Restrained Box Set: Boston Doms Books 1-4, page 55
Except baby sister was barely twenty-three. Did she really know enough about the world to move to Germany—alone? Or to hook up with a guy she’d just met four days ago? As Sofia headed for the shower, she sent her sister a message.
I hope you’re okay. Miss you. I have a couple of interviews today. If they go well, I can rearrange my plans for tonight and stay home. Popcorn and Casablanca?
Outside Maldon’s, one of the ritziest restaurants in the South End, Sofia smoothed her hands down her black silk shirt. She’d dressed conservatively but had a short skirt in her messenger bag for her next interview—a college bar in Back Bay.
As she took a deep centering breath, someone bumped into her from behind. Her bag fell off her shoulder, spilling her keys and lipstick onto the
pavement. “Dammit,” she hissed as she glared at the big guy shuffling away.
She almost called out to him, but when he turned to glance back at her, her heart stopped. She’d seen him before. Going into Victor’s poker game. He hadn’t been there the other day, but…he was a regular.
Coincidence. It had to be. No one associated with Bound would know she was here. Unless…Maldon’s owner knew Victor. Her phone buzzed.
My friend’s news was not reassuring. My meeting with Ben was delayed until three. I’ll call you after that. Good luck with your interviews. -N
God. She needed Nick right now. A hug. A kiss. Some of his confidence.
But if she didn’t get inside, she’d blow the interview before she even said hello. She’d respond to him when she was done.
Where are you? After her second interview—and the humiliating task of changing into her micro-miniskirt in the bar’s tiny bathroom—Sofia texted her sister again. Still without a job offer, she was going to have to go back to Bound tonight. Maldon’s promised to give her an answer by Monday, but the bar wouldn’t finish their interviews until then.
On her way up her apartment building stairs, she tried to give herself a pep talk. “You’ll march up to Victor, tell him Nick is busy, and but he’ll be in next week. That gives you seven whole days to find a job. He can’t argue with that. Nick will stay away from Bound. He’ll do that for me. Everything will be okay.”
If only she could pull off the lie. Her mother used to tell her that the truth shone in her eyes like a neon sign. As she closed the apartment door, her phone finally buzzed with a message from Gina.
Going to Atlantic City for a couple of days. Last big adventure before the big adventure. You’ll have to sing along to the movie on your own. Be back on Sunday. Love you.
Sofia wandered into the kitchen with tears burning in her eyes. Sing along? She never sang along. Not since their mother died. At least she got a love you. That was more than her sister had ever said before.
Something crunched under her feet. “Oh my God.” The statue of the Virgin Mary from the top of the fridge lay in pieces on the linoleum. As she stooped to clean up the mess, she let her tears spill over.
Nick
Ben Hetherington’s office overlooked Boston’s Inner Harbor. Nick accepted a cup of coffee from Ben’s assistant and stared out the window while he waited for his lawyer to finish his previous appointment. Pulling out his phone, he sent Sofia a text.
I hope you’re all right. Please tell me if you’re going to Bound tonight.
He wasn’t proud of the death grip he had on his phone. After his meeting with Cal, Nick had returned home to clean up the mess the police left behind.
They’d gone through the drawer of sex toys and had taken the hemp rope and the blindfold. At least they’d left the leather cuffs and collar. Wiping the fingerprint dust from the nightstand, his hope for a future with Sofia dimmed.
She knew he hadn’t had anything to do with Emily Norse’s kidnapping, but who wanted to date a man under investigation for such a thing? Her text message did nothing for his mood.
I have to. I’m going to tell Victor that you had another engagement tonight. Please stay away from Bound. And me. I think he’s having me followed.
Anger flared, along with a deep, possessive need to protect her. Staring at his phone, he tried to come up with a suitable reply that didn’t paint him as a caveman. Or a total prick. His first attempt, “Like hell I’ll stay away. If he’s having you followed, I’m going to park myself at the bar all night,” probably wouldn’t go over very well.
“Nick? Come on in.” Ben held his office door open, and Nick shoved his phone back into his pocket. Probably safer for him to call her after this meeting.
