unassuming outfit I could think of—jeans, gray polo,

and sneakers. “Hello.” I smile politely at the airline associate, silently cursing all the facial hair for covering my charming dimples. Few women are immune to the dimples. “I’m Zachary Covey. There was an announcement for me to report here. Is everything okay with the flight?” Without looking up from the computer screen, the woman holds her finger up, motioning for me to give her a minute as she finishes searching for whatever it is she’s looking for. I take advantage of the lull to glance around the area, and the lack of any other

employees or security guards nearby settle my nerves a tiny bit. There is still something obviously wrong, or I wouldn’t have been paged to report here. And today, of all the days in my life, I really need everything to go right. After a couple of minutes, she finally pries her eyes from the monitor and looks at me blankly, obviously not having heard anything I said when I first walked up. “I’m sorry. How can I help you, sir?” she asks. “My name is Zachary Covey. I was paged over the intercom to report here,” I repeat, doing my best to hide my

annoyance. “Oh yes, Mr. Covey.” She nods and forces a courteous smile. “There seems to be an issue with your booking on the flight to Brunei.” My heart stops beating a split second before my lungs quit pumping. Sweat pops up along my brow and my vision blurs. I think I’m going to pass out. “It appears your specific seat was assigned to both you and another traveler,” she continues, looking down at a sheet of paper briefly. “So I’m hoping you’ll be satisfied with moving from 2A to 4B, a window seat to an aisle?”

Like an electric jolt to my systems, her simple request incites a surge of relief through me, restarting each of my body functions. My chest swells as I quietly suck in as much air as possible, and the return of blood flowing through my veins causes a tingling sensation in my fingers and toes. “Yes, of course. That shouldn’t be a problem.” I somehow refrain from leaping over the counter and kissing the woman to express my overwhelming gratitude that she wasn’t telling me that I’d been discovered. Instead, I nod once and press my lips together before

accepting the new boarding pass from her. Her smile brightens into a genuine one once she realizes I’m not going to give her any problem with the change. “Thank you so much, Mr. Covey. I do appreciate your cooperation. We are scheduled to begin boarding in approximately fifteen minutes. I hope you enjoy your flight and your stay in Brunei. Are you traveling for business or pleasure?” The mere thought of the reason I’m traveling to a tiny Asian country on the other side of the world fills me with

warmth, and I can feel my cheeks stretching as my lips curl up in a ridiculously huge grin. “For love.”

Not ten minutes into the two-hour flight, I’m even more thankful for having been moved seats, because somehow I end up with no one next to me. The plane is smaller than those from the first two legs of my trip, with a pair of seats on each side of the center aisle and only about fourteen rows or so. And other

than the window seat next to me, it appears the flight is full. Again, however, no one seems to pay any extra attention to me. Almost there, Madden. Once we level off and the seatbelt light turns off, I lean down into my carry-on bag and pull out the folded piece of paper I’ve read so many times I’m surprised it hasn’t disintegrated under the intense heat of my scrutiny. I hate to admit it, but I’ve even slept with the damn thing more than once over the last couple of weeks, clutching it like a lifeline. I know I was supposed to burn it.

The damn thing even specifically tells me to turn it into ashes, but I can’t. Not yet. Not until I see her and know this isn’t all some incredibly cruel joke. God, please don’t let this all be a lie. Carefully, I open the letter and focus my eyes on the handwritten words, hoping this will be the last time I feel the need to read it. If all goes to plan, all of the promises listed on this piece of paper will become reality in the next few hours. If not, I may light myself on fire instead of the damn note. Decker,

I really hope you get to read this letter before you do something really stupid, like kill someone and end up in prison without knowing the truth of what really happened at the cabin. Though most of what has probably been reported is true, there is one thing that’s not. One thing I can guarantee. Your girl is not the female body they discovered in the rubble and ashes. I know this, because I personally drugged her and took her to a motel before Vincent ever showed up, giving her a packet and letter similar to this one.

