Held Captive: A Dark Irish Mafia Romance, page 7
Apparently, we no longer trust me with walking, since New Guy throws me over a beefy shoulder like a sack of flour. I just hang. I’ve got no reason to fight right now. Of all the things today, being manhandled is annoying, yet tolerable. Plus, I’m a little tired from my giggle fest a few minutes ago.
We wander down a few more hallways until we come to a door. I’m unceremoniously dropped onto a bed. Red pulls his knife back out. I scramble backwards and hit the headboard.
“No!” I screech.
Red laughs. Bastard. “Oh, we finally found something that scares the ice queen.” He reaches for my ankle, which I pull away. He lunges.
“No! You better fucking kill me. I swear to god—” My cursing is cut short when he succeeds in pulling me down the bed, flipping me over, and cutting the ties off my hands. Wait. What?
“I’m a lot of things, girly, but I’m not a fucking rapist.” He almost seems offended.
What the hell?
He points at a door opposite the side we came in. “Clean up. Change your clothes. You stink.” Then he turns and walks out. The door slams shut. A faint click inclines me to believe it’s locked.
I let out a shaking breath. My pulse is still racing. But I really do need to pee. I roll off the bed, limping on my hurt leg. I open the door to a sparkling bathroom that looks like it came out of a hotel. After taking care of my immediate issue, I wash my hands and look in the mirror.
And gasp.
Holy fuck, do I look like shit. My hair is a tangled mess covered in dirt, my lip is swollen and split. My blood has dried on my chin, and Blondie’s bloody spit dried on the rest of my face. My blouse is dirty, bloody, and ripped and my slacks are torn. My bootie shoes are caked in god knows what and the zipper is broken.
I look around the bathroom. A pair of sweat pants and a t-shirt are sitting on the counter with a bath towel and a washcloth. The walk-in shower is massive, with multiple showerheads. I recognize the familiar green bottles of the peppermint and tea tree shampoo and conditioner. I briefly consider ignoring the order to shower, but then I realize that I would really rather feel clean again and if there are hidden cameras or whatever the hell else in here, it’s worth it to not be filthy. I can’t see how the shower would put me in a worse position than I am currently.
I strip out of my clothes and wonder if there is a biohazard bin somewhere. Or a fireplace.
This may be the best shower I’ve ever had in my life. I shampoo my hair twice, letting it soak until the peppermint starts to tingle my poor abused scalp. I slather on a thick coat of conditioner. I lather up the washcloth and scrub head to toe, twice. Then I just let the water pressure blast until my skin tingles.
Stepping out of the shower, I look around for a comb but don’t find one. I settle for running my fingers through my hair until it’s tamed and then braiding it down my back. I wash my hair tie in the sink before putting it back in my hair. The t-shirt is massive, hitting me at middle thigh. Who the hell does this belong to? Sasquatch? The sweats aren’t much better, so I tie them as tight as I can and then roll them down my hips a few times. I have no bra or underwear but decide I don’t care. I rinse my mouth with water from the tap repeatedly and then swallow several large mouthfuls. I walk out to the bedroom and stop cold.
There is a man sitting on the bed. A huge man in a fitted black suit. His dark hair is cut short, his face shaved smooth, highlighting a sharp jaw and high cheekbones. When he looks up, deep blue eyes bore into my soul. My heart hammers against my chest. Suddenly I can’t breathe. I want to run away but I’m trapped in his frozen gaze.
“My name is Sean O’Connell.” Something clicks when I hear the Irish accent. Oh, my god.
CHAPTER 19
Sean
Given my conversation with Patrick, it didn’t seem like we could just isolate and scare the girl into compliance. It’s like the harder the world is on her, the more she just curls into her shell for self protection. It’s remarkable really. Just the zip ties and waking up on the basement floor would make the average man piss himself. So, I decided to try the softer approach.