Rich leather chairs, a dark, cherry wood desk, and a small conference
table lent an imposing air to the room. “I’ve made a dozen calls in the past few hours. It’s not looking good.”
“Fuck. How? I saved a woman’s life. Or tried to. The police don’t know what happened to her?”
“No.” Ben brought up a file on his laptop. “Officially, there’s no public statement about Emily Norse. Unofficially…my Boston PD contact says that Emily Norse checked herself out of the hospital the day after the attack. She hung out with her roommate for a few hours, got a couple of calls, but then the roommate left the apartment at 9:00 p.m. When she came back, the place was a mess—like there had been a struggle—and Emily wasn’t there. She hasn’t been seen since.”
Nick cracked his neck, trying to relieve the headache brewing behind his eyes. “Who called her?”
“Unknown numbers.”
This day couldn’t get much worse. Nick sank back in the chair. “So what do I do?”
“You let me handle shit. Stay away from Bound, don’t let the press catch you anywhere but home, the gym, the soup kitchen. For the next few days, Nick, you’re a monk. Understand?”
With a nod, Nick thought of Sofia. Monks didn’t date. “What about Sofia?”
Ben arched a brow. “She works at Bound. Any association with that place
—or with her—is going to work against you. Try to see things from the police’s perspective. If you continue to be seen with her while this investigation is going on, they could decide that she’s a convenient suspect.
Slip a little Rohypnol into a victim’s drink, send them into one of the private rooms where you’re waiting…”
“That’s bloody insane.” He shot to his feet, the desire to hit something growing by the minute. “She has nothing to do with this cock-up.”
Ben held up his hand. “That doesn’t matter. Like it or not, you’ve got a target on your back. The only way you can get rid of it is to be a fucking saint until the heat dies down.”
Nick left Ben’s office with a headache and an order to go straight home.
Phone in hand, he almost called Sofia, but…what would he say? He’d probably beg her not to go to Bound and come over, and Ben would have his head. Or worse.
Reading her message again, he didn’t notice the shadow in his path until
he collided with a huge man wearing a long leather coat. “Sorry, mate—”
The apology died in his throat as he came face-to-face with Mario Ricci.
15
Nick
M ario grabbed Nick’s arm and steered him towards a black town car. “Forlano wants to see you. Now.”
“That’s not going to work for me,” Nick spat and tried to wrench his arm free, but they’d reached the car, and two more of Forlano’s men emerged from the front seat.
“If you want to keep that face of yours looking pretty, shut up and get in.”
Mario opened the back door and shoved Nick onto the seat. “Boss said to bring you in. So that’s what we’re doing.”
Too angry and shocked to think clearly, Nick fumbled with his phone until Mario snatched the device out of his hands. “I’ll keep that safe for now.”
“I don’t owe your boss a dime. What the fuck is this all about?” The car pulled away from the curb, and through the tinted rear windows, Nick feared he saw his life streaming by on the busy Boston streets.
No one answered him. After another two futile attempts at questioning Mario, Nick slumped back against the seat. At a stoplight, he considered jumping out of the car, but Mario hadn’t taken his eyes off Nick once. He’d be lucky to touch the door handle before the man broke his wrist again.
Half an hour later, they pulled into a back alley in the North End behind Forlano’s restaurant—Damian’s Trattoria. Another suited thug opened Nick’s door and gestured for him to get out of the car. Once the guy—Nick thought
his name might be Silvio—patted Nick down, Mario prodded Nick through a dark hallway and shoved him into Forlano’s office.
Damian, the head of the Forlano crime family, sat behind his desk with a cup of espresso at his elbow and a fat file folder open in front of him. “I figured if I ever saw you again, Nick, it’d be to loan you another ten grand.”
“I don’t gamble anymore. Care to explain why your crew felt the need to abduct me off a public street?” Nick balled his hands into fists at his sides, glancing behind him to verify that yes, Mario was once again standing close enough to snap his wrist.
Tossing a black and white photo on the edge of the desk, Damian raised a brow. “Where is she?”
