Crazy Love, page 23
“Yes and no. The good news is since you’re a significant donor and the foundation is obligated to inform its donors of financial statements...and since we now know some of the deeper picture...you can press the go button on the investigation. Assuming it goes well, the money should be restored if the bad guys get caught.” He turned to Dante and smiled. “Be sure to say Ryan Nicholson and Associates were the ones who found the indiscretions. Our credibility will skyrocket, landing me a few more fat fish.”
“Absolutely. Anything you need.” Dante retrieved his wallet and pulled out a card. “Here’s the number of my lawyer. I’ll tell him to expect a call from you. Let’s get this ball rolling, stat.”
Out on the sidewalk, he tried calling Kennedy again, to tell her the news. Voicemail. Again. He left another text message and continued on his way. When his phone rang, he swiftly pulled it out of his pocket and answered, hoping it was Kennedy.
“Dante?” His mother’s voice sounded tired, strained.
Instantly on the defense, his throat tightened. “Hello, Mother,” he said in a clipped, tight voice.
“I need to apologize to you.” Her voice cracked like she might cry.
“How so. Can it wait? I’ve got an extremely busy day,” he said. Shit. I sound just like my asshole father. How many times have I heard that very phrase? “Never mind. Tell me.” He ducked into an alley for relative privacy.
“Your father lied to me.”
“Big surprise, there.”
“I’m willing to put up with his indiscretions. I’ve done it for years. It’s what he does. But he told me...he...he...”
His elegant, poised mother actually let out a long sob, twisting his heart into a strangled mess of pain.
“I didn’t know he got the girl pregnant. I didn’t know it was him who...” Her words trailed off into another sob. “My poor baby, Damien. And you, bearing the burden. I was led to believe it was you who...”
Her words disappeared into cries of pain, tearing at Dante’s soul. He pressed his hand to his mouth, trying to hold back his own tears. He’d bottled his emotions for years, and now they wanted to fly free. “Mom, stop. You’re killing me.” He listened to her cry, as errant tears slicked his face. He hung his head, pulled his ball cap low, wishing he wore his hoody, and prayed no paparazzi were in the vicinity.
“No!” His mom’s fierce voice sliced through the phone. “I won’t stop. We’re going to deal with this Dante. I’ve decided I’m finally leaving your father.”
Thank God, Dante thought. He squeezed the bridge of his nose, leaning against the dusty brick wall for support.
She sniffed. “He can pay his own debts. The Marquise can blackmail him, I don’t care. My lawyers can deal with the legalities and try to keep as much as we can out of the press. I’ll force him to pay you back.”
“No, Mom, I don’t....”
“Yes, Dante. You did it to protect me, and now I’m going to protect you. You’ve tried to hold things together. You’ve cared for your brother over the years.”
“I love him, Mom. He’s my blood.”
“I know, sweetheart, I know. But so is your father. He owes you.”
Unable or unwilling to process another moment longer, he said, “Yeah, well....look, I’ve got to run.” He scanned his mind for something meaningful to say. “I’m, uh...I’m proud of you for leaving him. You can do better. He makes me sick.” When his mother said nothing, he wondered if he shouldn’t have said anything.
“Thank you, Dante,” she finally said. “I love you.”
“Yeah, uh...I love you, too, Ma.” He choked out the words, then, hung up and worked to pull himself back together before leaving the alley. He tried calling Kennedy again. No answer. He called Gia.
“Hey, stud, what’s up?”
“My whole life’s gone nuts overnight. Fucking crazy. Can you get to my place a little earlier than the other guys? I can’t reach Kennedy, and I need a touchstone.”
“You got it, boss. See you soon.”
Gia calmed him enough to be able to step inside the studio and not chop anyone’s head off...at least for a while. As practice wore on, he found himself barking orders and snapping. He missed notes, his fingers fumbling. He kept stopping to check his phone. No texts. No missed calls.
