Page 62 of His to Hold

CHAPTER 22

Isabella

Being blindfolded, gagged and bound, then shoved into the trunk of a car should have left me terrified. Instead, Paolo and his henchmen have done me a favor. They’ve given me time to compose myself.

Once I got over the initial terror of being abducted, I was able to get my breathing under control. I calmed my thoughts and realized if I want to find a way out of this situation, I need to have my wits about me. Panicking won’t do me any good. Perhaps if I’d kept a cool head when Rico started pawing at me that day, all of this could have been avoided.

It feels like we’ve been driving for hours. With only a little room to wiggle around in, my limbs have become increasingly stiff and my muscles ache. The coarse rope they bound my wrists with is irritating my skin. Despite the intense discomfort, I can’t help thinking I’m better off than Dante. While I escaped the car wreck unscathed, he looked to be in pretty bad shape. He might not be my favorite person, but I’d hate for him to die. My husband’s inner circle is small. There are few men apart from his brothers he trusts. Dante is a man Antonio can rely on. I hope he survives.

When the car finally stops, one of the men comes and pulls me out of the trunk. A cool breeze whispers over my skin as he deposits me on my feet. At some point, I lost my shoes and I feel concrete beneath me.

My captor doesn’t give me a chance to get the feeling back in my legs before dragging me along a path. I can’t see where we are, but my other senses are on alert. The first clue to our location is the familiar squeak of a wooden gate whose hinges need to be oiled. Then I catch a scent I know well. It’s the delicate aroma of roses mingling with the fresh, salty smell of the sea. I’m almost certain we’re at the beach house. I listen carefully for the gentle sweep of waves against the shore. Yes, there it is, a final confirmation of where we are.

I wonder why they’ve chosen to bring me here. It seems risky to come to a property my husband owns. Then again, I suppose the house is empty since Antonio took me back, and the isolated spot makes it ideal for killing someone. I know that all too well.

Maybe the Mancinis suspect this is where Rico died and that if I’m forced to revisit the scene of the crime, I’ll be more likely to reveal what I know. They no doubt imagine my feminine sensibilities will cause me to break down and tell them everything if they apply a little pressure. They may be right. There’s no guarantee I won’t crumble and admit to what I did.

As we come to a stop, I hear what sounds like someone trying to force the front door open. It’s lucky there isn’t a neighbor for miles around because the noise would definitely attract attention. I’d be sick to my stomach if an innocent bystander got caught up in this. Made men are ruthless animals. They don’t leave witnesses.

After a while, there’s a crack as if the wood in the doorframe has splintered.

“No alarm?” From the gruffness in his voice, I think it’s Paolo who asks.

I’m pretty sure there is a silent alarm to alert Antonio’s men if someone enters the property, but I’m not helping these guys out with information about the security system. I don’t want them to know what Antonio told me, about there being cameras inside.

“Antonio didn’t think we needed one way out here.”

“Arrogant asshole thinks he’s untouchable.” There’s no mistaking Gianni Mancini’s voice. He sounds so much like Rico, it makes my skin crawl.

We walk inside and move along the corridor, heading toward the kitchen. Unease crawls down my spine, making me feel ill. Then we stop and move back again. The men’s hesitation about where to go brings me to a realization. I know the house and they don’t. That gives me an advantage. If I can get away from them, I can make a run for it.

As that thought gives me hope, I’m shoved to my knees on the carpeted floor of the living room. The blindfold is torn from my eyes. I blink three times to adjust to the light. The large, tattooed asshole I’m sure Paolo referred to as Max is standing behind me. In jeans, a battered black leather jacket, and scuffed biker boots, he’s dressed more casually than the other two. It makes me think he’s a street-level thug. Anyone higher in the organization tends to dress better. For most of them, impressing the boss is a full-time job.

Gianni Mancini leans against the wall beside the door, arms folded over his chest. He looks so much like Rico with his bulbous nose and piggy eyes, I want to vomit. Paolo, who’s a gray-haired version of his sons, is sitting on my favorite armchair like it’s his throne. I’m kneeling a mere yard from his feet.

“My boy is dead.” Paolo stares coldly at me. “I know you had something to do with it.”

Shaking my head, I mutter furious denials through the gag. Paolo signals for Max to remove it so he can hear what I’m saying. The gigantic brute yanks the gag down, jarring my bottom teeth, and leaves the strip of fabric hanging around my neck. I don’t like that. It would be easy to strangle me with it.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t even know Rico was dead until he told me.” I tilt my head toward Max.

Paolo snorts derisively. “Don’t lie to me, whore. I know my son was fucking you and your husband killed him for it.”

Did Rico tell him we were having an affair? I wouldn’t put it past the greasy little fuck. “That’s not true. There is no way I would ever let that…”

“That what?” Gianni pushes off the wall and storms across the room. He grabs my hair and forces me to look up at him. “What were you going to call my brother, you fucking slut?”

If I had any sense of self-preservation, I’d keep my mouth shut, but my blood is boiling and I can’t contain myself. “That pig,” I spit. “That fucking disgusting pig.”

Considering his brother was a violent asshole, I should have predicted Gianni’s response. He draws his arm back and slaps me, hard, across the face. He releases his grip on my hair and I fall to the floor. Pain reverberates along my cheekbone and tears fill my eyes. Fear spikes my pulse as Gianni comes at me again, but Paolo gets to his feet.

“Gianni!” He shakes his head at his son, then looks at me. “Here’s what’s going to happen, you little bitch. You are going to call your husband and tell him to hand himself over. Then I’m going to make him watch while we take turns fucking your sweet little cunt over and over again. When we’re done, I’m going to slit your throat.”

“Nothing to say about that, cunt?” Gianni demands.

I glare defiantly at him, but I’m not stupid enough to say something that will make him hit me again.

“Get her up.”

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