Page 29 of Tortured Hearts
I go to lunge again, only to still when my pocket vibrates. No one knows about this burner phone. I’ve only used it to dial one number. I run my tongue along my lower lip, savoring the taste of whiskey and contempt as I plan my next move.
“Fine,” I clip again, the repetitive buzzing like a shot of adrenaline. I have no intention of falling in line, but I have to stall for time.
“I thought you’d see things my way.” He drops his cigar into the mouth of the whiskey bottle, then tips his chin at Anton, who moves from behind me like a sniper. “Escort my son to the estate and reunite him with the good doctor, then drive him home.”
Hard pass.
Sending me to the house I haven’t occupied in months isn’t a concession. It’s ensuring I don’t have further access to Becca. “I have a car.”
“If you’re referring to that unsightly piece of shit you left outside my club, I’ve done you the favor of having it towed.” Muffled pop music blares over dead silence as he stands and buttons his suit jacket. “Oh, and one more thing … I suggest you leave Dr. Brennan with the clear impression that anything between you has run its course. We wouldn’t want to give her any false hope, now, would we?”
It has nothing to do with false hope. Just as I knew forcing him to rot behind bars would be his personal hell, he knows forcing me to carve emotional scars into Becca is mine.
“When are you going to learn, Gianni, I always win.” Winking with the black calm of a psychopath, he strolls out the door.
Not this time.
It only takes one match to burn an entire forest, no matter how many trees are in the way.
I catch Anton’s eye as I stand, our gazes locking. My father’s diabolical bullshit may be on full display, but his second-in-command is one loose thread I can’t figure out. So I wait until he turns away before retrieving my phone from inside my jacket and stealing a glance at the newest text on the screen.
You’re giving me an ulcer, you know that?
Huh.It seems dead mencantalk.
Chapter Ten
BECCA
Montclair, New Jersey
Iwake with a groan, fighting the fog that’s trying to pull me under.
Jesus, what the hell happened?
Blinking feels like dragging razors across my corneas, but I grit my teeth and do it anyway. When the haze finally clears, the first thing I notice is concrete. The more I blink, the more it surrounds me, the floor beneath my cheek a cold reminder of the bleak gray stone walls.
I search for my glasses, but they’re nowhere to be found.Great.I’m groggy and blind.
Another hoarse groan breaks the silence as I fight for memories against a wave of nausea. I remember standing in my living room. There was darkness … loneliness … a need to shower away all the sickening red. I close my eyes, my pulse jumping as I feel a cloth slam over my mouth, and then I’m assaulted by a sweet, musty smell, like pennies wrapped in a damp paper towel.
Chloroform.
I cringe, the revolting stench still trapped in my lungs. It sparks a memory of a familiar man’s heavy frame pinning me to the floor, but I can’t draw his face from the shadows. Then, everything goes black. My stomach roils as I push myself up, ignoring how my arm shakes under my weight. Little by little, my eyes adjust to reveal my new, sadistic reality.
No windows. No sound. No one to hear me scream.
This is more than a basement. It’s a prison that can only belong to one person.
Marcello Marchesi.
My father warned me about him, and now I’m here,alone.I want to be devastated. Instead, all I am is angry. I think of the years I kept myself hidden behind a glass only to wind up shattered. All I’ve ever done is try to help people, and where did it get me? Knocked out, kidnapped, and dumped in a basement.
Emotions I’ve kept locked away far too long come spewing out, and I let out a shrill scream. Ignoring the protest from my body, I climb to my feet, and after multiple unsuccessful attempts at prying open the locked door, I pace the room until madness sets in.
What am I doing here? What’s going to happen to me?
Overwhelmed, I press the heels of my palms to my forehead, only for a searing burn to shoot down my arm. Letting out a strangled cry, I pull them away, bile crawling up my throat, as I stare at the inside of my right wrist and the rose and dagger tattoo drawn in harsh black ink.
