“Girl,” the man said, his rough accent heavily coloring his bad English, “you get out of car, or I make you.”
Catherine glared at him. “Fuck you.”
“Nasty words for girl with hands tied,” he said.
“Fuck. You.”
The two other men who had been driving in the vehicle with them chuckled as they exited from the front. None of them, including the man who was talking to her now, paid her very much attention the entire drive. She wasn’t even sure where they were.
A private airstrip, by the looks of it.
A jet sat waiting fifty feet away.
“One time more, girl,” the man warned, “or I make you.”
“I guess that’s what you’re going to have to do then, asshole.”
He sighed as though she was a small child in need of a spanking. His icy brown eyes held no hint of emotion, and his face was as blank as stone. All of the men had been like that, even when they busted the windows out of her car, pulled her out fighting and screaming, and made her cut herself on the glass. Her arm was still trickling a bit of blood from the cut on her elbow.
The bastards.
Catherine was dragged from the back of a black SUV by her hair. She should have known better than to fight the man, as it had done her no good when they first grabbed her, nor when she was stuffed inside their vehicle. They simply stared at her like she was a bug bothering them, tied her hands in front of her, and tossed her in the back seat.
Her cussing, name calling, and shouting had done nothing. Not for them, anyway. They chatted away in a language she didn’t understand and couldn’t place as the tallest of the three drove the SUV.
Three hours later, Catherine’s scalp stung as she was dragged across the tarmac.
“Stupid girl,” the man with his fist in her hair said. “You listen, no hurt.”
He pulled her up to her feet, and Catherine ignored the way her skin had been scraped on the black tarmac. Aches and pains were a part of this game, and she was not going to give these men even a fucking inch of her to use to their advantage.
Not her pain, fear, or anything else.
It was almost like she could hear her mother and father in her head, telling her what to do or not do. Would they fight? Absolutely. Would they bend to anyone’s will? Absolutely not.
She was their daughter, after all.
She could also hear Cross, different from her parents, but still the same in a lot of ways. Strength, defiance, and all fight.
So fuck these men.
She would give them her anger.
Catherine spit at the man when he stared her in the face. He didn’t even blink at her spittle landing on his nose, not even an ounce of rage of disgust. He simply kept looking at her.
What the fuck were these people?
Machines?
“You listen, no hurt. You hurt boss man, you hurt. Understand?”
“Get a fucking English lesson,” Catherine snapped at him.
“Get manners.” The man’s lips flattened into a thin line. “Spoiled girl.”
“The girl has a name—Catherine.”
“Don’t care,” he muttered, and then dragged her the rest of the way to the stairs leading up to the plane. “Name is little important.”
“Where are you taking me?”
“Shut now.”
“What?”
At the top of the stairs, standing in front of the plane’s open door, he turned and stared hard at her. His fingers came up and pinched her lips together. “Shut now, girl.”
Rage spilled through Catherine’s veins. The very second he released her lips from his fingers she jerked forward, intent on driving her tied hands into his face. If nothing else, at least she could say she did that.
Catherine didn’t even get her bound fists higher than her breastbone. The guy caught her hands, twisted them painfully, and put her to her knees without as much as a blink. She let out a cry, despite how hard she tried to hold it in, as her wrists cracked from how far he had twisted them sideways.
“Girl, I am angry, now. You stop.”
He didn’t bother to give her the chance to respond. Catherine was dragged inside the plane, past a watching pilot and flight attendant, and further into the private jet. It all happened so fast that all she could take in was the white leather of seats and port-style windows before she was tossed like a useless ragdoll to the floor in front of her captor.
Catherine blinked rapidly, trying to gain some bearings.
A low chuckle above her made her look up. Cold blue eyes stared back at her. The man was tall—well over six and a half feet. His chest was as wide as a fucking barrel, and his arms bulged against the tight fit of his Armani suit. A diamond encrusted, gold watch caught the overhead cabin light, and gleamed brightly.
The toe of his shined black shoe came forward, and ticked Catherine under her chin to force her head even higher. “My, you are a pretty thing, aren’t you? Pretty ass, pretty mouth, and pretty fucked, at the moment.”
