Page 79 of Captured By the Bratva

With every minute that she wasn’t with me, next to me in the passenger seat and proving that love could exist for me, that a bond could build and grow between opposites like us, I burned with a furious need to inflict pain and death. I became unhinged, driven to slaughter them all.

“Where is she?” I demanded.

“Sorry. It took a while to start up and search.”

Still, he didn’t continue.

“Please, Maxim. Please.” I didn’t care if the desperation was evident.

“She never takes the necklace off, right?”

She better not have. I tensed, wondering if someone could have swept her and checked for bugs or trackers. “Not since I’ve known her.”

“I’m looking. I swear, I’m looking. She might be somewhere that it’s hard to reach. In a basement or something.”

I’m coming for you, sweetheart. I swear I am.

“Call me as soon as you have a location.” After he said he would, I called the house and asked Margie to stay in Emily’s room. Just in case. Then I spoke with the guards at the villa, letting them know what happened.

They all jumped to action, promising to do as I asked.

Alek called too, telling me he was on his way to help me, to be backup.

And still, I waited for direction from Maxim, hopeful that he’d be able to steer me which way to go to get my girl.

I found her once. No matter the danger and complications from the fucking Italians and the crookedest cop, I’d find her again.

Then keep her forever.

30

BECCA

Dominic’s men stopped behind a familiar building. Back here, it looked like any other building along this alleyway. The front, though, had large windows for passersby to peer through and get peeks of a variety of artwork.

It felt like a lifetime had passed since I was last here. The art gallery where Morgan was the star. Where all I was allotted was a tiny thumbnail image on the pamphlet and a one-liner about me.

The art gallery where Steven called and asked me to retrieve an envelope for him and I’d refused. When I had those fanciful dreams of a man loving me and protecting me.

I’d found one, despite the hell I’d endured from the rapist forcing me to enter the back door.

Ivan. I missed him and wished he could be here to kill Dominic like he’d promised he would.

I stumbled on a step, breathless and so confused as Dominic growled and pushed me into the empty gallery. Lights remained off, and one of these thugs must have canceled the alarm.

In the middle of the floor space, I stood alone and nervous.

“What’s going on?”

Dominic held his left hand out, gesturing at one of his men to give him something. In his right hand, he gripped that knife. “Which pieces of shit are yours?” he snarled at me as he accepted a small sledgehammer from his man.

I tensed, hunching my shoulders as he slammed the hammer into another artist’s sculpture. Shards went flying, scattering over the floor like he’d beaten a clay piñata.

He didn’t even know which pieces were mine. That was how little he’d paid attention or cared when he strung me along.

“Which ones!” He didn’t wait for my reply, smashing the hammer on every sculpture in the room. His chest heaved from the exertion, growling with his labored breaths as he stalked around the room. Rossini thugs hurried to pick through the debris, and I watched them before Dominic turned to using the knife.

I was too confused to be wounded by the destruction of my artwork. I could make more. Iwouldmake more. What remained forefront in my mind waswhy. Had he gone crazy? Deranged?

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