Page 5 of Taken By the Mobster

Declan growled. He hated Walsh. Despised him, but Clyde had insisted one of his men be a part of Declan’s crew. He couldn’t say no; it wasn’t an option. But he could talk to Walsh about how he treated the girl. She was already terrified; roughing her up was unnecessary.

He checked his watch. They probably had an hour, maybe two, before Clyde and his goons arrived for their latest payment. Declan headed for the house; it was time to talk to his prisoner.

Chapter 3

Olivia

“We have to go now, Liv,” Tommy said. “If we don’t leave right now, I don’t know when another opportunity will come up.”

Olivia nodded. She dropped to her knees and grabbed the duffel bag she’d hidden under the bed. She threw on a sweatshirt and hurried to the door.

The hallway was empty; no surprise since it was Tommy who usually guarded her door. They hurried through the house, down the back stairs, and out the back door. They darted across the lawn and into the woods at the rear of the property.

It wasn’t until they were under the cover of the trees that they slowed to a walk. Tommy took her hand and squeezed it.

“I told you I’d get you out of there,” he said.

Guilt flooded her, but she kept her mouth shut. Olivia needed Tommy’s help to get off the Muldoon property. It wasn’t her fault he misinterpreted their friendship for something more. Once they were far enough away from the mess she was in, Olivia would explain her feelings—or lack of feelings—to Tommy. She prayed he would understand.

The car turned a corner onto a bumpy road and jolted Olivia awake. They had crammed her in this car and stuck her in the backseat between two men who reeked of sweat, dirt, and whiskey. After they pulled the sack over her head, one man tied her hands in front of her, the thick rope biting into her skin. Tears rolled down her cheeks, soaking into the sack covering her face. She must have cried herself to sleep during the drive.

She fought hard to keep her freedom, but someone took it away from her. Again. Worse than that, the person who took it was a man she thought she’d never see again.

The car stopped, and the engine cut out. Someone grabbed her arm and dragged her roughly from the car, her head hitting the roof on the way out. Pain blurred her vision. Olivia stumbled forward and fell to one knee, dirt and rocks biting into her skin. A thick, muscled arm wrapped around her waist and pulled her to her feet.

They took her up a few stairs, over a wooden patio, and into a stuffy space filled with the odor of beer, whiskey, and cigarettes. The next thing she knew, they dropped her on what had to be a bed and yanked off the sack covering her head. Her long brown hair fell over her face. The man who’d held the gun to her head stood in front of her, staring at her for a long minute, something unreadable in his eyes. He mumbled something about Declan being an idiot and shook his head before he turned and left, slamming the door behind him. She heard the key turn in the lock, and then she was alone.

Olivia forced herself to breathe in and out, nice and slow. She took a moment to look around the room, grimacing at the filth covering everything. Dirt and dust bunnies had spread throughout the room. A faint beer-and-cigarette scent permeated the air as Olivia noticed the smudged window. A scratchy sheet and a thin wool blanket covered the bed. Aside from the bed, the only other furnishings in the room were a chair and a bedside table. The overhead light had three of its five bulbs either missing or burned out; it barely illuminated the room. The window was open two inches, a breeze made the curtains lift and flutter, bringing biting cold into the room.

Olivia shivered. A late afternoon chill had settled over everything, the cold seeping into every corner. Her coat was in the break room at the bank, along with the scarf Caitlin made her for Christmas. Her sister’s face flashed in her head when she closed her eyes. She bit her lip and promised herself she wouldn’t cry, despite the dire circumstances in which she found herself.

Thinking of something else, Olivia remembered again she knew exactly who the man was who had robbed the bank. His name was Declan “Deck” Quinn, and he was the most notorious bank robber in the eastern United States. He had made his way through the northeastern states for the last year, maybe longer, hitting more banks than even the FBI cared to admit. Olivia had heard the rumors about him, terrifying rumors. They accused him of murdering an employee over a dollar, kidnapping and killing bank tellers, and slaying ten officers in Philadelphia. Those were just a few of the things she’d heard about him.

While the world knew Declan Quinn’s name, his actual identity was a closely guarded secret. There was no one alive, outside of the men who worked with him, who knew what he looked like. Except, of course, Olivia. She had seen his face and heard his name.

Not that Olivia needed to hear his name to know who he was. The minute he spoke to her and those piercing emerald green eyes looked at her, she’d known who it was. A woman never forgot her first love.

Despite her hands being tied, she tried to wipe her face. The rope bit into her skin, causing welts to rise to the surface. Blood pooled in several spots and soaked into the rope. She attempted to loosen the rope with her teeth, but she only made it tighter. Frustration and irritation built in her chest until a scream threatened to tear itself from her throat. She needed to stay calm and take stock of her situation, or she wouldn’t get out of this alive.

On the other side of the door, loud voices could be heard arguing. She couldn’t make out what they were saying or who was speaking. A door slammed, and the argument stopped. Or maybe it just moved to a different location. She strained to hear something, anything, that would let her know what the men in the other room had planned for her. Specifically, what Declan Quinn had planned for her.

“Where’s the girl?” a deep, whiskey-thick, raspy voice asked that she could hear.

“Bedroom,” was the reply.

Olivia listened to the footsteps approach the door, unconsciously moving backward across the bed until her back hit the wall. She drew her knees up, pulled her skirt down to cover her legs, and wrapped her bound hands around them. The door opened, and Declan stepped inside, closing it quietly behind himself.

He stood in front of her, handsomely dressed in white shirtsleeves, vest, and tie. The meticulous way he dressed struck her as odd. Olivia stared up at him; he had to be well over six feet tall. She wasn’t exactly short, topping out at 5’10”, but this man made her feel small. His broad shoulders, muscular, toned body, and his strong jawline, coupled with his piercing green eyes, made for an intimidating presence. A far cry from the skinny kid she remembered years before.

He wore a holster with his gun tucked into it beneath his left arm. He didn’t speak; instead, he concentrated on unbuttoning the cuffs of his shirt and neatly rolling them up, his eyes not meeting hers. When he finished, he bent over and withdrew a knife from a strap fastened around his ankle.

Olivia sat up straight, refusing to cower as he walked toward her. He spun the knife nonchalantly in his hand, took hold of the rope binding her wrists, and yanked her back across the bed until she sat in front of him. He lifted the knife and sliced the rope, letting it fall to the bed between her knees. Without saying a word, he turned around, grabbed the chair, turned it backward, and straddled it, quickly replacing the knife in its strap. They stared at each for several seconds before he spoke.

Does he remember me?

“What’s your husband’s name?” he asked quietly, pointing at the ring she wore on her finger.

Olivia flinched. She had never been married; she only wore the ring to keep would-be suitors at bay. “My husband is dead,” she replied. She didn’t offer any additional information.

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