Catherine let out a shaky breath, and managed to hide the disgusted shiver that crawled through her body. She did not like the way this man looked at her, never mind how he spoke about her.
“Cat got your tongue?” he asked.
“Where are you taking me?”
“That’s your question?”
Catherine nodded.
“Out of everything you could possibly ask,” he murmured, “that is your question?”
“Why not?”
“I would think asking me who I am might be a good start.”
“That’s a bit vain of you to think I care who you are, isn’t it?”
His eyes narrowed. “I am an important piece to the puzzle, Catherine.”
“Good. You know my name.” Catherine sneered. “As long as you know who I am and where I come from, I don’t give a fuck who you are.”
The man smiled. “Shame.”
His shoe hit under her jaw, and sent her sprawling to the floor as blood bloomed in her mouth. Catherine tried to spit it out, but only choked when his shoe stepped down on her throat with enough force to take all her air away and hurt like a bitch.
She clawed at his leg and shoe, desperately trying to take in a breath.
He simply laughed above her.
“Scratch my shoes, pretty girl, and I’ll have you lick them clean before you buff them out.”
“Go to hell,” Catherine hissed.
She had no air left. The man clicked his tongue chidingly, and shook his head. His shoe pressed harder. Catherine saw stars.
Soon, she didn’t see anything at all.
“Wake her up, or carry her to the boat. I do not care which you chose, Rami.”
“Girl.”
Catherine heard the voices echoing in the back of her ringing skull, and then felt a tap to her cheek. She blinked and tried to focus, but it wasn’t easy. The second tap to her cheek came harder than the first.
“Up now,” the man said.
Catherine found it was the same man who had dragged her into the plane. “Rami, that’s your name?”
Her throat ached with every word, and her voice was hoarse. She supposed that was to be expected when you were choked unconscious again and again. It seemed her captor took great enjoyment out of trying to get her to converse, only to choke her back into a black oblivion when she did not respond, or worse, when she acted out against him.
He lifted a single brow. “Name not important, girl. Up now.”
Rami yanked her up from the seat of the plane by the rope keeping her wrists bound. Catherine wet her lips, and tasted dried blood on the corner of her mouth. She was sore in more places than one, likely from being dragged and tossed around, not to mention kicked and choked.
“We go from plane to boat, girl,” Rami said. “You get seasick over side, not on deck.”
Catherine glowered at the bright sunlight as she was pulled down the stairs from the private jet. Ahead of them, she could see the eight other men who had kidnapped her, and the big man who continued to antagonize her on the plane.
The one they simply called their boss.
The hot, humid air soaked into Catherine’s lungs, as did the taste of salt from the ocean. The private airstrip seemed to be right beside the damn water. Two black and red speedboats waited at a dock, and like she was a dog on a leash, Catherine followed Rami when he pulled her along.
Her fight was not gone.
She simply needed a recharge.
“Rhys, sir, your drink,” a man on one of the speedboat said as the large man stepped onto the first speedboat.
Rhys.
Catherine filed that away for later.
The man who handed Rhys a drink did not look like the others who had taken her. He was thinner, older, and dressed in a simple black suit. Like a fucking butler or something.
But on a speedboat?
“Thank you, Curtis,” Rhys said.
Catherine was tugged past the first boat to the second. She was practically tossed from the deck onto the boat with little care, and her already sore wrists throbbed as she caught herself on a seat. Rami climbed in after her.
“I fully expect them to make the drop on time,” she heard Rhys say from the other boat. “She’s quite precious to her father—to the other man, too. The gunrunner. They’ll make it.”
“And when they do?” one of Rhys’ men asked.
“When they do, I’ll have my guns. What else?”
“Them, boss. What about them?”
“They should not have played games with me,” Rhys said before taking a sip from his glass. “And so, I will make sure that they never play another game with anyone after the drop.”
Catherine wasn’t sure how long the boats had been on the water. An hour, but more likely two. It was only when the sight of an island loomed in the distance did she finally lift her head to see what awaited her.
She still had no idea where she was.
