Page 10 of Bound in Promise
“You stupid bitch!” He lunges off the bed, and I’m held captive by my own shock. In a second he’s on me, forcing my arm wide so I can’t put another bullet in him. Then he punches me in the face.
Over and over again.
I feel each impact of his knuckles on every hit. I’m trapped in the wild haze of pain, falling to the hard floor as Liam continues his assault.
Black starts flooding in from the edge of my vision as I fight to stay conscious, but the effort is futile.
I have to believe that Ellie got my text. That she believes it.
That she tells my husband.
Dante’s coming.
It’s the last thought I have before the darkness overtakes me.
5
DANTE
Thursday, September 26, 2:30 PM
I have to believe I’m not too far behind Liam and Victoria, that I won’t be too late. God knows my nephew is a lazy piece of shit. He couldn’t even make the effort to kill me himself. He’s not about to drive through the night. No, the pampered little asshole is going to want to sleep on a bed.
My knuckles whiten around the steering wheel as I think about what else he may want to use a bed for.
That way lies madness.
I snarl, punching at the radio to try and find something loud and angry and distracting to drown out the carousel of nightmares spinning through my brain.
As soon as I left Marissa’s house, I went back to my place to load up. Much as I wanted to start driving and break down any doors between me and my wife, I knew I had to plan. Prepare.
Who knows what I’ll be walking into?
I checked my weapons, grabbed a couple tools that may come in handy.
Hell, I even tossed a set of Victoria’s clothes and one of her favorite sweatshirts into a bag. Might be optimistic, but I’ll be damned if I imagine this ending in anything except the successful recovery of my wife.
The delay also gave me a chance to deal with the idiots following me on my turf rather than on the road. Getting rid of the amateurs my nephew hired to kill me was pathetically easy. And I know it was Liam, since Angelo would have made sure to hire men capable of putting up some sort of resistance.
Suddenly the sound of a phone ringing interrupts my thoughts and the angry music that had been pumping through the speakers. I check the Bluetooth display and immediately whip the car to the shoulder, spraying gravel, when I see the name.
Ellie.
Please, please have news.
With shaking hands, I accept the call.
“Talk.”
“Hey, Prof—er, Mr. Moretti. Where are?—”
I don’t have time for this bullshit. I cut her off, saying, “In the car, on the way to Rochester to find Victoria. Do you know something? Did she contact you?”
“Oh, straight to the point. Right. Good. You’re heading in the right direction.” Ellie’s voice is high and a little tinny, either from the distortion of the car’s stereo system or possibly stress. She’s babbling.
I take a deep breath, working to hold back the snarl I want to let loose. This is Ellie. My wife’s best friend. She’s terrified for Victoria. And she’s too fucking young to be expected to handle this with stoic maturity.
Funny that I think of her peers as helpless youths but see my wife as a fascinating and bold adult.