Assuming she followed my directions and everything played out as I planned, she is currently sitting on the other side of the world, waiting for you to join her in a few weeks. Both of you have been provided completely new identities, and in this envelope, you will find everything you need to begin life as Zachary Covey. Travel arrangements have also been made to take you to her, but again, I have set them up for a few weeks in the future, expecting there will be some things you need to do before you walk away from your current life. If you so choose to,

that is. Make no mistake about what I’m suggesting. If you want to spend the rest of your life with the woman you love, the woman you risked your life for numerous times in the last several weeks, you will have to cut ties with every single person you know and love, including your family and friends. Not a single person can know who you will become or where you are going, or both your lives will be in grave danger. It has to be a clean slate. Whatever or however you decide to do this, it will need to be convincing,

and you need to accept that you can never return to being Madden Decker. It’s a huge sacrifice and a decision only you can make for yourself, but I’ll tell you that I’ve lived the last couple of years without the woman I love, and it’s fucking hell. By blowing up this cabin, I’ll finally be with her again and my suffering will end. If you make the decision to go to her, she will be able to fill you in on a few more details of the story, but at this point, I’m just going to leave this letter with these instructions. First, no matter what you do, burn this letter. Never

leave any evidence. Second, make a decision and stick with it. Don’t spend the rest of your life wondering ‘what if.’ And finally, don’t be fucking stupid. Go get your girl. -Raze Blinking back the moisture in my eyes, I fold the paper back into the quartered-square and shove it back into the bag. To think I almost didn’t even open that envelope . . . I shake the horrible thought from my head. It doesn’t matter that it took me seven days after Blake’s funeral to

finally get around to attending to the pile of mail on my table; the important thing is I did. And I’m here. There are still so many unanswered questions, but I don’t care. If I can get to her—my sweet girl—it doesn’t matter what our names are, or where we live, or that we have no one but each other to build a new life on. The only thing I care about is being with her. She fills holes in my life I didn’t know existed until she appeared, and if there’s even the most miniscule chance I can be with her, I’ll give it all up . . . I did give it all up. Because a hundred percent of everything

else doesn’t equate to even one percent of her. The hardest part about leaving my life as Madden Decker behind was my parents. I knew a fake suicide note would wreck them, but it was the only way. Leading up to the day I supposedly threw myself into the Pacific Ocean, much like Emerson had, due to my overwhelming depression from losing both her and Blake, I made sure to spend quality time with them and ensure they were aware of how much they meant to me. Saying goodbye led to me drinking a fifth of whisky by myself in my bed that

night, but ultimately, I had no choice. I’d live a miserable life if I didn’t go through with my plan. The last night I spent with Easton was a little easier. For one, the last couple of months had been a huge wakeup call for him, and he was finally starting to get his act together. From fearing for his life because he owed the Russian mafia a huge sum of money, to losing Emerson and Blake—or so he thought, at some point he realized what was important in life and began taking an active role in both the company and our family. Secondly, he’d mentioned that he

had taken Jae out a few times to dinner and a movie, and it seemed he truly liked her. I wasn’t sure what would happen between them, but I hoped my “suicide” would only bring them closer. Part of me felt that when Easton and I said goodbye that final night, he knew something was up, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he doesn’t believe my note. But if he does think that I was up to something, he’ll know why I did it, and I trust him to keep my secret safe. Leaning my head back on the seat, I close my eyes and replay memories of Blake and me over the past few months

as we were getting to know each other and rapidly falling in love. Before I know it, the captain’s voice reverberates throughout the cabin, announcing our impending arrival, and a short time later, I’m stepping off the plane and approaching a man with a sign that reads Mr. Z. Covey. The attendant offers me no name, but his English is precise and he apparently knows the ins-and-outs of the small airport. In a whirlwind of action, he leads me down to baggage claim, where he scoops up my one large suitcase and leads me out to a car parked at the curb.

