Boss: Complete Box Set: A Mob BDSM Romance (19 page)

I
’m torn
between the need for action and the overwhelming desire to curl into a ball and pretend this isn’t happening.

Brent—the man I fucking love with all my heart and soul—is betraying me by working with the man who killed my sister. All this time, I allowed Brent to lead me and mold me into what he wanted me to be, what he needed me to be. He knows I crave to submit, and
damn him
—he used my own proclivity to manipulate me.

He lied to me. He used me. He fucked me. And now, I could be a dead woman. Just like Nathalie and Liz. I wonder why he put the flash drive in my bag. Why would he give me proof that he’s lying to me? Is it part of his sick game somehow—part of some twist to lead me into my own death?

A fresh rip of pain goes through me as my mind races…

Who will be the one to finish me off? Georgios…or Brent? Maybe they’ll take turns, like cats with a dying mouse, before they flip a coin to see who gets the kill shot.

My heart begs me to trust him, to give him the benefit of the doubt, but my head reminds me that this kind of trust may stop my heart. Forever.

The thought spurs me into involuntary action. I straighten, finding strength somehow. I quietly start tossing things back into my computer bag. Palming the flash drive, I realize it’s all I really need. My computer can stay. Everything else can stay. Everything but me. I’m a sitting duck. There’s no doubt in my mind that Brent knows I’ve seen the files by now, but I can’t make it look like I’m preparing or planning to leave.

No. I need to go along with the norm. I can’t tip him off that I’m scrambling to find a way to blow this compound and get to freedom. It dawns on me that the guards downstairs weren’t just hired to keep bad guys out. They’re here to keep
me
in. It’s all part of Brent’s plan, and even though I have no idea what his end game is, I know I can’t hang around to figure it out.

But how am I going to get out of here?

Nausea returns, hard. My temple starts to throb. I can’t do anything tonight. I’m not in any shape to make a run for it. I need rest and time to plan. Remembering that I’m supposed to make dinner for Brent, that he’s waiting just rooms away for me, I realize I won’t be able to act casual when my whole body is shaking this hard. I grab my cell and pull up his number. Just looking at it makes the nausea worse.

My screen shows a list of our past text messages. I scan them and the pain welling inside me nearly makes me double over. He could be so sweet and convincing.

You looked incredibly fuckable today.

Thank you for taking care of those files.

Your hips are a work of art.

There’s more, but I can’t bear to read them. Instead, I type,
I’m so sorry. I’ve got a massive migraine out of nowhere. Head throbbing. Can’t keep eyes open. I’m going to lie down for the night. I ordered Chinese to make it up to you.
and send it. Then, I pull up the app for the Chinese place Brent loves and order his usual sweet and sour chicken for delivery. Mary should still be here, so she can handle the delivery when it arrives. I’m going to bed, with the door locked, not that it could keep him out. But it will give him a hint that I don’t want to be disturbed. And if he comes in, I’ll pretend to be asleep. If he wakes me, I’ll be complacent—but curt. I’m going to grab the gigantic pair of stainless steel scissors I found in the desk and hide them under my pillow.

Let the bastard try and kill me. I’ll slice him to pieces.

Grabbing the scissors, I tuck them into my clothes and hurry to my room. A reply from Brent comes just as I lock my bedroom door.

Rest well.

I’m trembling. That’s it? That’s all he’s going to say? He’s not even going to try and come talk to me in my room? I immediately wonder if he’s suspicious of me, but that’s crazy. His lack of an offer to get me medicine or give me a back massage or something isn’t that surprising, really. It’s Brent after all.

You never know if you’re going to get sweet or sour. I guess I’m fucking relieved to get sour right now, even if it does sting a little bit.

Slipping into bed, I put the scissors under my pillow and lie under the covers completely dressed. Honestly, I don’t think anything is going to go down concerning my safety tonight, but how do I really know? I can’t wait around for Brent or Georgios to make their next move.

Is this how Liz felt? Hiding under her covers with a tumult of fear and other emotions pumping through her? I can’t not think of her and the mysteriousness of how she vanished. All this time, I’ve despised myself for being jealous of her, and for suspecting Brent of doing something lethal to her. I don’t feel jealousy as I think of her now, just a profound sadness that she paved the road I’m walking.

Like her, and my sister, loving the wrong man is going to end very, very badly for me.

I shut down thoughts of Liz and refocus on my plan for escape. Even though my mind is racing, I finally begin to doze off. Soft sounds in the house seem unusually loud and I can’t get comfortable, but somehow I manage to sleep a little.

With the first rays of sunlight, it dawns on me what I need to do.