Emily Norse. Shite. “Why does everyone think I had something to do with that girl’s disappearance?” Nick straightened his shoulders and tried to transfer his weight to the balls of his feet. “I never even spoke to her.”
“I had an interesting visitor the other day,” Forlano said as he reclined in his chair. “Victor Petrov.”
“Why would Bound’s owner come to see you?” Thoughts swirled in Nick’s head, and he wished Mario would let him get away with fishing his chip out of his pocket. He needed to think, to concentrate.
“To ask about you, Nick. Your tells, your predilections, your favorite haunts. How best to lure you in.” With a smile, Damian rose and skirted his desk. He grabbed Nick’s lapels and hauled him almost off his feet. “My family’s been running the gambling scene in this town for more than a century. I don’t like anyone honing in on my turf.”
“For fuck’s sake, Damian. What part of ‘I don’t gamble anymore’ didn’t you understand?” Nick crashed into Mario when Forlano released him. The thug shoved Nick against the wall and drove his fist into Nick’s side. Trying not to retch as his knees hit the floor, Nick forced himself to breathe through the pain. “What the hell…does this have to do with…that missing girl?” he wheezed as he braced his hand on Forlano’s desk and struggled to his feet. “I swear…on my life…I don’t know anything about her. I found her in a back room at Victor’s club with a guy bigger than Mario trying to shove a needle into her neck. I saved her that night.”
Damian arched a brow as he studied Nick’s face. “You’re not lying.”
With great effort, Nick managed not to roll his eyes. “I’m an addict. I don’t sell women. I don’t hurt women.”
“According to my sources, Victor Petrov does. You’ve gone to the club
on successive nights. I had to be sure you’re weren’t in his pocket, too.”
Fuck. Sofia worked for that piece of scum. His… What was Sofia to Nick? Girlfriend? Lover? They’d had two dates. A long, passionate night of sex. Nick straightened, the pain in his side helping him focus. “I’m nowhere near his pocket. In fact, I’d be quite happy if he and Mario had a little talk.
One that didn’t involve words. What do you know?”
With a grimace, Forlano leaned a hip against his desk. “I own hundreds of people in Boston. Secrets and lies like you wouldn’t believe.” He chuckled.
“Well, perhaps you would. You had plenty of your own secrets, as I recall. I hear things. So do my men. And for the past few months, we’ve heard rumors of a Russian crew stealing girls off the streets and from clubs and selling them into slavery. They’re rounded up over the course of a month or so, then shipped off to somewhere in the motherland where they’re sold to private owners or work in brothels.
“The girl—Emily—is Silvio’s neighbor. A nice lady, he says. But she has a wild streak. Drinks and bar hops every weekend. Silvio says he saw some shady characters lurking around the apartment building a few weeks ago. He chased them, but they were too quick for him.” With a shake of his head, Damian muttered something about Silvio needing to go on a diet.
“If you know who’s taking the girls, why don’t you go to the police? I’m sure you have a few in your pocket.” Nick’s jab landed him against the wall, his left arm bent behind his back. “Fuck! Let me go, you piece of shite.”
“Mario.” Damian’s warning carried a venomous edge, and the enforcer released Nick.
His arm hung half-useless at his side as he rubbed his shoulder to ease the burning pain. Another second or two and the bone would have popped out of the socket.
“I used my contacts on the force. But I’m not the only one with friends there. The Human Trafficking Unit is completely under his control. They won’t investigate Petrov. They will, however, investigate you.”
“Clearly.”
“The police consider you a suspect. Victor wants you in his poker game.
And you’ve been seen with one the club’s employees.” Forlano slid another photo from the file folder. Nick and Sofia outside Artist’s Grind.
“Sofia is not part of this!” Nick said, his tone bordering on a low growl.
“I would bet my life on that fact. Are you having her followed as well? Or just me?”
Damian rolled his eyes. “Just you. For now. Victor’s setting you up to take the fall, Nick. I don’t know why. Perhaps he’s run out of cops he can buy. I haven’t figured that out yet. If you want to get out of this situation without going to jail, there’s only one way. Work for me.”