Standing in front of me, wet as a drowned rat, with her bottom lip swollen and bruised, she’s beautiful. Her head is held high, and her eyes shine with determination. The warm peppermint of her shampoo drifts toward me. She’s wearing the clothes I set out for her. My clothes. For some reason, that makes me intensely pleased. Something about her is familiar, but I can’t place it.
“My name is Sean O’Connell,” I say. Something flashes in her eyes, gone so quickly I almost doubt it was there. She recognizes me.
“Love that for you. Why am I here?” She crosses her arms over her chest.
“Do you know who I am?” That look flashes again.
“Nope.”
“You’re lying, little one.”
Her gaze is positively deadly. We stare at each other for a while.
“Why am I here?” she asks again.
I answer honestly. “Because my men didn’t know what else to do with you. They aren’t used to finding female Bratva soldiers. Though Jimmy probably wishes he just shot you instead.”
“That the blond guy?” she asks.
I nod.
“How about the guy with the red beard? I don’t think he likes me very much either.”
“Patrick. I haven’t seen him that pissed off in years actually.”
She snorts.
“And that was before you hit him in the balls.”
She shrugs.
“What’s your name?”
“Hermione Granger.”
“You’re lying again, little one.”
The little one part irritates her. Good.
“Fine. Ms. Granger, if you’d like to gather your wand, they are serving supper in the dining hall with the rest of Gryffindor.” I sweep my arm toward the door and lay on as much sarcasm as I can without laughing. I see the smallest trace of a smirk appear. Then it’s gone.
She doesn’t move toward the door or acknowledge my offer. However, her stomach then releases a loud growl. She looks down at her abdomen as if she’s sincerely disappointed in the organ. I open the door and stand in the hallway, waiting for her. She stares at me for several seconds before she gives in and follows me out. She looks both ways in the hall and seems surprised that we are alone. She gives me a quizzical look, which makes me smirk. No, little one, I’m not afraid of you.
I’d had the boys drop her in one of the spare bedrooms on the opposite side of the penthouse from my suite. I lead her down the hallway, not checking to see if she’s following. We step into the large kitchen. I gesture to a set of stools on one side of the granite island. She walks over to it and hops up. It occurs to me how tiny she is. She’s got to be all muscle for the way she defended herself against Jimmy. I wish the clothes on her weren’t so baggy, or that I’d had the good sense not to leave her pants.
I pull a bottle of water from the fridge and give it to her. She accepts it, appears pleased when she feels the plastic seal break.
“Do you have any allergies?” I ask her.
“Um, what?”
“Allergies, to food. I’m going to make you something to eat.”
“Oh. Um, no. Thank you.” That she is a little flustered makes me pleased. I start pulling ingredients out of the pantry and fridge. I can always make grilled cheese sandwiches and Alfredo pasta on demand. I go with the Alfredo, dumping chopped garlic into a pan with butter. I can feel her watching me as I start pouring cream into the pan.
“Will you start the water to boil for the pasta?” I point to the hanging pot rack above her head. She pauses, unsure, and then selects a pot, fills it with water, and sets it on the stove.
“Stop looking at the knives, Hermione.”
She blushes slightly, having been caught eyeballing my butcher block.
“Parmesan is in the fridge,” I tell her. She doesn’t hesitate this time, going to the fridge and bringing it back to me. I also notice the beer in her other hand. Bad girl.
“Are you even old enough to drink?”
She smirks at me, expertly popping the cap off using the edge of the counter. Apparently not her first time.
“What were you doing at the warehouse?”
She counters, “Why were you blowing up the warehouse?”
We stare at each other some more. In the bright kitchen light, she’s even more beautiful. I turn the heat off, let the cheese melt into the sauce, and dump the pasta into the boiling water.
“Because Dimitri Popov decided to start a war.”
She seems to digest this. “How?”
“My turn, little one. Why were you in the warehouse?”
She shrugs. “Because they told me it wasn’t safe to wait in the car this time.” She adds, “Apparently they were correct.”
