Page 8 of Sinful Scars

One wrong move could have me joining him.

Swallowing the bile in my throat, I try to tune into their conversation and get as much information as I can from my very limited Russian vocabulary.

The only reason I’m here is because of Massimo, ex-Don of the Conti mafia, and my uncle.

I love my uncle dearly, but I have no love for his chosen vocation. Though, I suppose he didn’t have a choice after my parents were killed, and he took over as head of the family. Part of me wished I could have lived with him and stayed in New York after they died rather than being shipped off to live with my grandmother in Italy, but I’m grateful to have been raised away from the horrors of his world.

That is, until I decided to move to New York when I turned eighteen to study nursing at NYU. It was the best decision for my education and thankfully, Massimo took me in and let me live in his Tribeca penthouse rent free, as well as paying for all of my tuition. I got to hang out with my cousins.

I will forever be grateful to him for that, but that doesn’t mean I want to become a pawn in one of his many twisted games.

But when the players are my family, I might not have a choice.

My cousin Lucia recently married into the Koslov Bratva while her brother, Federico, took over from Massimo as head of the Conti mafia after Massimo suffered some near-fatal injuries during an ambush on Lucia’s wedding day almost two years ago.

The web of enemies that could be behind my kidnapping is expanding beyond just the Contis, and I can only hope that I’m not about to be auctioned off to the highest bidder.

Perhaps it’s from exhaustion or fear, but as I stare down at the blank expression of the body at my feet, it begins to morph into Lucia.

I blink, and now it’s Federico.

I blink again, and now it’s my own dead eyes staring up at me.

Swallowing a sob, I try not to spiral, which is hard when I’m completely at the mercy of two men who have no conscience when it comes to putting a bullet in someone’s skull.

I’m no stranger to death. I was eight years old when my parents and brother were killed in a house fire, and there isn’t a day that goes by where I don’t feel guilty for being the only one who survived.

I often think that their deaths subconsciously pushed me toward a career where I’m constantly surrounded by the sick and the dying. I’ve lost count of the amount of lives I’ve helped save from the very injuries that they died from.

I used to hope that by saving others, it would help to ease the guilt that weighs heavy on my heart, but it only makes it worse.

A few Russian words catch my attention, snapping me out of the guilt spiral that I often find myself in.

Now is not the time for dwelling on the past. Not if I want to make it out of this motel room alive.

I need a plan.

Lucia is the only person who has my location on her phone, but she’s used to my periods of quiet, especially after a long week of night shifts. Not that it matters, seeing as I left my phone in the bar.

By the time she realizes I’m missing, it’ll likely be too late for me.

There is no boyfriend who’s expecting me to come home or even roommates who are concerned by my lack of appearance in the kitchen the moment the morning coffee has finished brewing.

I’m all alone.

The thought has my eyes stinging.

“I-I need to use the b-bathroom.”

Neither man acts like they’ve heard me. Instead, their attention remains on their phones as they continue to mutter to one another in Russian.

Maybe if I say it louder… “I need to use the bathroom.”

“No,” the bigger one grunts without looking my way.

“Please.” I pull against the ropes around my wrists.

My voice cracks, and it’s enough to spark the attention of my other captor, the very one who pulled his gun on my kidnapper.

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