Page 15 of Craving Chaos

“You use bottle,” he orders thickly.

Renzo pays him no mind. Every ounce of his attention bores into me, screaming in warning.

Be fucking careful.

I only have long enough to flash him a quick wink before the foreigner slams the door shut and bolts the lock. A roaring curse bellowing from the closet follows us down the hall away from the main hangar. My escort keeps a firm grip on my wrist until we reach a grimy bathroom.

Sometimes being a woman has its advantages. Even if I didn’t need to pee, I would have done the same thing as a ploy to assess the situation. Anything I can do to help us get back home. But as it stands, I’m seconds from wetting myself.

“You’re seriously going to watch me?” I scoff at my captor when he leans against the open doorway.

His stare is eerily hollow. “You need to piss. Piss.”

I was hoping for privacy—not out of modesty but to give me a chance to search the cabinet under the sink. My waning bladder control prevents me from arguing further. “This is fucking ridiculous,” I mutter as I fumble with my jeans. My relief at releasing those clenched muscles is so great, I hardly notice the icy toilet seat beneath me. I also ignore my audience because fuck him. He’d have to do a hell of a lot more than watch me pee to make me uncomfortable.

As I sit, it registers that daylight is pouring in the small window. If we met at the warehouse Thursday afternoon, does that mean it’s now Friday? Midday, judging by the height of the sun.

“Where are we? Somewhere in Canada?”

No answer.

“Is it Friday? Surely, it’s not already Saturday.”

Still no answer. Thank goodness persistence has never been an issue for me.

“What does it hurt for me to know the day of the week? It’s not like I can use that to escape.”

He sneers. “Finish and get dressed, or I toss you back in the room without pants.”

“Well, that’s rude,” I grumble as I wipe and pull up my jeans. “What exactly is the plan here, chief, because this has gone on long enough. You guys are out of the city. Our families aren’t a threat—what good will it do to keep us any longer?”

He steps inside the tiny bathroom, filling up the space with his hulking animosity and the lingering scent of cigarettes. “I hear many things about you, Shae Byrne.” He overexaggerates my last name as his cold stare drifts lasciviously down my body. “But they must be fairy tales. You are not so tough as they say, I think.”

His words bother me infinitely more than his wandering gaze ever could. I’d had my phone and wallet on me when they took us, so it’s not surprising that he knows my name. It’s the familiarity in his tone that doesn’t sit well. I get the sense he wouldn’t have needed an ID to know exactly who I was.

“How did you know where the guns were?” I go for the direct approach, hoping to catch him off guard.

He flashes a yellowing grin and pulls me into the hall.

“Jesus.” I grimace. “Don’t they have toothbrushes in Albania?”

He whips around, intending to backhand me across the face, but I evade, grabbing his arm in the process and swinging him around to press his chest against the wall. I bend his arm back at an angle I know hurts like hell to prevent him from struggling and keep my body close to his. “Who the fuck told you about the guns?” I hiss through clenched teeth.

He yells for help, and I’m quickly yanked away from him and slammed against the opposite wall.

“What the fuck going on out there?” Renzo’s voice booms through the closet door.

“Jesus, not the hair,” I fuss. I could get out of his hold thanks to my short cut, but there’s too many of them now. And besides, I’d prefer not to show them how capable I am until the moment is right. I’m better off de-escalating the situation and trying again later. “Okay, okay. I’m done.” I hold up my hands to signal my surrender when Renzo bursts through the closet door, ripping the lock out of its wooden frame.

“Get your fucking hands off her.” His words seethe with violence. He’s impressively intimidating when he wants to be.

The hand releases my hair and moves to my arm. I’m tugged farther into the main hangar and away from Renzo. The masked foursome who captured us is now a crew of eight men, all surrounding us with disdain carved onto their hardened faces.

Knowing what we’re up against is helpful, though I’d hoped for fewer numbers. Even at our best, the two of us would be hard-pressed to take on eight men.

“Now that we have your attention,” Renzo slices through the sweltering tension. “You need to know what you’re getting into by keeping us captive. You will start a war with not only the Irish Byrnes but with the entire Italian Mafia. No one kidnaps a boss without becoming a target of the entire Five Families.”

I catch sight of several men exchanging worried glances. They knew who I was, but did they know Renzo? Would it change things if they did, and if so, for better … or worse?

---