“Fuck, Dante!” Heat exploded after being reprimanded for the thousandth time. He removed the strap around his neck and nearly threw the bass on the floor. “I’m tired of this shit. You’re a major asshole today. What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Dante chewed his lip. “I can’t find Kennedy, that’s what. Someone broke into her apartment yesterday, left her a threatening note, and I can’t find her today.”
The room grew eerily silent.
Gia’s mouth hung open, eyes wide.
“Shit, man, why didn’t you tell us sooner? We could have avoided this fucked up practice,” said Keys.
“I don’t know. I thought it would keep my mind off things.”
“Is there anyone you can call?” Gia asked.
“Maybe. If there aren’t a million Jim Ballo’s in the city.”
“Do it.” Gia’s hands swished him away. “Go. We’ll work on something in peace while you take care of business.”
Grateful for her support, he smiled at her, uttered a quick thanks, and exited the studio.
He found the number of a Jim Ballo online and keyed it in, hoping it was the right guy.
“Hello?” A deep, booming voice entered his ear.
“Is this Big Jim?”
“Yes. What can I do for you?”
“It’s Dante. Dante Vega. I can’t reach Kennedy. Things okay at the sanctuary?”
“She’s not here. I thought she was with you. She told me last night she—”
“What do you mean she’s not there?”
“What I said. She didn’t show up for work today. I left my phone in the cottage. I just came to get it to see if she called.”
“Did she?”
“Haven’t checked yet. Raced to get the phone.”
“Well, check now. I’ll wait.”
A few seconds later, Jim said, “There’s a missed call.”
“Call it back.”
“It says it’s a private number.”
“Shit. No message?”
“Nope.”
Prickles of dread worked their way along his scalp and neck. “Okay. Okay. Where do you think she is?”
“I don’t know. It’s not like her to shirk her responsibilities. She hasn’t missed a day here. Not ever. I have a break coming up. I can head over to her apartment and see if she’s there.”
“Okay, great. Call me the second you know anything.”
“Got it.”
After he disconnected, he searched around for the card the police had given Kennedy, rummaging through her things. Finding it, he swiftly called.
“McGlasson, here.”
“This is Dante Vega. We met yesterday.”
“Yes, Mr. Vega, what can I do for you?”
“It’s Kennedy. She’s missing.”
“How do you know?”
“She didn’t show up for work. She left me a note saying she would be at work and she didn’t show. Jim Ballo is heading for her apartment to see if she’s there. She stayed with me last night.”
“Okay, don’t panic. And don’t jump to conclusions. Let me make a couple calls and see what we can do for you.”
Gia poked her head around the corner after he disconnected. “Find her?”
“No. She didn’t show at work. Jim said that’s unlike her.”
“Okay, since we’re getting nothing done here, let’s call practice. Your head isn’t in the game, understandably.”
“We’re supposed to do that interview with Big Rock News.”
“They’re a lesser entity.” She waved her hand back and forth. “I’ll handle it.”
SoSo sauntered around the corner, rubbing on Dante’s legs.
“Since when did you get a cat?” Gia asked, scooping the bundle of fur. “Hi, kitty. Did you bewitch the Magic Mouth?”
“It’s Kennedy’s. She moved in last night after the threat to her life.”
“That’s one way to get her to move in.”
“Don’t be cute. This is serious.” Dante’s mind whirled, wondering what to do. “I’ve got to do something...I’ll head over to the sanctuary and see if I can find anything out. Lock up for me, will you?” He glanced at SoSo. “Oh, and feed the cat. I don’t know if Kennedy fed him or what his schedule is but pour some food in his bowl, will you?” He stepped toward her and gave her a quick hug, surprising her. “And thanks for being my friend.”
“Sure, boss, anytime. Did Kennedy do this to you?” She waved her hand between her and Dante.
“Do what?” He stalked toward his keys and wallet on the stand near the front door.
“Make you all PDA and shit. You’re not known for hugging me.”
Dante paused. “Yeah. Probably.”
“Then go get her, Lone Ranger. We need that girl around.”