She knew better than to ask, now.
As the speedboats came to a stop, Catherine took in her surroundings as she was pulled onto a dock.
The island was a good quarter of a mile long, but she couldn’t be sure how wide. For such a secluded place, it was well manicured with tress, tresses, and shrubs. A large, three-level Victorian-style home rested very close to the middle of the island, with a wide cobblestone pathway leading to the front steps. A smaller home, although not by much, sat on the far left side of the island. Two small buildings sat beside both homes, and Catherine could hear rumblings coming from inside the closest one.
Generators, maybe?
The place had to be powered somehow.
It wasn’t so much the strange island, or the beautiful home set apart from the rest of the world that set Catherine on edge. No, she supposed anyone rich and introverted enough could have something like this.
What bothered her the most?
The men standing guard along the beach. Twenty, at least. Catherine tried to do a quick count, but it was hard when she was being moved along. All of the men were dressed in black, wearing full combat gear, and each carried an assault rifle with a chest band full of bullets. Knifes rested in sheaths on their right legs and left arms. None looked at her as she was shuffled past, nor did they give Rhys or his men any attention.
“Walk,” Rami barked from behind her.
Catherine stumbled over tired feet on the dock, and glowered at Rami when he yanked her up by the collar of her dress. “I’m fucking moving, asshole.”
“Be nice,” Rhys said as he strolled on past. “Rami is your new best friend for the next few days.”
Great.
Catherine considered bolting for the ocean.
Rhys chuckled as he eyed her over his shoulder, as though he could read her mind. “Pretty girl—you are a dumb thing, aren’t you?”
Catherine resented that comment, but chose to stay quiet. She had managed to piss him off enough, and was not in the mood to be choked unconscious again.
“Don’t be stupid, Catherine Marcello,” Rhys said with a wicked gleam in his eye. “You’re on a private island in the Gulf of Mexico. Where are you possibly going to go? Keep in mind, if you do run, my men have orders to drown you … just not enough to kill you.”
Catherine shivered.
Who was this man?
Rhys smiled coldly. “Be a good guest, darling. We don’t often have them when we’re out here, and if you tend to irritate me too much, I may let the men have a bit of fun with you.”
She didn’t like what he implied.
The defiant part of her brain stepped up to the plate again.
“Go fuck yourself,” Catherine muttered.
Maybe she was stupid, but goddamn, she was still going down swinging.
It was the Marcello in her.
Rhys sighed, and flicked his hand at Rami.
“Spoiled girl,” Rami told her. “Quiet your mouth.”
Catherine suddenly found herself being dragged back the way they had come—toward the water. Every inch of her wanted to fight, and the self-preserving part of her almost started begging. Terror filled her to the brim, and her chest hurt from how tight it became.
She got one good gulp of air in before she was forced to her knees at the very edge of the beach. Rami grabbed a fistful of her hair, pushed forward without care, and her face hit water.
One second … two.
One heartbeat … two.
The old, soothing mantra she had used during panic attacks filled her mind. Her lungs burned as she refused to cave to the need to breathe.
Even if she survived this place, would they actually get away?
Catherine peeked over her knees as the door to her prison was opened up. It wasn’t really a prison—more like a very fancy, large bedroom and attached bath. Still, she was locked inside, the windows were nailed shut, and she was not allowed to leave. Her door only opened when Rami came along to bring her food and water, or once, for a change of clothes that she refused to wear. They had been men’s clothes, after all, and she was not wearing some man’s shit.
She was given nothing to distract herself. No books, games, television, or otherwise. She had nothing but her thoughts to keep her company.
That, and her fears.
Catherine found it odd that despite the amount of men she had witnessed when she first came onto the island, the place was strangely quiet. It was eerie, really. Occasionally, she would peer out the window to look at the back side of the island. It seemed the men who guarded the place rotated. Half of them on the front, the other half on the back.
“Food,” Rami said from the doorway. “Move, now.”
Catherine stared at him. “I’m not hungry.”
She said that every time Rami brought her something to eat, although he didn’t look to be holding any food this time. She did drink the bottled water, but only if the cap had not been tampered with.