“You usually wait in the car?” I ask.
“Yep. Every time until today.”
“What exactly do you do for the Bratva, little one?”
“Why do you call me that?”
“Answer me, or so help me I will put you over my knee and spank your arse red.”
She swallows. Besides the irritation in her eyes, I swear there is something else. Interest? Desire?
She looks down at the granite, as if it’s the most interesting fucking rock she’s ever seen. “Mostly respond to emails and take messages. And set up dinner reservations. Sometimes arrange employee travel.”
I’m halfway through draining the pasta when I freeze. Her eyes meet mine. “You’re a fucking secretary?”
“Pretty much, yes. Technically I’m his personal assistant. But why split hairs.”
I search her eyes for the lie, but I don’t find it. She’s telling the truth. She is Dimitri Popov’s personal assistant. Why the fuck does he even have one? For reservations? I look at her beautiful face again. Then it dawns on me. She’s more than his assistant. Irrational rage starts to cloud my mind.
“And how long have you been fucking him?”
The malevolence burning from her eyes is shocking. She swallows, and then takes several deep breaths, as if she needs to say something very important and can’t risk being misunderstood.
“I. Am. Not. Fucking. Him.”
Pure fury comes off of her in waves. She hates him. That’s interesting.
“I’m sorry, that was rude of me.” If any of my men were here to see me apologize to her, they would drop over dead from shock. I finish draining the pasta and toss it with the sauce. I split it on two plates and take her empty beer bottle, trading it for a glass of wine. Her stomach makes another loud protest. I hand her the fork. We eat silently. She’s delicately putting the pasta in her mouth so as to not aggravate her split lip. I wonder if it’s worse than I thought it was. When she’s finished, she takes a sip of her wine and closes her eyes.
“That was very good. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” I stand and hold my hand out to her.
She looks at me with skepticism.
“I need to look at your lip. The first aid kit and better lighting are both in the bathroom.”
Her tongue pokes out, runs along the split in her lip. She grimaces and then nods. She doesn’t take my hand but does follow me. We’re headed to the opposite side of the apartment from the guest room. To my room. She pauses briefly at the doorway, her bright eyes evaluating me again, before she proceeds. I turn on all the bathroom lights and pat the counter. She sits. Stepping in front of her, I gently tilt her face toward the light. I tease apart the split in her lip with my fingers and she flinches.
“You need a couple of stitches.”
“Oh, cool. I’ll just run over to the clinic. Be right back!”
I laugh. She’s funny. Few women would be strong enough to make jokes in her situation.
“Don’t worry, little one, I’m very good at sutures.” I take my time cleaning the area before pulling out a pack of monofilament suture and tools.
She raises an eyebrow at me.
“I’ve had lots of practice.”
She rolls her eyes.
“Do you want me to numb it?”
She shakes her head. “No, just get it over with.”
She closes her eyes as I step closer to her. I don’t miss the slight increase in the pulse I see beating in her throat. I carefully place my hips so she doesn’t feel the obvious sign of just how attractive I find her.
The wound is small, only needing a couple of stitches to close. I apply a tiny bit of antibiotic ointment to the area to keep the skin soft. “I’ll take the stitches out in a couple of days.”
She nods.
Back in the kitchen, I hand her a tablet opened to Amazon.
“Add whatever you need to the cart.” I stand behind her to make sure she doesn’t leave the shopping app.
“Need for what?” She looks over her shoulder at me.
“You’re staying here.”
She spins around on her stool, glaring at me. “I am not staying here.”
“Aye, you are. You’re staying right here until I figure out what I’m going to do with you.”
She tries to murder me with her eyes again. When that fails, she turns back to the tablet and starts shopping.
Because I’m an asshole and I want to get a rise out of her, I pat her gently on the head and tell her quietly, “Good girl.”
She flips me off.
