Page 33 of Relentless Refuge

“I have to put this over your head now, you understand. It’s not personal at all. We just can’t have you knowing where we’re going.” One of the men produces a burlap sack and shakes it out while the other holds me down. I shake my head and jerk around, hoping to keep the thing away from me, but they are so strong.

I have no choice but to succumb to the inevitable, and when it happens, I feel suffocated. The bag smells like gun oil and tobacco, and I can barely breathe. My own carbon dioxide threatens to steal my oxygen, so I try to stay calm.

“You’re not getting away with this.” I steady myself when I realize there is nothing I can do. My phone is in my pocket, or maybe my purse, if I still have that after the tumble off the roof. I can’t remember. I don’t know if Marco has a way to track it without a call being connected, but he has his assets within the police department.

My mind starts to play out all sorts of scary scenarios—they’ve stolen me to kill me, or they’re going to lock me up and use me as leverage against Marco to get what they want. The truth is, however, that’s all speculation. It’s anyone’s guess why they didn’t just kill me.

But it’s obvious they were hunting me. Maybe they hacked Marco’s camera feed and knew when I left the house and where I’d be. Or maybe it was pure coincidence that I stumbled out of his neighbor’s yard just as they passed. Either way, they have a plan and I can’t let it happen.

“Where are you taking me?” I snap, though I don’t for a second think they will tell me anything, not with this bag on my head. So I count the turns. Just before they covered my head, I noticed we were at Broadway and Ninety-Fifth Street. I can only guess which way we’re going now, but I try. South maybe, toward Washington Square Park? Or are we headed northward? I feel confused and overwhelmed, and tears well up, but I blink them back. I’m the leader of a major criminal organization, not a child, and I won’t break down and give anyone the satisfaction.

“Shh, sweetheart, it will all become clear soon.”

The two men begin speaking in Russian, or a dialect. I don’t know that much Russian at all, but I’ve picked up on a few key phrases. From what I gather, they are wanting me to cooperate with them somehow. Maybe they think I’ll give up Marco’s secrets, or maybe they think he’ll come looking and they’ll have a chance to kill him. He’s too smart for that. He’d never put himself at risk. Even he knows the value of the Family head, and while I believe he cares for me, he won’t risk everything to save me. At least, I wouldn’t.

My guess is he’s forming a search party, that maybe he doesn’t even know they have me yet. I told Warren I’d be going to visit my mother. Maybe they’ll look there first. That will alert Uncle Nicky, though I feel conflicted that Mom will worry about me. Right now, I don’t feel like I’m in any real danger. I believe the man when he said they just want to talk, so maybe I just stay calm and I’ll be fine.

My palms are sweaty, my heart racing. But fear won’t control my actions or reactions. I take a deep breath and ground myself… Three things I can feel—burlap, hot hands on my arms, the rhythmic bumping of the car on the road. Two things I can smell—beer and tobacco. One thing I can hear—the thick accent of two Russians having a dialogue in a language I don’t understand.

I do it over and over until my pulse returns to normal and I feel connected to the current moment without fear or panic. What I do feel, however, is nausea—a lot of it. My stomach roils and twists, and I feel like I might vomit inside this burlap sack if I have to smell the stench of it for a single second longer, and then the car stops.

“We’re here. Now behave yourself, and we’ll take the bag off soon.” One of the men grabs my arm and yanks on it. I’m pulled to the right and out of the car, where I stumble and almost fall. I don’t feel my purse against my hip or back, and I realize they’ve either cut it off me, or I dropped it at some point. I reach for my pockets, but they grab my arms and hold them behind my back.

“If you want me to respect you and listen to you, you could at least be respectful to me. Stop jerking me around. I’m a human, not a blowup doll.” My comment makes them laugh a deep, rumbling, hearty laugh, and I sigh. If I play nice and go along with them, I’ll get out of this in no time—hopefully.