I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck. Nighttime might as well have not happened at all, because my body aches and my mind is blurry. Lying there, I focus on keeping my breathing calm. I know what I’m going to do and there’s comfort in the power.

Soon I’ll be free.

I wait an hour until Brent’s normal time to leave and then I wash my face and freshen up before going downstairs. As I head down, I sniff the air to see if I can catch a whiff of Brent’s cologne. I don’t, and it’s relieving. But I’m disappointed, too, because the part of me he has conditioned craves the elation his scent gives me. It’s a high I can’t get from anything or anyone else.

Even though it’s bad for me, I’m going to miss it. I’m going to miss him.

A weight settles behind my ribs and expands, filling me with displaced grief and sadness. How can I feel so much bitter longing for a man who quite possibly wants me dead?

Just how
fucked up
am I?

I don’t waste time pondering as I go down the hall. I almost run directly into one guard as I round the corner into the kitchen—the one who is usually fiddling with the security panels. I startle away from him—an overreaction that draws his attention. He gives me a skewed glance and sweat breaks out on my hairline. I’ve always been cordial to the guards, so it’s no wonder he notices the shift in my behavior. It’s not every day that I plan something devious. The guards are here to keep me in…expertly placed under the pretense of keeping the bad guys out. I need to get my shit together.

“Spider!” I say with a grimace and brush at his shoulder with my fingertips like I’m swiping off an offending arachnid. He follows my movement and raises a brow, but otherwise says nothing and continues on to go guard stuff, or whatever. I’m just glad he’s gone.

Pausing outside the kitchen entrance, I pull up the Uber app on my phone and type in my information. I wait to submit it, though, until the time is right.

Inside the kitchen, Mary-the-housekeeper is exactly where I hoped she’d be, by the sink. She’s drying silverware and humming softly to herself. She gives me a basic smile as I help myself to coffee. I grab some creamer, and for the sake of my plan, a bottle of Hershey’s syrup, from the fridge. She doesn’t pay attention to me as I add some creamer and syrup to my coffee and conveniently forget to mix it up. She’s about my height. A little wider in the hips and bigger in the chest, but overall, our statures match up fairly well.

My pulse ticks up as I pretend to sip from my mug, and walk nonchalantly in her direction.

“Good morning,” I chirp as I sidle up to her. She’s standing on an oval rug which offers the perfect excuse. I slide my left foot forward, snagging on the edge of the rug and lurch forward toward her. She jumps back with a startled gasp, but it’s too late. My coffee cup jolts forward, hot liquid making an arch and splash across the bodice of her uniform. The unmixed syrup drags down the fabric while creamer and java create something Monet would be proud of across her breasts.

“Oh my God!” I shout, reaching for her even as she draws back farther from me. “I’m
so
sorry!”

I’m sure the coffee scalded her some, and I feel bad about that. But at least she’ll live, which is more than I can say for myself if I don’t follow through here. Whisking a towel off the counter, I make a show of trying to blot the mess off her uniform, but she pushes my hands away.

“I can’t be seen like this!” She looks at me with wide eyes. “Mr. Masters is having a meeting here this afternoon and I—”

A meeting? With whom? Luckily, I won’t be here to find out.

“Please,” I interrupt her. “Let me wash that for you. It’s absolutely my fault. Stay right there.” I put my hands out and give her a stern look and she leans her butt against the counter and nods. I bet she’s still a little stunned and I don’t want that to wear off. Stunned people are malleable and more impressionable than when they are in their right minds.

I should know. It seems I’ve been stunned during my entire time with Brent.

I hurry to my room and return with a set of yoga pants and a roomy tee shirt. She’s desperately trying to rub the stain off herself, an action I find odd for a professional housekeeper. Even I know that something this bad needs stain remover and a pre-soak.

Taking her by the upper arm, I guide her along to the bathroom in the hallway. She resists at first, but then comes along more easily. It’s too early to feel excitement over this, so I stomp down the little flame of hope that ignites in me.

Gently, I push her into the restroom and hand her the clothes.

“I insist on washing that for you. In fact,” I lie, “my mother was a goddess at getting stains out. I’m a pro.”

She doesn’t respond, just comes back out and holds the uniform hesitantly out to me. I take it with a smile and she slinks back to the kitchen, obviously ready to be done with me. Taking out my phone, I complete my request on the Uber app and nearly have a panic attack. The clock is literally ticking down for me right now. There’s one part of my plan that I didn’t think through, and I race to fill that gap.

Remembering the meeting, I go into the kitchen with her uniform draped over my arm and pretend to look at my phone.

“Mr. Masters just texted me,” I say with authority. “He’d like eight bottles of wine brought up from the cellar for later today. Come and help me.”

