Body of Trust: A Romantic Suspense Novel Page 17

  He takes a handkerchief out of his pocket. “You had one job to do.”

  “I did it. Down to a T. I’m sorry it didn’t work, but that should be enough for a conviction. I have the gloves. Can’t you use those?”

  His eyes bead as he grimaces with a snarl. “Jesse was right. You ask a lot of fucking questions.”

  Before I know it, his large body is over me, covering my face with the cloth. I try to fight him, thrashing, kicking, and head-butting, but his body is on me in a way Jesse never taught me to fight against. His hand pushes the handkerchief harder against my face.

  I feel light-headed.

  And my mouth tastes sweet.

  And …

  It.

  All.

  Goes.

  Black.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Jesse

  At least once a day, I think of going home.

  Dad’s jokes, Mom’s cooking, and my sister Melanie’s laughs are the three things I miss the most.

  I remember the day I told Mom I wanted to be a police officer. She was thrilled. A son who would be out to protect and serve his community was the be-all and end-all.

  For a kid who had gotten into his fair share of trouble as a teen, this was great news. When she learned it was to join the FBI as an undercover agent, she panicked.

  For my safety.

  For my life.

  Because she’d never see me again.

  I love my mama, but when a man sets out to fulfill his destiny, there’s no stopping him.

  When I left Kentucky for the academy, I had a grand idea of the man I would become. The mistakes I’d made would be left in the past. Moving forward, I was going to be a man living a life of intrigue and adventure. I’d get the bad guys and never have a dull day at work.

  I haven’t.

  In seven years, I’ve worked as a pimp, a bouncer, a crackhead, a car thief, and an arms dealer. Some jobs are short, and others, you bury yourself in the world so deep that you don’t know if you can get out. That’s what I did.

  It’s fun, pretending to be someone else. It’s more fun to watch the bad guys go to jail. While I’ve had a wild ride in the life of an undercover agent, I’ve never felt more alive than I have in one week with Amelia.

  I remember the first time I saw her. She walked in after work, wearing a green dress that fell to the middle of her thighs. I couldn’t not notice her legs. The woman has a killer body, and she doesn’t even know it. She sat at the bar and kept her eyes down. I slid a napkin across the bar.

  “What can I get you?” I asked her.

  “Um, just a house wine, I guess.” Her voice was timid. It was like she didn’t want to bother me by making me go out of my way to do the job I was being paid for.

  I shook off her request. “Do you settle for everything in your life or just your drinks?”

  That was when she looked up, and fuck me, I nearly gave the whole gig up, hopped across the bar, and asked her to run away with me.

  A heart-shaped face and big brown eyes with lashes that curled at the end. Her lips were full and pink, and it didn’t even look like she had a stitch of lipstick on. And her hair was long and silky, the kind I could imagine running my hands through while I held her.

  She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen in my entire life.

  That was when I knew I wasn’t going to make it out of this job alive.

  “We got him, boss.” A criminal in a leather jacket pulls me by the bicep, knocking me into shit because I have a goddamn bag over my head.

  “What the fuck is he doing here?” a man’s voice echoes across the room.

  The space is big. Based on the solid floor, I’m guessing it’s concrete slab, which means we’re in a warehouse or maybe an abandoned airport hangar.

  “I told you to take him out to the farm and feed him to the pigs.”

  “We were, but he said he had an insurance policy,” the criminal next to me says.

  “Is that so?” the boss says. “What are you waiting for? Make him talk.”

  I’m shoved against a wall as the bag is ripped off my head. My cheek is pressed firmly into the cold concrete. I can smell the lead paint as I inhale.

  The guy holding me to the wall is monstrous, easily six foot five and three hundred pounds of muscle. I could take him though, if only he didn’t have his gun pressed to my cheek and an audience of seven other criminals, who’d love to fulfill their boss’s wish and end my life, staring at us.

  Seriously, nine to one.

  This sucks.

  “Talk, Davenport,” the criminal says with a sneer, breathing his rancid breath in my face.

  “I changed my mind.” My words have bite.