When she’s done, I walk her back to the guest room and lock the door. I hear a muttered curse on the other side of the door and laugh. I text Patrick and tell him to meet me in my office.
“She’s not a cop. She’s Popov’s personal assistant.”
His jaw drops. “She just told you that? What the hell did you do get it out of her?”
“I made her dinner.”
I’m pretty sure Patrick is as close to falling out of his chair as I’ve ever seen him.
“Never would have thought of that. She sure as hell doesn’t act like a personal assistant.”
“I put stitches in her lip too. How’d that one happen exactly?”
Patrick blanches. “That was me actually. She head-butted me in my balls and I slapped her.”
I put my drink down. “From now on, no one touches her. Restrain her if you need to, but no one hits her. I’ll deal with any attitude problems that occur.”
Patrick looks shocked for several seconds before schooling his features back to his normal scowl. “Aye, boss. I’ll make sure the boys know too. What are you planning on doing with her?”
I consider him for a minute. “I don’t know.”
“You can’t send her back. If she’s loyal to Popov, she might give him an advantage. We both know this shite is far from over.”
“I’m not convinced she is loyal to him.”
“Then Popov will kill her, probably after torturing her just because he’s a sick fuck.”
Changing the subject, I hand him the tablet she’d used to shop on, which is now in a plastic bag. “Have O’Malley run her prints.”
Laughing, he says, “Didn’t tell you her name, did she?”
“Shut up.”
“Maybe try dessert next time, might get a name out of her.” He walks out of my office laughing, far too proud of himself.
CHAPTER 20
Rocky
I’m escorted unceremoniously back to my room. Sean opens my door and waves his arm inside as if he’s a real estate agent ushering me into a new listing. While it grates against every part of my nature, I step into the room as instructed. After all, I have literally nothing else to do.
“Good night, Miss Granger.” Shaking his head, he steps back into the hall and closes my door.
And locks it.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I mutter, trying the door anyway. It’s well and truly locked. Turning back to the room, I slowly start sinking to the floor until I’m resting with my legs out in front of me and my head against the door.
The room is huge, probably the same square footage as my entire apartment. Possibly more. The carpet is thick and soft and a light cream color that suggest either that my new landlord spends a fortune in cleaning services, or the room is seldom used. The bed is enormous and piled high with pillows that neatly coordinate with the snow-white duvet cover. Opposite the door are floor-to-ceiling windows dressed with gauzy drapes.
When I look out, the New York skyline greets me. The brief relief from the comforting view of the familiar city is somewhat dampened when I realize how incredibly high up I am. My talents do not extend to flight or scaling skyscrapers.
The chest of drawers is empty, save for some dust collecting in one of the top drawers. The closet is a walk-in, and easily usable as a spare bedroom. The bins on the top shelf of the closet are filled with spare towels and blankets. Aside from the empty hamper and a collection of swanky padded clothes hangers, the closet is empty.
I wander back into the bathroom and take my time looking in every drawer and cranny. Other than the toiletries from earlier, I find a manicure kit that got shoved into the back of the bottom drawer, a stash of cleaning products and spare toilet paper rolls, and a hair dryer. Perfect. Now all I need is the bathtub. I snort. I’m not the suicidal type. Twisted, broken, severely messed in the head, and wrapped in a delicate layer of sarcasm, yes. But not suicidal.
Flopping onto the sinfully comfortable bed, I let my mind drift over the last few hours of my life, which unfortunately is currently a giant pile of I don’t know meets fuck my life.
Starting with who is Sean O’Connell? And why am I here? I think back to my conversation with Pierre about the mafia families of New York. I feel like it’s a reasonable assumption that I’m currently with the Irish mob. Fuck. Why didn’t I ask more questions about the other families? Sean says that Popov started a war. Do I trust that? I sure as hell don’t trust Popov. I remember Pierre saying that when the families of New York went to war, Popov would be the cause of it.
Jesus, Rocky, did you bite off more than you can chew.