Chapter Thirty-One – Kennedy
Kennedy came to with a groan, trying to orient to her surroundings. Encased in scratchy, suffocating, dusty fabric, as if she’d been dumped in a burlap sack, she felt the rumble and roll, start and stop, of a vehicle on the road, and the painful press of whatever the heck unforgiving surface she’d been placed on. She tried to wiggle a little to see if she could discern her surroundings. Am I in the trunk? The back of a van?
Her wrists and ankles were bound. A hood smothered her face. Her mouth had been taped shut. The back of her head throbbed, the pain pulsing in waves through her temples, making her sick to her stomach. Completely, utterly freaked, she tried to get her wits about her. What happened?
She remembered leaving the apartment at around eleven. Dante slept so soundly, she didn’t have the heart to wake him. She stopped by her apartment to retrieve the keys to the gate, something she’d forgotten in her spaced out, preoccupied mind. And then she phoned Simon. She wanted to catch up with him and tell him about her relationship with Dante and pray he didn’t give her a lecture.
She also wanted to tell him the truth about Dante for when the tabloids picked up his father’s story. Where was I? I’d arrived at work but hadn’t stepped onto the property. I stood beneath a tree near the acreage in the back, intending to enter through the back gate and check on a recent acquisition—Akono, another young tiger who’d been poorly treated at a small zoo. Akono, quite simply, trusted no one. He’ll need some serious, long, arduous work and patience. And then, wham! A blow to the back of the head had brought her down.
No sound came from the driver, but she could make out the tinny sound of cheap speakers, playing some radio station. I must be on the floor of a van. Some pop diva crooned, but inside her horrifying cocoon, she couldn’t make out the words or the singer.
The dust surrounding her, coupled with the tape over her mouth, made her feel stifled and strangled. She shook her head and let out a strange, garbled groan. The filthy grime trapped in the moldy fabric prison tickled her nose until a sneeze became imminent. She tried to hold back the lung convulsion, but couldn’t. This led to a fit of coughing.
Apparently trying to drown her pathetic sounds out, the driver cranked up the volume on the radio, allowing her to catch the tail end of a Taylor Swift song, something about “there is nothing I do better than revenge.”
Kennedy tried to scream through the gag. Revenge was the least of her concerns, but if she did ever manage to get free, she’d want it in spades for whoever had her in this fucking vehicle. She wiped her snot covered face off on the icky cloth, hoping she didn’t catch some sort of disease. She rocked back and forth but only succeeded in making her head ache and her body bruise from whatever unyielding sharp tool she’d jabbed her back against.
Another song floated through the airwaves and she stilled, captivated. Dante? A deep, sensuous, masculine voice filled her with comfort as he sang the words to a tune she’d never heard. She’d meant to download every song he ever wrote, especially after hearing he wrote some for her but hadn’t gotten around to it. I mean, it’s not like I have a leisurely life. Since Africa, her days were spent with tigers, her nights in studious silence or in community meetings seeking strength, and she couldn’t remember ever hearing a song by Marked Love. This one made her weep.
“Where is my sweet, sweet longing, the one that takes me deep? Where is my heart’s yearning, the one I long to keep?” A piercing, haunting guitar solo followed.
She’s right here, Kennedy cried in her mind. She’s been kidnapped, but that person could have been me.
“It’s bound to be lost forever, in the death of a distant sleep.”
Bound, gagged, restrained, sleep seemed as distant as Africa. Death seemed far more likely. But she didn’t dare succumb to despair. Wait, she told herself. Just wait and find out what’s next. She pictured the endless patience a tiger possessed when he hunted for his food. Wait and watch. Gather scents in the air. Wait some more. Trust. Who am I kidding, she thought, angry tears pushing to the surface. I’m going to die.
After several twisting turns, stops and starts, the vehicle paused followed by the clang and rattle of an industrial garage door opening. The van eased forward and came to a halt. The engine ceased. The vehicle door opened and banged closed. Men’s voices conferred but she couldn’t make out what was being said. A side door slid open. Hands around her ankles.