He shrugged. “Boss says if you not eat here, you eat with him. Get up.”
Catherine considered refusing, but she had the distinct feeling that Rami would simply drag her from the room. She pushed up to stand on tired legs, and followed Rami out of the bedroom. She rubbed at her wrists, thankful at least that her bindings had been cut off the first night.
She didn’t pay much attention to the decoration of the house, or the paintings on the walls. She didn’t care for the intricate tiles on the floor, or the furniture in the rooms she passed by. None of it mattered—she just wanted out.
“Here, boss,” Rami said.
Catherine was shuffled into a dining room entryway. Rhys sat at a long cherry-stained oak table, with a napkin tucked into his collar, and a steak knife and fork in his hands. He pointed his knife toward the seat at the very end of the table, opposite to him.
“Sit, Catherine,” he demanded.
She quickly moved to the seat and sat down, staring at the plate that had been set out for her. Steak and vegetables—cooked perfectly, by the looks of it.
Her stomach growled, but her mind refused. She was not eating for this man.
“It’s the twenty-third of December today,” Rhys noted.
Catherine only stared at him.
“What were you expecting to do for your holidays, young lady?”
Loving Cross. Eating good food. Church, church, and more church.
Presents. Family. Happiness.
“Anything but this,” she settled on saying.
“You’re not hungry?” Rhys asked as he cut a piece of his own steak.
“No.”
“You haven’t eaten in … three days, now.”
“So?” Catherine asked.
“Are you one of those girls who equate your worth to the size of your waist?”
Catherine’s gaze narrowed. “No.”
“Then what it is?”
“I’m the kind of girl who doesn’t eat from the paw of a wolf.”
“Ah, I see.” Rhys grinned, and took a bite of the steak. He chewed and swallowed. “Starve, then.”
“I’ll do just that, thanks.”
“Rami says you’re not sleeping when he checks on you,” Rhys noted.
“Rami should worry less about my habits if all you plan to do is kill me once you get your guns.”
Rhys tipped a hand to the side, uncaringly. “Might as well enjoy your last days, no?”
Catherine refused to reply. He didn’t seem to mind.
“Tell me what it was like growing up with a mob boss for a father,” Rhys murmured.
Catherine avoided his gaze. “I don’t think so.”
“What about your boyfriend—Cross, right? Donati, they said his last name was. Another mafia child. Or as you people would say, a principe della mafia.”
“Again, no,” Catherine said.
“You won’t even indulge my conversation?”
“No.”
“And why not, girl?”
Catherine met his gaze, unafraid. “Because you don’t deserve to know those people, our lives, or who they are to me. I would eat shit before I would ever tell you a single thing about the people I love, or why I love them. Okay?”
Rhys let out a hard breath. “I should have taken your mother—his wife—and not you. You’re too difficult, girl. You make everything a pain. I can’t stand it.”
Catherine scoffed. “If you think I’m bad, you really don’t want to meet my mother. She would put me to shame, and do it with a smile.”
“Is that so?”
“Sure, if she didn’t rip your throat out first.”
Catherine shivered on the edge of the dock. The tide was starting to come in, and the sun was setting. It left a chill in the air like nothing else. She didn’t have much of a choice but to sit there and deal with it, considering her wrists and ankles were tied.
At least they weren’t tied together.
She tried to force herself to stop jittering, but it seemed impossible. Glancing over her shoulder, she found all the men of Rhys’ arsenal had come out to stand along the beach with their weapons in hand.
Except a couple …
A couple of the men were loading what looked to be fucking grenade launchers. The large, frightening weapons made Catherine sick to her stomach.
Rami peered down at her. “Remember, girl, quiet.”
Catherine nodded.
Honestly, she didn’t see what choice she had.
Rhys chatted with a couple of the men near the end of the dock, and for the most part, he was in a happy mood. Mostly.
“I don’t like the time of day he’s making the drop, boss,” one of the men said.
“It’s fine,” Rhys replied, waving the statement off. “Just get my guns off the boat, and we will worry about the rest. Was there any other word from the Mexican ship about anything else we might need to know?”