  “You wanna think on that?” The gun is pushed further into my face. An intimidation technique if I ever knew one.

  I spit, “Never.”

  The gun is butted into my head, busting the bridge of my nose.

  Fuck, that hurt. My eyes close as I centralize the pain. “Fuck you!”

  He doesn’t like that answer, so he punches me in the face. The adrenaline in my body fights off any feeling as I steady my feet and land a right hook on his crooked nose. If he were going to shoot me, he would have done it when he cornered me at the meeting spot.

  Ambushed was more like it.

  Four men descend on me and force me to my knees, each pointing a gun to my face. I’m held down by two others like a rabid animal while staring down the steel barrels.

  The criminal in leather is wiping blood from his chin. I don’t have the same luxury. I can taste my own copper tinge seeping from my lip.

  Taking in my surroundings, I confirm it’s a warehouse. Something this size shouldn’t be too hard to pinpoint in this part of New York. I just wish I knew more about the geography of the Hudson Valley, as I do the hills of Kentucky.

  The sound of expensive shoes hitting the polished concrete floor draws louder as they get closer. A man appears before me in all black.

  I know who he is.

  Carlo Lugazzi.

  “You think you’re a hero, huh? Thought you were a big shot, playing undercover in the Evangelista clan. Imagine what they’re gonna think when we tell them they had a narc working for them,” the wise guy says as he walks between his guards. “Maybe we should drop him off at Villa Russo with a note attached. Here’s your FBI agent.” He laughs.

  “You’re just nervous because I have recordings of every contract bid from over the last year,” I dare. “It was nice working inside the mob for a while.”

  “Bullshit,” he says, but I can hear the panic in his steady voice.

  I’ve given him something to be nervous about.

  “Names, faces, accounts, and crimes dating back twenty-five years are with my source. If I don’t make it home, it all goes to the top of the food chain,” I challenge and am rewarded with a kick to the ribs.

  “He’s bluffing,” the one in leather says, looking me square in the eyes to see if I’m bullshitting.

  I don’t know where I am or how I’m getting out, but I’m certain Amelia is here somewhere. I need to buy myself enough time to get to her.

  If they don’t kill me first, that is.

  The wise guy in black looks at me with a narrowed squint and an evil glare. “Probably is. Just to be sure, why don’t you guys do what you can to make sure he talks?”

  As he walks away in his fine Italian shoes, one of the criminals slides on a set of brass knuckles and walks up to me, punching me in the side.

  I call out to the gods as my rib cracks from the force.

  I’m held down, unable to defend myself. They curse at me and spit on my skin. A bat is brought out, and I know this very well might be it.

  A muscular thug rushes toward me, reaching for my shirt and hauling my body against the concrete slab. I throw up my forearms like an offensive lineman blocking a defensive back. Another lifts me up and tosses me to a chair in the middle of the room. They take a swing, one at a time playing a g
ame of hit the pinata, except I’m not made of crepe paper.

  In an act of violence that makes you cough up your own blood, eight men rain hell on me. I absorb the drama, swallowing the pain.

  The only thing that keeps me steady is her.

  With a sucker punch to the face, I remember the sound of her voice.

  With a kick to my chest, I picture the way her soft skin feels in my arms.

  With the swing of a bat to my knee, I relive her laugh when she gets tickled.

  For every ounce of pain, I think of my Amelia.

  It was worth it.

  All of it.

  For her.

  For the first time in my life, I have the strong sense I might never see my family again.

  Or my sweet Amelia.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Amelia

  My head is foggy.

  I swirl my tongue around, desperate for a drink of water.

  My back hurts like a mother, a searing pain radiating up my spine and twirling around my side.

  As I go to move my back, it creaks, and I realize I’ve been sitting in a hunched-over position for a long time. I straighten my back and adjust my eyes, squeezing them shut and opening them again.

  The room is spinning, and I heave with nausea.

  “Kill him.” A man’s voice makes me jolt in my seat, forcing the chair to screech on the concrete floor.

  There’s no one in here. It’s just me in this room. The voices are outside these walls.

