Page 22 of Ruthless King
I point at the bottles lamely. “Can I get a water or are prisoners not allowed?”
The ghost of a smile curls his lips, and fuck me, if it doesn’t make him ten times hotter. A devil with the face of an angel. “Help yourself.” And that accent….
I reach for the farthest bottle, the one closest to the hidden compartment. With my knee, I nudge the cover open and a shiny, silver handgun stares up at me. My heart catapults against my ribcage, and time slows.You can do this, Stel. Grab the gun, point it at thebastardo,and force him to let you out of the car. Easy.
With one hand, I reach for the water, so my arm blocks the other one inching toward the gun. My fingers close around the cold metal, and I jerk it free.
Capospins at me, eyes wide as I point the barrel at his face. “Che cazzo fai?”
“What the fuck am I doing? I’m getting the hell out of here.” I inject steel into my tone, but it does nothing to mask the trembling of my hands. Both are wrapped around the weapon, strangling the handle.
The computer slides off his lap, and he holds his hands up, the hard set of his jaw softening. “Stella, you don’t want to do something you’ll regret. Put the gun down.”
I hate the sound of my name on his lips. It triggers something deep inside, something long buried. I inhale a deep breath and shove the impractical thoughts away. “Tell your driver to pull over and let me out.”
The divider is up between the backseat and the front, and for a second I wonder if the guy has any idea what’s going on back here.
“I can’t. We’re on the middle of the highway.”
“Then tell him to get off!” I shout, shaking the gun.
“Stella, easy!” He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple jogging down the long column of his throat. He pushes his laptop further away and slides to the edge of the seat. “Give me the gun, and I promise I’ll make Mickey stop as soon as it’s safe.”
“I don’t believe you.” My throat tightens, and hot tears prick at my eyes. Dammit.Do not cry. Do not cry. My finger wraps around the trigger.
“Lo giuro, Stellina.”
My throat closes up at my old nickname, my chest so tight my lungs cease to function. My brother Vinny used to call me Stellina when I was a kid.My little star. No one has uttered the name since. My hand instinctively clamps across the tattoos over my heart.
“I swear,” he repeats, his voice so soft I’m certain it doesn’t belong to the same man who’s kidnapped me.
A sharp horn blares, and the car jerks to the right. I stumble, my arms shooting out to steady me. The loud bang rings out across the small space before I know what’s happening. I fall back on my ass from the kickback of the gun.
My captor winces and clutches at his shoulder as the car careens off the road. “Cazzo, Stella, you shot me!”
Merda! My fingers are still clenched around the handle, my knuckles white from the strain. Blood gushes down his fine suit, so much blood. I squeeze my eyes closed as long-buried memories rush to the surface.
I suck in a sharp breath, and darkness edges into the corners. My fingers itch to dig out my inhaler from my pocket, but I swapped it out for the damned pepper spray. No matter, I shouldn’t let this guy see any hint of weakness anyway. If that’s one thing I learned growing up, it was to never show fear.
The car slams to a halt, and I keel forward and the gun slides through my fingertips. The back door opens a second later, and the driver pokes his head in.
“Fuck,SignorValentino, are you okay?”
Valentino? The name strikes a faint memory, but it’s too fleeting to grasp.
“No, I’ve been shot, you asshole. Of course I’m not okay.” He grits his teeth, hand still firmly clenched around his shoulder. Blood seeps between his fingers.
My stomach roils, and a bout of nausea crawls up my throat.Oh, please don’t puke.Please, don’t puke.
“Call Dr. Filippo and tell her to meet us at the penthouse immediately.”Caposhrugs out of the jacket, wincing as it passes over his wounded shoulder. His white shirt is painted in blood, and my stomach flip-flops again.
“Yeah, boss, of course.” Mickey tugs his cell phone from his black jacket and jabs thick fingers along the keypad.
“I can’t believe you shot me,” he mutters as he starts to unbutton his shirt with his good arm. A thick, braided gold chain and a cross appear nestled in a smattering of dark curls.
“You kidnapped me!”
“It was a deal, a binding contract.”