Once both me and my bag are inside the backseat, the man slides behind the steering wheel—which is on the wrong side of the car—and off we go. “I guess I should ask where you are taking me, Mr. umm . . .” I chuckle nervously as I look around the front seat for some indication of the guy’s name. “I am driving you where I was instructed to deliver you, Mr. Covey,” he replies matter-of-factly, his expression offering nothing as far as a clue. Sighing, I nod and twist to look out the window. “Can I at least ask how long it will take to get there? I’ve been flying

from one airport to another over the past twenty-six hours and I’m exhausted. I’d just like to know if there’s a nap anytime in my future.” A ghost of a smile slips over his face before he responds, “The drive is about an hour, sir, but I doubt you will be doing a lot of sleeping when you arrive at your destination.” My pulse speeds up with hope, but I say nothing. I’m still not convinced this guy isn’t taking me somewhere to kill me, though if that was Raze’s ultimate goal before he died, certainly it could’ve been easier than going to all of this

trouble. As promised, about an hour later, the car pulls up in front of a modern home that appears to be in a rather secluded, upscale community. The driver turns the engine off and jumps out of the car, hurrying around to open my door for me. I unfold my shaky legs and push myself off of the bench seat, grabbing my bag as I exit the vehicle. I follow him to the front door in silence, trying my best to take in everything around me, but I’m having such sensory overload my brain is having issues processing any of it. I

don’t know where I am or what I’m doing, but all I can hope is that this will all turn out okay. Actually, I want better than okay. I want her. Reaching out, the man grabs hold of the doorknob and turns it, but before he pushes it open, he looks at me over his shoulder. “Mr. Covey, Miss Anastasia has been waiting for this day for quite some time, and I hope for the both of you that you will find the happiness you both seek here. Together.” I mentally trip over the Miss Anastasia part, but when he swings the door wide open and I see my Blake—with hair the same faux black as

mine—standing in the foyer, I tune out everything else. Better than the best scene in the best romantic movie, when our gazes meet and we sprint into each other’s arms, the entire world shifts on its axis. Angels play trumpets. Stars are born. Bells ring. And my heart heals. She’s alive. She’s real. I’m touching her. I’m kissing her. Our tears mix together. And there’s never been a more perfect moment in the history of the earth. It’s impossible to top this. “You came,” are the first words she manages to squeak out in between our

breath-stealing, heart-pounding onslaught of kisses. “To the ends of the earth, sweet girl,” I reply, inhaling her intoxicating scent. “I’d follow you anywhere. I love you more than life itself.” “And I love you,” she lifts up on her tiptoes and presses her lips to the tip of my nose, “Sir.”

I have a love/ hate relationship with the acknowledgements. On one hand, I love that I get an opportunity to show my appreciation for all of the people who help me along the journey of writing a book, because truly, without them, this book wouldn’t even exist. These people support me mentally, emotionally, and physically, and I’m so very grateful to have them all a part of my life, both personally and professionally. However, on the flip side, it never fails that I forget to mention someone who should be in

here, and by the time I realize it, they’ve probably already flipped to the back of the book to see what nice or funny thing I said about them, only to find their name nowhere. Suddenly, I’m an ungrateful asshole. And even if they don’t say it, I feel like it. I could give you all kinds of reasons why this happens—sleep depravity, mental exhaustion, and borderline insanity, to name a few—but at the end of the day, it still sucks. So my first acknowledgement in this book is for those people. Everyone I’ve ever forgotten ~ Thank you for putting up with my

temporary ungrateful assholishness. Thank you for buying another one of my books, even if it was just to flip to this page to see if I forgot again. I sure hope I didn’t. And thank you for understanding that I love and appreciate you too. My husband and girls ~ *Garcia family hug* I love you all crazy hard. Jill Sava ~ Always my Bright Side. There aren’t enough thank you’s in the world. I love you more! Dani Sanchez with InkSlinger PR ~ My incredible publicist and psychotherapist. Thank you for everything you do.

