Page 4 of Vicious Vows

He drags me toward the door, and I don’t even take time to get my bearings, to look around or see where I am. It’s a privateplace, out of the city, and all I really see are evergreen bushes and trees. I’m at a massive brick home with a private drive, and when the muscled man finally gets tired of my kicking and writhing, he wraps his arm around my waist and crates me like a sack of potatoes.

“Do you always do everything you’re told, Vic? I’m here against my will.” My arms are pinned alongside my body, so I can’t fight back, and he isn’t even straining to lug me around with just the one thick bicep in my face. “You're an accessory to a kidnapping, you know? I could hack right into the police department files and put your picture there as the suspect.”

He looks down at me with a scowl and a wrinkled forehead. I don’t know whether he doesn’t speak English or he’s just thick, but he’s pissing me off.

“Your boss took me off the street and threw me into a car. I deserve a trial or something before I’m just locked up.” No matter how hard I jerk or kick, his grip remains firm, even when he carries me up a flight of steps and down a long hallway. My angry rationalization isn’t working with him, and I’m feeling more and more out of control by the second. “You don’t have to do this. You can let me go and I won’t tell a soul.” Who would I tell, anyway? The police? Santoro has them in his back pocket, or at least that’s what my father said.

Fuck, my father… Who will tell him? What will he think?

I feel desperation seeping in, and I’m grasping at straws, and at his back, hoping I feel a weapon there, but there’s nothing. Even if there was, I’ve only fired a gun a few times in my life. I’m not sure I’d know what to do, and would I even have the guts to shoot someone in cold blood, even if it meant my survival?I’m not a killer like these people. I’m just a college graduate who pissed off the Mafia.

“Put me down,” I shout, and then I lean forward and sink my teeth into his abs as he turns a corner. I bite down hard, hoping to draw blood, but his muscles are rock hard beneath the skin and all I manage to do is piss him off.

“Bitch!” he snaps, grabbing my hair with his other hand and pulling my face away from his side. I’m shocked that he doesn’t strike me. He seems like the type to do that sort of thing, and I wince in preparation, but the blow never comes.

“Let me go!” My throat is sore from screaming and I’m out of breath from fighting, but these assholes don’t even seem to notice that I’m suffering. They don’t care. They want me to suffer and beg for relief. I’m scared of what else they may do to me.

My neck strains, tilting back at an unnatural angle as I am violently thrust toward the ground. My body feels weightless for a moment before crashing down onto the unforgiving wooden floor. The impact jolts through my bones, sending a wave of pain through my entire being. The thin cream-colored throw rug provides minimal cushioning against the hard surface below. As I struggle to get up, he mercilessly kicks out my arms, causing me to collapse once again. My face slams into the ground, and I feel a sharp sting radiating from my cheek and jaw. A tingling numbness follows, leaving me disoriented and vulnerable.

“Stay there,” he barks, and then he retreats and slams the door shut.

I jump to my feet and race to the door. “No, no, no, no…” I jiggle the handle and try turning it, but it’s locked and I’m stuck. “Fuck!” I say, smacking the door with an open palm. I make afist and pound, screaming at the door for someone to come let me out, but I scream until I’m out of breath and probably blue in the face and no one comes. I don’t even hear when his footsteps retreat away, which means the room may be soundproofed, anyway.

Tired, I press my forehead to the door and sigh. Then I think of my phone again. They never took it from me, and it was still more than two-thirds charged up. I pull it from my pocket and think about calling the police but think twice. I committed a crime. I hacked into Santoro’s business accounts and transferred money from those accounts to my father’s. If I involve the police, Dad gets none of the money, and we risk both of us going to jail. And on top of that, Santoro will probably kill him and Nathan.

“Dammit!” The word bursts from my lips in a sharp hiss, echoing off the walls of the empty room. I curse again, frustration seeping into every syllable as I take in my surroundings. There is no one here to hear me complain, no one to witness the turmoil churning within me. My hands tremble as I reach for my phone, desperate for some form of help. The thought of calling the police crosses my mind, but I quickly dismiss it. Instead, I turn to the one person who has always been there for me—my father.

I press the icon for my calling app and then his contact set to speed dial, and I hold the phone to my ear as I turn to take in the room for the first time as it rings through. It’s nicely decorated, creams and pastels, with a floral comforter and pillowcases. It’s not my style, though. And the wood floors look like they’ve been well-maintained. From what I gather from my hasty trip up to this room, the house is older, Victorian, maybe, and well taken care of.

“Micah! Oh, dear, I was worried sick. Will came by here. He said some men stopped. Did you get away?” Dad is frantic, andwhy wouldn’t he be? I’m glad Will got away and told Dad what happened.

“Did you call the police?” I snap, not thinking about his feelings. If we don’t handle this properly, I’ll go to prison, and even though prison is better than death, I feel like if Santoro was going to kill me, he’d have done it already.

“No, baby, I didn’t.” Dad sounds ashamed, as if he knows it’s the right thing but can’t bring himself to do it.

“Good, don’t.” I walk to the dresser and start opening drawers, hoping I’ll find something hidden in one of them that will help me pick the lock. “Police are bad in this situation. I’m fine. They haven’t harmed me. I just don’t want to go to prison for hacking to siphon money, okay?” None of the drawers have a single thing in them. The damn dresser is for show only.

“I won’t call them… But…” Dad’s voice cracks as he speaks, and I know what he’s thinking. He’s terrified for me.

“But nothing. Don’t call them.” I take a cleansing breath and move toward the closet to open the doors. “I’ll be fine, Dad. Tell Will not to hack anything until I’m out. I don’t want him trying to figure out a way to get me back and getting caught.” I pull the doors open to reveal an empty closet too. It’s like they prepared this room just to hold prisoners or hostages.

“Baby, you have to listen to them. Do exactly what they say…” I hear him tearing up, being a good father whose daughter is trapped by the Mob.

My gaze falls upon the solitary window in the room, and I move with fierce determination toward it. The thought of breaking through and escaping to the freedom below spurs me on. But as I reach the window, my heart sinks at the sight of iron barsblocking any hope of a quick escape. Deflated, I mutter a curse under my breath.

“I can handle myself, but you need to protect yourself now. Move the money. Get it out of the bank and put it into a private account or buy investments. Fuck, just bury it in the back yard in a coffee can, but don’t leave it where it is.”

“Micah…” I hear Nathan in the background. No doubt, he’s worried too. Then I hear footsteps outside the room.

“I gotta go. Hide the money, Dad.” My fingers shake as I end the call with my father and make sure my phone is on silent. I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself before running back to the door and starting to bang on it with all my might. The sound echoes through the empty hallway, but I don't care. Eventually, Santoro will have to come back here and face me. And when he does, I'll demand that he let me go.

4

LUKE

Normally, when I enter my home in the evening after a hard day of work, it’s silent, only the sound of dinner being prepared or served in the kitchen by my wait staff or the vacuum being run by the maid. Today, however, there is a racket of banging and shouting that echoes down the stairwell and wraps around me to greet me. Micah isn’t happy with her new accommodations, though she doesn’t get the right to complain. In my world, she’s lucky to be alive and able to scream like that.

“Sir, I’ve taken the liberty of pouring your drink and showing Mr. Sanders into your den.” The butler gestures at the open door of my den, and I nod at him.

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