  I look down and realize I’m tied to a chair. My arms are zip-tied to the handles, and my feet are tied to the legs.

  I try to scream, but I’m gagged.

  No light, no windows, and nowhere to go. I inwardly panic from being in an enclosed space.

  I don’t know what else to do, so I thrash my body around in an attempt to free myself. Pulling my wrists, I try to rip the zip ties, but they won’t budge. I pull so much that my skin bleeds, and I cry.

  Big, ugly tears fall down my face as I bite down on the gag. Despite the pain, I pull again and again.

  It doesn’t work.

  “What’s all the noise in here?” a man yells as he bangs on the door.

  A heavy lock clicks, and the sound of a steel door scraping against the floor echoes as light from the other room pushes into this concrete dungeon.

  I protect my eyes with my partially closed lids and turn my head to the side. I have a headache.

  The man is older, about my father’s age, with a black shirt and black dress pants on. He’s smartly dressed, but he looks like he’s been walking around this dust-covered whatever it is for a while.

  Two thug-like men follow in behind him. One has a long leather jacket—way too hot for this time of year. The other just reminds me of the man who threatened me in the back seat of my car. I can’t be certain if it’s him, but odds are, I’m right. The reminiscent feel of the steel gun on my skin that day has me arching back. If I could run, I would.

  “Amelia Sorrentino,” the older man says as one of the thugs brings a chair in for him.

  The man takes a seat, crosses his legs, and takes a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket.

  “Who are you?” I ask him even though I’m gagged.

  He holds a matchbook up to his cigarette. He pauses before he strikes the match.

  “Blaggo, remove the gag. This is no way to treat a lady,” he orders his thug.

  This close, I can confirm he is indeed the man who threatened me in my car. I look away as he pulls the gag down my chin.

  “My apologies,” the man says as Blaggo goes back to his post by the door. “We haven’t been formally introduced. I’m Carlo Lugazzi, a good friend of your father’s.”

  “You’re no friend. I know who you really are.”

  He lifts a thick, dark brow. “Oh, really? Do tell.”

  “You’re the man who’s angry with Frank Evangelista and my father for reneging on a drug deal gone bad. They didn’t want any part in it and you’re sore.”

  “Sore?” He laughs, empathically. “Four hundred millions dollars don’t leave you sore. It makes you fucking angry enough to kill.”

  “You tried to use me for your own gain. You shot up Villa Russo, harmed my uncle Vic. You sent Rocco to intimidate me. You had me stalked and followed, and you had my father shot. You’re a career criminal,” I spit.

  He seems happy with my assessment because he’s laughing. It’s a menacing laugh, and it booms off the brick walls. When the laughter subsides, he strikes the match and lights his cigarette.

  “I was told you were a wallflower. I didn’t know you were feisty. Here’s where you’re all wrong. Frank and your father didn’t pull out of the deal because there are altruistic. The Sicilian Mafia is undercutting the Calabrians. There’s a war in the mother country and we all got invited to the party. Your father is going to move product for Sicily now. Or did you not believe he had it in him?”

  I look away from him, not wanting to hear any of this, but he leans in further. “I’ll tell you what, Amelia. I have one match left in this pack. If it lights, I’ll spare your sister. If it fails, she’s dead.”

  He flicks the match before I even have a chance to tell him what a sick fuck he is. I hold my breath, for fear the slightest breeze will put it out, and I watch as it lights. My eyes follow the antagonizing, slow trip from the matchbook to the end of his cigarette. He puffs, forcing smoke out the end, and I’ve never been happier to be trapped in a windowless room with a smoker.

  Carlo Lugazzi exhales and looks at the match as he shakes it out. “You’re lucky because I’m pissed and desperate for some retaliation.”

  “You’d kill my sister over a bad deal?”

  “No,” he says. “That was just a bluff. I’d never kill your sister. She’s a cute girl. Your father, on the other hand, will be slit like a fucking fish.”

  “You can’t!” I cry.

