Page 98 of Bloody Vows
Not all that long ago, I would have thanked him for getting rid of Tristan for me. But when I heard his voice, saying he needed me, that he was being held hostage, all my better sense went out the window. When Sal said all I had to do was sign over accounts to get Tristan back, the decision seemed easy.
I should have known better. But I never knew Sal to be a liar, before. Greedy and ambitious and arrogant, yes. I believed that he’d trade Tristan and all of this back to me for tens of millions of dollars.
Evidently, I was wrong.
I look around, drawing in shallow breaths and wincing from the pain in my head. I'm in an empty room, probably an addition to whatever building I’m in. That much is clear from the low ceiling and the single bare bulb hanging overhead. The walls are concrete, stained with water damage and more that I don't want to think about. There's a drain in the center of the floor, and the sight of it makes my stomach turn.
I try to sit up, and that's when I realize my hands are zip-tied behind my back. My ankles are bound too, though not to anything—I can move my legs, but I can't run. Not that there's anywhere to go. The only exit I can see is a heavy metal door at the top of a set of concrete stairs.
My heart is hammering against my ribs, and I have to force myself to breathe slowly, to think clearly. Panic won't help me. Panic will only make things worse.
I think about the baby growing inside me—still so small, so fragile—and a fierce protectiveness rises in my chest. Whatever these men want, whatever they're planning, I won't let them hurt my child. I won't let them take away the one good thing that's come from this nightmare that started with my father’s death and has hardly let up since then.
I want to believe that Tristan will come for me. But I can’t find that certainty anywhere. Our marriage has been a minefield of arguments and rancor, and accusations. I thought we’d made some progress, but the pregnancy made Tristan go cold. I can only assume—because he sure as fuck hasn’t been talking to me—that his efforts to get me to soften for him were just so he could get me in bed more easily, assuage his conscience by not having to drag me there by force. Now that his heir is on the way, he doesn’t care about me any longer.
That heir might be the only reason he comes for me. But then again, he could just as easily marry someone else. Make a cursory attempt at rescuing me, refuse whatever Sal wants, andwait for Sal to get sick of me. To realize Tristan doesn’t give a shit about me and kill me. It’s the opposite of the plan Enzo tried to convince me of. Tristan will be a grieving widower, having lost his wife to the jealousy of her father’s former right-hand man, and he’ll find a more pliable wife. He’ll have another heir in no time.
An aching sadness spreads through me at the thought, a feeling that I’m afraid to examine too closely. Right now isn’t the time for me to realize how I’ve come to feel about my husband, how that brief window of time where I let myself open up to him softened me.
Not when I’m facing down the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.
The sound of footsteps outside the door makes me freeze. Heavy boots, taking their time. Someone who's in no hurry, who knows I'm not going anywhere.
Sal Envio appears in the doorway, and even in the dim light, I can see the satisfaction on his face. He's changed from the expensive suit he always wears to something more practical—dark jeans and a black T-shirt that shows off arms covered in tattoos. He looks different like this, more dangerous. Less like the polished businessman and more like the killer I know he is.
He killed plenty for my father. At the time, it was what he was good for. His brutality was necessary. His lack of a conscience served what my father needed.
Now it’s like an attack dog has been let off the chain, and I’m the one directly in the way of its hungry jaws.
"Sleeping Beauty awakens," he calls out from the doorway, his voice echoing off the concrete walls. "I was beginning to think my men used too much chloroform."
I don't respond. I won't give him the satisfaction of seeing my fear, even as my stomach twists with terror for my baby. For what the drugs might already have done to it.
"Not feeling talkative? That's fine. We have plenty of time to get acquainted." He walks into the room slowly, deliberately, like a predator stalking its prey, shutting the door firmly behind him. "I have to say, Simone, you're even more beautiful than I remembered. Giovanni really did raise a prize."
"My father would have killed you for this," I snap, my voice steadier than I feel.
"Your father is dead," Sal replies with a shrug. "And he's not coming to save you. Neither is that Irish husband of yours, for that matter. He's probably still playing with poor Enzo's corpse right about now."
The casual way he says it makes my blood run cold. "What did you do to Enzo?"
"I used him, just like everyone else in this business uses people. He was stupid enough to believe I'd actually give him what he wanted." Sal stops in front of me, looking down with those cold, calculating eyes. "Men are so predictable, aren't they? Show them something shiny, and they'll chase it every time."
I realize what he's saying. Enzo was a distraction, a decoy. While Tristan was dealing with him, Sal's real team was coming for me.
"You're sick," I whisper.
"I'm practical," he corrects. "I'm also very, very patient. Do you know how long I've been planning this? How long I've been waiting for the right moment to take back what should be mine?"
I laugh. “Not all that long, so you must not be all that patient. Cut the dramatics out, Sal. Nothing here is yours. And I don’t give a shit what happened to Enzo. He tried to hurt me. He deserves whatever Tristan did to him." I realize, as I say it, that I mean it. I don’t care. All I care about is whether or not Tristan is safe—or I did. I don’t know how I feel now, uncertain as I am of whether he’ll actually come for me.
"Everything here is mine!" The sudden violence in Sal’s voice makes me flinch. "I built this empire alongside your father. I bled for it, killed for it, sacrificed everything for it. And what did I get in return? Having to run like a fucking dog while Abramov slaughtered your father and his men."
He starts pacing, his hands clenched into fists. "Do you know what it's like to watch lesser men take what you've earned? To watch your life's work given away to some Irish bastard who doesn't even understand what he's inherited?"
"You could have left," I say, knowing it's the wrong thing even as the words leave my mouth. "You could have started over somewhere else."
Sal laughs, but there's no humor in it. "Leave? And let them win? Let them think they can just discard me like yesterday's garbage?" He shakes his head. "No. I'm going to take everything they thought they could keep from me. Starting with you."