“According to our contact, the yacht is alone in the Gulf, and it came down from the States that way. From the position they gave at the time, he should be getting here anytime.”
“Good, good.” Rhys clapped his hands together. “How many people on the boat?”
“The guy said Thermal Imaging could only find two.”
“The Marcello boss listened, then.”
“I guess so,” the man replied.
“Too bad it doesn’t matter,” Rhys said with a laugh.
Catherine stared back out at the water.
Her heart was breaking. Surely this wasn’t the end. After everything, it couldn’t be like this.
Cross was coming, though.
So, Catherine waited.
The familiar yacht dropped anchor a good hundred feet from the dock Catherine was still sitting on. She remembered spending several days of summer on her grandparents’ yacht, but the sight of it with darkness looming all around did not bring her a sense of comfort like it might have any other time.
Already, several of Rhys’ red and black boats were heading out on the water. Catherine wasn’t bothering to look at them; a better sight was near.
Cross stood on the bow. His arms folded over his chest, and he stared back at her, unmoving. She found a desperate urge rising in her chest to shout out to him; to warn him of the plan she knew was unfolding without his knowledge. A plan that would leave them both dead.
Rami standing above her, with a gun pointed at her head, kept her quiet.
Rhys came up to stand at the edge of the dock with a megaphone in hand. He turned the megaphone on, and put it up to his face to speak.
“Guns first, young man, and then the girl.”
Even from her distance, Catherine could see Cross nod once.
Then, he turned away and disappeared to somewhere else on the boat. Catherine’s heart sank as she suddenly realized her one chance to warn him might have been entirely lost in that one second. It was very possible that one of Rhys’ men might kill Cross the very moment they were on the boat with him.
Catherine didn’t know for sure, but it was enough to make her stomach churn. So much so, that she felt what bit of water she had sipped on that day climb up her throat without any kind of warning. She barely had time to turn to the side before vomit and bile spewed from her mouth, off the side of the dock. Still, some got on her cheeks and hands.
Rami grunted disgustedly above her. Wordlessly, and without permission from Rhys, he bent down and undid the rope from around her wrists. He pointed at the water where her vomit was already washing away.
“Clean, now.”
Catherine glared at the man.
She had a good mind to ask if he could say more than a couple or a few words at a time. She stayed quiet instead. Slowly, she washed the sickness from her face and hands, using the salt water to hide her shakiness. She took her time because she worried the moment she was finished, Rami might tie her wrists up again. She wondered how long she could fuck around with the ropes off. Maybe then …
Catherine glanced at the yacht again, only to see Cross had come back to the bow. Rhys was shouting orders through his megaphone as the red and black colored boats docked along the low lying stern of Beauty.
Cross didn’t move an inch, instead staying right where he was, and keeping his gaze firmly locked on hers. Like he was waiting for something—a sign, maybe. Anything.
Catherine wondered … if this was her one chance to warn him, and if she did, what good might it do them? There was no one there but them. His one boat, to Rhys’ fleet. His one man, to Rhys’ army.
Hell, if they were going to die anyway, Catherine kind of wanted to make sure she at least went with him. Touching him. Holding him. Near him. Anything except like this.
Cross’s head turned to the side just a bit, as though he could hear something from behind him. Catherine’s gaze darted to the men still on the boats at the yacht’s stern, only to see their heads were also turned to the side, and looking somewhere in the distance.
She looked up. Rhys’ was barking for someone through the megaphone. Rami’s gun was pointed away from her, and his gaze was on the yacht. Catherine took her chance.
She was up on her feet and stumbling the last two feet to the end of the dock before she could even think about it. Despite her ankles being tied, she managed it without someone yanking her back. She jumped just as she felt Rami coming behind her. His mother tongue spilling from his lips.
Catherine screamed just before she hit the water. “It’s a trap, Cross!”
And all she felt was ice. The water was cold; so goddamn cold. It took her breath away, and stung her skin. She spread her arms wide, seeing blackness all around because of the night sky. She tried to kick her legs, and forgot that they were still tied for the moment.