A tug, a grunt and she was lifted in someone’s arms, still smothered by the sack, as she shrieked in protest. Slung over his shoulder. Smells of male cologne, cigarettes and body odor, coupled with something musty and dank. Steps on solid flooring, tromping upstairs, doors opening and closing, her body jostled around to make way for the arm reaching for the doorknob.
Cool air all around, fingering through holes in the cloth surrounding her. More footsteps, more stairs. The click of a lock. Finally, she was dropped onto one of those unforgiving beds consisting of more metal springs than soft padding. More footsteps, the door opened and, whoever dropped her, exited. She waited, rigid and terrified.
In the other room, men argued. Conferred. Something about “wait for the boss” and “the bitch is secured” and “where’s my money?” More sounds. Bottles clinking? Liquid pouring into glasses. Laughter. A distant door opening and closing. “Hey, boss,” someone said, and his voice sounded contrite...edgy.
“Gentlemen,” came the responding voice. And the smell of clove cigarettes.
A surge of panic blasted through her bloodstream. It has to be Iniko.
The voices tensed. Increased in volume. Then silence, followed by footsteps, heading Kennedy’s way.
“What? A present? For me?” a smooth British voice said. “How nice. And here it’s the middle of summer. It isn’t even my birthday.”
Iniko. Helpless, powerless, Kennedy wanted to scream. The door to her prison opened the closed.
Fumbling hands fell upon her wriggling, resistant body. They rustled about the burlap until it could be peeled away from her body. Warm air, expensive men’s fragrance—some 2k Caron’s Poivre explosive, an intense spicy scent she remembered—and a plume of smoke from the kretek wafted around her. The hood was pried from her face, and she lay staring into the cold, dark eyes of Iniko Khari, a wretched duplicate of her dead lover, Mosi.
“Allow me,” he said. He placed the kretek between his lips, reached for the end of the tape binding Kennedy’s face, and ripped it free. A satisfied smirk formed on on his face as she yelped in pain.
“You fucking bastard,” she yelled, writhing and wiggling.
His hand, reeking of tobacco and food, quickly clamped around her mouth, smashing her head against the barely padded bedsprings. “Not a sound from you,” he snarled, the cigarette bobbing between his lips, sending a sprinkle of ash across her jaw and neck.
Her eyes grew wide, and she shook her head back and forth as best she could.
“Did you get my gift?” He smiled, the grin of an evil clown stretching across his face. Then he inclined his head, narrowed his eyes and slowly removed his palm from her mouth. He kept it poised a few inches from her, such that he could backhand her if she as much as whimpered.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Her voice emerged in a child-like whisper.
Apparently assured she wouldn’t scream, he brought his hand to his mouth and removed the cigarette. “How did it go down? I made sure they were extra-strength, the way you always liked them.”
“They flushed nicely, thank you.”
Iniko’s eyes narrowed. He inhaled on the c, held the smoke in his lungs, then blew out a toxic stream toward her nostrils.
She snorted.
“I’m going to have fun with you, pet. Make your last moments on earth count for something—my satisfaction.” One long finger reached out and snaked across her cheek. His other hand guided the smoke to his lips, then away. His face revealed excitement...arousal even.
Disgusted, Kennedy shivered but said nothing. She tried to wrench her head away, but he deftly caught it, gripping it tightly in his bony, claw-like grasp.
Giving her a look that chilled her to the bone, he released her face and continued leisurely stroking her skin with a single digit. He trailed it along her jaw. Slid it along her collarbone. Traced the tender skin at the top of her breast. When he got to the spiral, he ran his finger around and around in a circle, chuckling softly. “Your tragic tattoo. Marking the slash of a claw meant for you. Well, this time I won’t miss,” he said, swallowing hard.
How the hell does he know about my tattoo? I got it when I returned to the U.S. And what does he mean he won’t miss?
He splayed his fingers and kneaded her entire breast. “So soft. So succulent. And now you’re here for the taking.” He took a long, deep drag from his cigarette, practically shuddering.
“Hey, boss,” one of the men called from the other room.
His head snapped to the side, toward the front room. “I’m busy.”
“I think you need to take this call.”