“When I paid you off, I swore I’d never do business with you again. If you’ll excuse me. I’m going to honor that promise.” Though he didn’t think he’d be successful, Nick turned and tried to slip past Mario. To his shock, the big man moved out of his way, but as Nick reached the door, Mario grabbed the handle and held it shut. “I don’t know what you think you’re going to get out of me, Damian. Let me go. If Victor’s involved with the kidnappings, I have a friend on the force who can find out. But he won’t know to look at the guy unless I make it home in one piece.”
Nick’s steely blue gaze locked on Forlano. Two years ago, the man had scared the piss out of Nick. Now, he wouldn’t cower. Eighteen months of twelve-step meetings had taught Nick a lot about who he was, who he wanted to be. Forlano’s bitch wasn’t high on his list.
“Help us, Nick,” the Italian said, his expressionless face seemingly carved out of pure granite. “We want the Russians to leave Boston. After they return the girls. Otherwise, we’ll go to war. And win. Let Victor pull you into his circle. Then communicate our demands to our mutual… friend. Do that, and we’ll leave you alone. For now. Cross us, ignore us, and…well…the next bone Mario breaks won’t be so small. Or perhaps, it won’t belong to you at all.”
Mario shoved the phone back into Nick’s hands as the town car pulled up to the curb in front of his condo building. “Forlano expects to hear from you by Monday. Don’t disappoint him.” The big man smiled. “Or do. I’ll have fun rearranging your face. I haven’t had to hurt anyone lately. Been dying for a good workout.”
“Fucker,” Nick muttered as the car pulled away. His shoulder throbbed, he still felt the punch to his gut, and now his wrist ached with the memory of
the old injury. Once he looked at his phone, he clenched his teeth so hard an instant headache shot up the back of his scalp. Four missed calls. One from Alex and three from Ben.
Nothing from Sofia.
As Nick climbed the stairs, he played Alex’s voicemail. “Nicholas, I’m flying back from Seattle with Elizabeth in an hour. I expect you at the house tomorrow at nine. We need to draw up some paperwork protecting Fairhaven Exports and the remainder of your stock in case, as the press seems to believe, the authorities arrest you in the next few days.” Alex’s voice softened slightly. “I don’t believe you had anything to do with that woman’s disappearance. Even at your lowest, you still thought of others, and despite some of Candy’s poor fashion choices, I know you would never hurt a woman. But you’ve been reckless and irresponsible, and we need to sever ties for a time. I love you, Nicholas. But I cannot publicly call you family at the moment.”
Forgetting all about the calls from Ben, Nick sank into his father’s chair, dropped his head into his hands, and wept.
Sofia
Tugging at the micro-mini that topped her fishnets, Sofia tried to take a deep breath, but the corset dug into her sides. Gooseflesh rose on her bare shoulders as she stowed her coat and backpack under the bar.
For the moment, she and Leo, the bar manager, were alone in the massive room, the heavy bass of the club’s seductive dance mix loud enough to melt her brain. Good. Maybe she’d be able to get through the next few hours without thinking. Much.
Leo sidled over to her. “Last night was dead. I don’t know what it is about Thursdays.”
“The regulars know I’m off.” Sofia scooped up a handful of wood chips and dumped them into one of the bar’s garnish bins. Regretting her sharp
tongue—even though Leo had always been an ass to her—she sighed.
“You’ve been hounding me for weeks to teach you how to make a smoked cocktail. It’s now or never. Pay attention.”
Leo watched as she poured a shot of one of her botanical infusions into a cocktail shaker. Next, she dropped a couple of hickory chips into the smoke gun and set them aflame. “Get as much smoke as you can into the snifter,”
Sofia said. “Then drop a coaster on top while you do the rest.”
Once the ghostly vapor started swirling in the snifter, Sofia placed a disposable coaster on top of the glass, aimed the smoke gun into the cocktail shaker for a split second, then simultaneously topped the shaker with a pint glass and extinguished the flame. “Shake well, then pour from a distance.
And for fuck’s sake, don’t try to smoke the hell out of the infusion. You want the drink to have a smoky hint to it, not taste like an ashtray.”