Murphy Rae with Indie Solutions ~ Thank you for being so understanding and flexible. Christine Borgford with Perfectly Publishable ~ Thank you for always being so patient with my five thousand emails and for making my stories so beautiful to read. Kirsten Papi & Trina Marie ~ I did it! I finally wrote this fucker. Thank you for not driving to my house and threatening me. Stacy Kestwick ~ I can’t wait to skip with you again. Now stop reading this and go write! Love you!

Jennifer Van Wyk ~ I owe you sooooooo much credit on this book. Thank you for talking me off the ledge on more than one occasion. Thank you for loving these characters like I do. Thank you for proofing and editing and betaing and brainstorming and helping me with the music and a bunch of other stuff I’m forgetting. Just thank you. Michelle, Alison, and Allison ~ Thank you for not only being kick-ass betas, but even better friends. I look forward to our conversations every single day, whether it’s about a book I’m writing or life in general. I love all of

you so much. Hang Le ~ I’m running out of ways to say how fucking awesome you are. Mo ~ Casey-creator. No matter what, you’ve always got that in life. It’s the best comeback ever. “Shut up. I created Casey.” And I love you for all those other jammy jean reasons too. Aly ~ I’m in awe of you. How you handle the everyday with all you have on your plate is nothing less than aweinspiring. I hope you know how much I love and appreciate you. Meggan ~ I’m blessed to get to call you my friend. You are the perfect

combination of sweet, sassy, and sexy (God, I hope that doesn’t read too weird), and I love that I get to talk to you every day. Natasha ~ They didn’t have sex!!!! Yeah, everyone can thank you for that. And I can thank you for being my most favorite opinionated bitchy friend with great taste in shoes. I love you and your “eh”. Kayla ~ Another one in the books, Twinnie! Thank you for everything (I can’t list it all). Clare ~ Sometimes I think we’re like the same person, but other times you post

pictures of goats and horses and shit, and I think we couldn’t be any different. I’m not sure, but I think this means we’re soul mates. Let’s not tell our husbands. Jessica Prince~ The best life cheerleader ever. And polygamous book wife. Steph ~ For the unwavering support Ever Afters ~ Love you all! I can’t ever thank you ladies enough for your continued support and constant pimping. FTN ladies ~ What an amazing group of authors I get to call friends! Thank you for being my escape from the real world.

Novel Spot Loungers & fellow bartenders ~ Thank you for taking a chance on this group with me! Bloggers ~ The hardest working people in the business that get little credit and no pay. I greatly appreciate the time you spend reading, reviewing, and/ or promoting the books we authors pour our heart and soul into. We couldn’t do it without you. Readers ~ I have the most incredible readers ever. I absolutely love getting feedback from you and visiting with you on a daily basis. You’re the main reason I continue doing this! Love you all!

ERIN NOELLE IS A TEXAS native, where

she lives with her husband and two young daughters. While earning her degree in History, she rediscovered her love for reading that was first instilled by her grandmother when she was a young child. A lover of happily-everafters, both historical and current, Erin is an avid reader of all romance novels. Most nights you can find her cuddled up in bed with her husband, her Kindle in hand and a sporting event of some sorts on television.

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BOOK BOYFRIEND SERIES Metamorphosis (Book Boyfriend Series 1) Ambrosia (Book Boyfriend Series 2) Euphoria (Book Boyfriend Series 3) Timeless (Book Boyfriend Series 4) Book Boyfriend Series Boxed Set LUMINOUS SERIES Translucent (Luminous Book 1)

DUSK TIL DAWN SERIES When the Sun Goes Down (Dusk Til Dawn Book 1) As the Dawn Breaks (Dusk Til Dawn Book 2) A FIRE ON THE MOUNTAIN SERIES Spark (A Fire on the Mountain Series 1) Flame (A Fire on the Mountain Series 2)

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Surviving Us MILF: Wrong Kind of Love CO-WRITTEN Conspire