“This way, your majesty,” one of them says, and I have a mental image of him bowing in front of me. What I wouldn’t do to bring my knee up to his face and give him a bloody nose, but I don’t.

I allow them to lead me forward, my elbows gripped on either side of me as I start walking. I still smell the distinct scent of rain, but there’s something else. A savory smell of food, something I can’t place. It neither smells appetizing nor repulsive, but that’s not why I’m trying to figure it out. Anything I can learn about them will help me in the future, whether or not I’m released in peace or rescued under duress. This is my enemy by marriage, and now by circumstance.

I’m led indoors, where I hear the clatter of dishes and the scents begin to meld into one amalgamation of odors I can’t differentiate. It’s a restaurant of some sort, my guess is Russian based on the snippets of conversation I hear going on around me, probably from the cook and wait staff.

Then everything grows quieter as I’m led farther into the building. The bag is removed from my head, and I blink against the light that hits my face. I’m in a room with bold red carpet, red tablecloths, red leather seats, and a man seated at a table with flowers and candles and the most distinguishable face I’ve seen all day.

ThePakhan.

“Ah, Ms. D’Angelo, please come sit.” He gestures to the spot across from himself, but he doesn’t stand. That’s the first strike against him. It reveals his utter lack of respect for me as a woman, as the wife of his enemy, and as the leader of my own Family.

I pull away from my captors and brush the damp hair out of my face, feeling the pine needles and sap still clinging to it. “That’s Mrs. Romano, thank you, and I’d rather stand.” I glare at him without a smidge of fear trickling through me. Men like him don’t do the dirty work themselves. They keep their hands clean by making others do it.

He doesn’t have to work to gain the respect of his Family the way I’ve been the past several months. As a man, he was gifted this position when his father left it to him and everyone naturally shifted their loyalty to him from the previous leader. Which is the only reason I let his disrespect fly. I stand staring at him until he stands too and gestures again.

“Please, come sit.”

Finally acknowledging my presence and authority, he buttons his suit coat and remains standing with his arm outstretched to the empty seat where a place setting is laid out. A silver tray with lid intact sits on the table at each of the places. I’ve already eaten, and even if I were starving, I wouldn’t touch that with a ten-foot pole. But I sit down.

“Now, where were we?” He sits again, unbuttoning his coat and reaching for his glass of wine. I see the glass set before me and wonder if it’s laced with something. Not a single thing will cross these lips except maybe the vomit I can feel wanting to rise up.

“That’s a good question. I have one of my own. Why am I here?” I cut right to the chase. There’s no beating around the bush. When someone steals you off the street, you hardly think they have altruistic motives or care one bit about your wellbeing. These men are playing a deadly game. Someone will shed blood soon, be it mine, or his, or even Marco’s.

“Ah, so we’re getting right down to business.” He lifts the lid off his plate and nods at mine. “Let’s eat first, shall we?” The aroma of whatever sort of soup is in the bowl situated beneath the lid wafts out and makes me feel even queasier.

“I’d rather not. I had a full dinner only a few hours ago with my husband.” Sitting back in the seat, I keep my shoulders squared and my chin high. People can only make me feel inferior if I allow them to. It’s what my Mom used to tell me when I was younger.

“Suit yourself,” he says, taking a large bite of soup and moaning over it. Part of me wishes he would choke on it, that somehow within my mental energy I possess a power that will manifest dark, horrible things simply by thinking them.

“Why have you taken me? What is this about?” I don’t let up because the sooner he tells me what the hell this is about, the sooner they can take me back to where I belong and I can be in Marco’s arms again.

Regret swirls in my thoughts. I haven’t told him I’m carrying his heir because I’ve been afraid of what that may mean for my family, for my father’s legacy. But he deserves to know. And the longer I sit here watching this horrible man eat his dinner, the more I wish I’d have told him I’m having his baby. The more I wish he’d have told me why I couldn’t leave the house tonight. Hindsight allows me to feel so much regret, it makes me want to cry.

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