  He laughs. “I will. After I get rid of you for fucking up tonight’s assignment.” The calm and steady demeanor has morphed into something sinister. He rises and slaps my face so hard that the entire side of my face stings, and I think a tooth was knocked out. “Valedictorian, and she can’t get simple goddamn instructions down.”

  He kicks my chair, pushing me over so my body crashes to the floor. He’s standing over me as he yells, “Raphael had better get his money in order because I want my money, or they’re all dead—Raphael, Frank, Enzo, and Joey. They’re all going because Carlo Lugazzi doesn’t play games. Not anymore.”

  “You’d never. You’ll start a war!”

  “Then, they should have thought twice before they fucked with me. And you, little miss, are going away for a long time.”

  “What for?” I ask as he snaps his fingers, making his thugs pick up my chair and right it.

  When I look up at Carlo, he’s smiling. “For trying to fix the Mega Lotto. You are going to get decades for that, princess.”

  “It was a stupid plan that didn’t work! You can’t blackmail me because …” I close my eyes and try to think of something I just can’t explain. I’m not where I belong. I was in my car, and I was pulled over. “Salinger,” I breathe.

  Carlo flicks his ashes on my legs. “Did you know he grew up in the Bronx? We were altar boys together. Very tight, as the kids say.”

  Salinger was the double agent Jesse was talking about. He gave his trust to the wrong man. Only a handful of people know Jesse exists, and Salinger is one of them, meaning the department is compromised and Jesse’s life is in danger. I need to get to him, save him. Lugazzi will kill him for sure.

  “What can I do to make this right?” I plead. “There has to be something. DeLuca and I can—”

  “Tragic actually. DeLuca suffered a heart attack on the drive home. Poor out-of-shape bastard.”

  The burn of tears is painful in my throat. “Please don’t say that.”

  “Coroner already picked up the body. It was a possible crash too. The interstate is backed up to the bridge.” />
  “Carlo, please. I can help. If you wanted me arrested, you would have done it. You brought me here for a reason. Why?”

  “You’re right about that.” He takes out his phone and snaps a picture. “Just smile for Daddy.”

  The bright light of the camera blinds me.

  I’m shaking off the constant white light in my eyes when the door opens again. Two more thugs come barreling in, dragging a man by his feet. They throw him on the ground.

  Carlo looks down at the man, disgusted. “What a shame. He had such a pretty face. Oh, well.” He throws up his hands and walks to the door, barking orders, “Tie him up, and when he wakes, he’ll be smart enough to give up what he knows. And if he doesn’t, kill him.”

  “Yes, sir,” one thug grumbles as they hoist the man up by his underarms.

  I gasp when I see it’s Jesse.

  He’s bruised, and beaten to a pulp from head to toe. His left eye is swollen, and the right is squeezed tight, like he passed out in pain. His lip is thick, and his arm hangs, looking as if it’s broken.

  “This is the boyfriend, no?” a thug says to me with a laugh.

  “Mob daughter fell for a cop. What a joke.” The other takes out zip ties, and they strap them to Jesse’s arms and legs, securing him to the chair, just as they did to me.

  “Be careful!” a thug by the door shouts to me. “When he wakes, he’ll probably piss himself.”

  They all laugh as they march out and close the door with a thud.

  It’s quiet now. The kind of eerie silence that makes me sad. A cold draft whispers in the air around the cinder-block walls. There’s little light in the room, only what is given from the edges of the door frame.

  “Jesse,” I call out to him, but he doesn’t budge.

  My heart plummets, and my chin trembles as I stare at him, bloodied and broken. I’m shaken by his stillness, and yet I have to get to him. I need to be near him to see if my love is still alive.

  I wobble my chair and scoot as hard as I can, inching toward him. It takes too long for me to get to him, and I’m not anywhere near him.

  My knee brushes his, and that’s enough.

  “Jesse, wake up, baby,” I plead. “You have to wake up. Jesse!” My voice is loud as I try to rouse him. When he fails to flinch, my heart drops as I realize he’s more than banged up. He’s unconscious. “Oh, Jesse. I messed up. I did everything they’d said, but it didn’t work, and now, we’re here. Can you hear me?”