Trapped with the Mob Boss - A Mafia Romance

That being said, as I head into the comic book store, I'm wishing I'd brought a sweater. Not every person shopping inside will be a nerd with zero skills regarding the opposite sex-I'm a frequent shopper here, after all-but that is a large percentage of the clientele. Between the nerds and the teenage boys who ogle my bit of cleavage, I can feel like a slab of meat when I'm inside.

I take one step and suddenly, someone is standing right next to me. I jump and yelp in surprise.

"Sorry. I didn't-"

Then, I look up. The man is tall and broad, but a dark hood is pulled low over his face so I can only see his mouth and chin. His lips are tightened into a scowl.

For a second, I wonder if it's a member of my security team. But it can't be. They usually opt for civilian casual-jeans, T-shirts, baseball caps. Not shadowy hoodies. Besides, this man is standing way too close and hasn't said a word to me.

I shy away from him, spinning so I'm walking backwards towards the store, my eyes on the man's looming frame. I regret making fun of the men who frequent the comic book store, because now I'm praying one of them will notice this creep outside and come save me. But I only manage two steps back before I hit something solid and warm. When I try to jump away this time, an arm wraps around my upper body, pinning my arms to my side.

Someone is grabbing me like they mean business.

I'm being squeezed so tightly I can barely breathe, but I strain my neck to look back. Same hood, same shadowy face, but unlike the other man who looked like he was gritting his teeth, this man's mouth is parted, almost as if in shock. And his jawline. The stubble.

The handsome man from earlier.

A hand clamps down over my mouth, and I realize with horror that I've missed my opportunity to scream. Maybe if I hadn't been so busy eyeing him before, I would have noticed something suspicious about him. And maybe if I hadn't been staring at his square jaw and wide mouth, I would have had the presence of mind to scream.

I struggle, legs flailing, body thrashing, but I can feel the fight leaking out of me as if I'm a balloon and someone has poked a hole in my side. My vision goes black around the edges, my arms and legs get heavy, and my head sags to the side. I'm fighting unconsciousness and losing badly. If the man wasn't holding me up, I would fall flat on the pavement.

Then I feel an arm behind my knees and my neck, and the gentle sway of his body as he carries me down the sidewalk. I don't even have the energy to be terrified.

"Sorry about that," he says, his voice a baritone lullaby carrying me off to sleep. Then... darkness.

***

My eyes jerk open. I sit up, aware that something is wrong before I'm even conscious. My head swims, and I press a palm to my forehead to try to keep my brains from sloshing against my skull. I feel worse than I did after my twenty-first birthday when Ivy and I stupidly tried to take twenty-one shots to celebrate. We didn't get anywhere near twenty-one, but I probably vomited twenty-one times.

Happy twenty-first to me!

I'm clammy and cold. The air around me feels stale and still, and I don't need to look around to know I'm in a small room. Each movement of my eyes sends a stab of pain straight to my central nervous system, but thankfully (or unfortunately) there isn't much to look at.

I'm in a cell. Four white walls, no windows, one door with a sliding cutout big enough for a pair of eyes to look in on me. It looks like a room created to hold psychotic patients. I look down and practically expect to see myself tied up in a straitjacket.

I'm still in the same dress I was wearing earlier today. Wait, was it today? Or two days ago? My mouth is dry and my stomach is rumbling, and with no windows, I can't say what time of day it is.

Could I have been unconscious for more than a day?

I feel the rising tide of anxiety in the back of my throat. I swallow and refocus. I have to stay calm. It's the only way I'm getting out of this alive.

I take stock of myself. The men who grabbed me on the street didn't hurt me. They didn't take my clothes off or beat me. I take it as a good sign that, whatever it is they actually want, it doesn't seem to involve violence.

For now.

Slowly, I peel myself off the floor and stumble to the door. The doorknob is locked so tight it doesn't even jiggle.

"Hey!" My throat is raw and dry, and the word comes out as barely more than a rasp. I cough and try again. "Hello?"

My voice echoes down what looks like a long hallway, and when no one answers, I begin to panic. Am I alone? Will I be left to die? Does anyone know I'm here?

I'm wearing a silver bracelet given to me by my father for Christmas. It has my name stamped on a silver plate in cursive, and I spin the plate around so it's on the inside of my wrist and use it to bang against the metal door. The sound echoes off the walls and makes my ears ring, but it's better than screaming. I'd rather scratch my bracelet than lose my voice.

Almost immediately, I hear pounding footsteps growing louder, but I keep banging.

Maybe the person coming is a rescuer. Someone who will be horrified to see a woman being kept in a room.

"I'm in here," I say, a dry cough breaking up the words.

When I stretch on my tiptoes to look through the small opening in the door, brown eyes are already looking back at me. I rasp out a scream and stumble backwards, tripping over my feet and falling on my ass.

The door opens slowly, and I scramble back against the far wall, tucking my legs in front of me to try and make myself as small as possible. Whoever is on the other side of the door, I know they aren't here to help me.

Bright white light fills the room, and I realize the overhead light has been turned on. I blink against the burning in my eyes, and the figure in front of me begins to take shape. Blue jeans, muscular legs, white T-shirt with a fitted brown leather jacket over top, and then a square jaw. The square jaw. It seems silly to remember a feature like that, but I'd know it anywhere. Give me a line-up, and I'd pick him out of it based solely on that jaw.

It clenches, and I look up and realize the man is smiling. It sends a shiver down my spine.

"If you don't want to be tied up and gagged, I suggest you be a good little hostage and keep it down." His voice is as deep as I remember, and I swear I can feel it rumbling through the floor.

"Hostage?" I croak. I sound like a frog, and I know I shouldn't care what this man thinks of me, but I do.

He steps backwards through the open door-if my legs didn't feel like jelly, I might try for an escape-grabs something off the floor, and returns with a bottle of water and a gas station sandwich wrapped in plastic. He tosses both at me. Instead of catching them, I deflect them and then have to crawl across the floor like an animal to grab greedily at the water. After downing half the bottle, I wipe my mouth and lean back against the cold concrete wall.