Still, Catherine broke the surface. She sucked in air, and went back under.
All she knew was the direction she wanted to go, and so she did. Catherine flicked her tied legs like a mermaid might flip a fin, and swam. She stayed under the surface until her lungs were fucking burning and she couldn’t hold off on getting air any longer.
She came up with a gasp to break the surface.
“Swim, babe!”
Catherine blinked. Cross’s voice echoed along the water.
“Swim!”
She swore his words carried with the waves of the water that kept trying to push her back under with the current. She couldn’t see with the waves hitting her face, and the darkness, but she thought he was in the water, too.
Maybe. Maybe, maybe, maybe. Catherine swam.
She heard boats going, and engines purring. She looked up only to see the bow of her grandparents’ yacht on fire, and then a second later, something blew into the side of the boat, rocking it and tearing another fiery hole straight through it.
Catherine remembered those grenade launchers the men had.
Her stomach rolled again. She kept swimming.
She couldn’t breathe. Salt water choked her.
Her vision wouldn’t clear. She kept swimming.
Catherine felt a hard wave come up as a boat engine suddenly became very loud. She saw the light blue boat—a speedboat the same color as the ocean in the daylight—a second before arms were reaching over the side. She was pulled from the water and into the boat in a heartbeat, and suddenly she could breathe again.
Her back hit the deck. She sucked in air and spat out water.
Her gaze locked on Zeke. And then her father.
“Get him!” Zeke roared. “Get him out of the fucking water! Get him now!”
“Catty … dolcezza, look at me,” Dante murmured.
She locked gazes with her father. “Cross.”
“Worry about you right now, huh?”
A pattering sound beat against the side of the boat, making every single person on deck hit their knees. Gunfire, she realized.
“Jesus Christ, somebody get him out of the water,” she heard Zeke hiss.
Catherine stared up at the sky, all black and dotted with stars. There was something else up there, too. A white splash against the dark background. A plane, maybe?
She tried to focus, to take in details. The plane was a hell of a lot closer to the water than it should be. Maybe fifty feet, or a bit higher. A Cessna, probably. She only thought that was what the plane was because of the large open door on the side—like the ones they used for sky diving.
“Calisto’s plane is coming in from the east,” she heard her Uncle Lucian say. “Giovanni’s from the west.”
Catherine focused on the plane again just in time to see large barrels be shoved one after the other out the side of the plane. What in the hell were those things? Why was there a whitish smoke trailing behind them as they fell?
“Jesus, I said—”
“They’ll get him,” Dante interrupted Zeke. “Don’t be stupid and jump off the boat right now. They’ll turn you into shark bait with all the bullets flying.”
Catherine rolled over to her knees and looked over the side of the boat. Another speedboat, blue like theirs, was circling back fifty feet away. She glanced back to the island just in time to see the barrels hit the ground.
One on the house. One closer to the beach. One further to the west side of the island.
All exploded on impact. Bright yellows and reds.
It shook the fucking earth. Catherine’s air caught in her chest.
“Get down!” Dante shouted.
Catherine was dragged down to the deck of the boat, and pinned under her father’s body. She heard something pepper the side of the boat, but she didn’t think it was bullets that time.
“Fertilizer and diesel did the trick,” Lucian mumbled from the front of the boat.
“Shit, I can’t decide right now if the nails for shrapnel was a good idea or not,” her father replied.
“Where’s Cross?” Catherine asked.
“Still in the water, sweetheart.”
“Where?”
She didn’t get an answer. She wondered if they knew.
“There’s Gio’s plane,” Lucian murmured.
Catherine looked up to see another plane coming in from the opposite direction. Again, too close to the water. Again, door wide open.
“Cross!” Zeke roared.
“Get down!” Dante shouted back.
Zeke jumped over the side of the boat as the second slew of barrels were pushed out the side of the plane. Catherine closed her eyes, covered her eyes, and prayed.
She was supposed to be Cross’s God, wasn’t she?
That’s what he said. She was the thing he most revered. So she prayed. She hoped God answered.
Catherine found she was still praying to Cross. He was the only thing she knew how to revere, too.