Page 228 of Hate Mates

Last week, Lana was taken.Kidnapped.

I got home after doing a double shift at the hospital only to find our apartment ransacked and ravaged. And a ransom note with a picture of Lana bound, gagged, and beaten. Her face black and blue and bloody.

Apparently, she saw too much and did too much. That's all I know, but it's enough.

Since that night I’ve been doing the devil’s bidding to get her back, dropping off packages here and there. The warning was to make sure I didn’t involve anyone else. And no police.

Lana promised me she was working her ass off at the diner to pay off her student loans. Instead, she was doing crazy shit behind my back that pissed off the Costellos, one of the most powerful mafia families in this hemisphere.

Everyone in Chicago knows to stay the fuck away from them, but Lana seems to have missed the memo. Or, knowing her, she chose to ignore it in that lackadaisical way she does with everything else.

Life is one big party to my sister. We may have the same blonde hair, blue eyes, and petite frame we got from our mother, but that’s as far as similarities go. Everything else is as opposite as night and day, light and dark, fire and ice.

At twenty-six, I'm only four years older than Lana, but the difference in our maturity levels feels like an ocean. I guess that’s because I had to step up when she was sixteen and take care of her after our parents were killed in a car accident.

On top of that, life has only been cruel to me, cutting me the rawest of deals when it came to my career in medicine. Now there’s this.

And if I so much as breathed a word to the cops, they threatened to send me Lana's head in a box.

The thought that she could already be dead sends a shudder through me, and I fight to keep my tears away. I've had no proof of life, but I can't think like that now.

Tonight is the last thing.

The kidnappers promised to return Lana if I collected this package from a seedy guy at the train station and brought it here.

I continue walking down the rain-covered streets, my legs trembling and my blood pounding in my ears like drums fueled by napalm. The address I've been given is only three blocks away. It’s a nightclub called Velvet. I know the place. It's swanky and upmarket but a front for Costello operations.

The neon sign for Velvet comes into view fifteen minutes later, casting a purple glow across the wet pavement. A line of people wait outside despite the rain. As expected, they're dressed to impress and eager to get into the city's most exclusive club.

I bypass the line, heading for the service entrance as instructed. My heart pounds so hard I can feel it in my fingertips.

The service alley is dimly lit, with a clinical smell lingering in the crisp night air. A hulking man with a tattoo on one side of his face stands beside a metal door, a cigarette glowing orange between his fingers.

He narrows his gaze when he sees me approaching and looks me up and down with obvious scrutiny. It's my attire. I'm dressed too casually in my light summer jacket and jeans to work here.

Summoning courage I don’t feel I set my shoulders back and stare him right in the eye when I reach him.

"I'm here to see Donatio Costello," I say, forcing my voice to remain steady.

The man takes a long drag on his cigarette. "Nobody sees Donatio Costello without an appointment."

"I have one." I pull a small card from my pocket—black with a gold embossed dragon.

The instant the man sees it, his expression changes and a knowing look comes into his eyes, telling me he needs no further instructions. He knows I have a package for the boss—Donatio.

What else does he know? Has he seen Lana?

"Inside. First door on the right." His reply cuts off my thoughts and the hardness in his face and voice warns me not to ask him anything more.

He steps aside, opening the heavy door. I walk in, stepping into a narrow corridor, and he closes the door behind me, leaving me alone.

The subtle bass from the club music thrums through the walls, sounding hollow. I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans and proceed down the hallway, praying.

The hallway feels impossibly long. It's not until I reach the center and can't hear the music anymore that I realize I'm going down. Like underground down.

My nerves spike but I keep walking until I see the first door on the right. I knock.

"Enter, it’s open," a gruff voice calls out in a rich Italian accent. It's the same voice I've heard on the phone all week.

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