“Eight?” She repeats, but I’m already striding off to the cellar door. It’s thrilling to hear her footfalls racing after me, but I’m dreading what I’m about to do. I’ve never been one to hurt anyone or cause distress—not intentionally anyway. I really hate that I’m sinking to this level, but damn it, my life is on the line.

I flick on the light as we reach the bottom and round a slight corner. The basement is finished in the same style as the upper levels. But Brent’s crowning glory down here is his precious wine cellar. It’s a specialized room with temperature control and racks specifically made to hold the bottles at just the right angle.

It also locks from the outside.

Lucky, lucky me.

It’s too easy, really, as I press the code on the security pad, turn on the light, and have her branch off to the left to look for a made up brand of vintage merlot. While her back is turned, I slip out and lock the door behind me.

It takes a mere two seconds for her to start hollering through the door. But it’s so well insulated that her voice is strained and weak. No one will hear her. Not for a while. Bursting into action, I undress and slip her uniform over my head. I’d grabbed a cute knit cloche hat from my things when I’d gone upstairs to get the yoga clothes. Tucking my hair up the best I can, I settle the hat on my head. Then, I fill the uniform pockets with a hundred in cash and one credit card that I’d taken from my purse.

Everything else stays.

This is it, all that’s left of me.

Ascending the stairs, I peek out to be sure no one is around before I lightly close the door. Then, with my head bent, I march back to the kitchen and find the housekeeper’s coat and purse in the closet. I toss the coat over my arm, the purse on my shoulder, and go.

Go, go, go. Down the hall to the front door.

My head is still down, and thankfully, the light is off so the area is a bit grey. The guard is there, of course, at his post like he wasn’t earlier. Fuck. I can’t overthink this or I’ll screw up, so I don’t. Instead, I start muttering about a spoiled, pampered woman spilling coffee all over me.

“I’ll be back,” I say curtly, skewing my voice in a way I hope is enough. I reach for the door handle. His hand snakes out and bumps against mine. Fuck. Fuck, fuck! I can’t meet his eyes. I can’t jerk away.

It all takes a second, but it feels so much longer as I move my hand a fraction, still mumbling about my uniform, sure he knows it’s me and not…

The door handle clicks as he opens it.

“Hurry back here.” It’s an order, barked like I’m nobody and I just nod. Warm air touches my lips, light rays of sun kiss my bare forearms and I’m glad to be nobody. Then I hear it, the crunch of tires on gravel and a silver SUV pulls into the driveway, just like the one Uber told me was coming.

“Hey!” The guard yells behind me.

I jerk, torn between acknowledging him and making a mad dash for the Uber. I hold my breath as my skin begins to crawl. He doesn’t wait for my reply though.

“I said hurry back.”

Oh, thank God. I don’t answer, just nod vigorously and bolt into the Uber.

“Drive,” I burst. “Just drive out of here and don’t stop.”

A young man looks back at me in the rearview mirror with obvious concern. “Ma’am?”

“Please,” I touch his shoulder and hold back a sob. “Just drive.”

And he does.

I
stand
at the sink in the women’s bathroom at Target as nausea rolls passive-aggressively around in my gut. I made it; I’m free. The Uber driver agreed to wait while I popped in to grab a few necessities. But now that I’m here, I’m a little disoriented.

What do I do next?

The faucet drips with a methodical pace, one drop taking an extraordinarily long time to drip into the sink, to the point where I think it might stop dripping altogether, and then it happens, the droplet finally falls when I stop expecting it to. Focusing on the annoying sink helps refocus my brain some, but it also reminds me that everything in my life right now is like that uncertain drip.

Something is going to happen when I least expect it. Which is exactly why I need to keep moving, to keep thinking.

A woman walks in and side-eyes me. I’d forgotten I’m still wearing the maid’s outfit. It’s too big for me and the gigantic stain is more than a little obvious. By now, they’ve probably found the real housekeeper and alerted Brent that I’m gone. Taking out my cellphone, I turn it on. I’d shut it off after I used the Uber app to be sure it didn’t ring and give me away once I’d swiped the maid’s clothes. My chest clenches hard as I wait for notifications to load… but there are none.

Nothing. Not a text, not a voice mail. No indication that Brent had tried to contact me. So, either he doesn’t yet know that I’m gone, or—

Or?

I can think about the possibilities as I shop. I wash my hands and press cool water to my cheeks before heading out into the store. I feel eerily exposed, despite the amount of people and things that clutter the spaces. Probably because anyone could be hiding behind anything in this place and pounce out at me when I least expect it. This isn’t the first time I’ve had to continually look over my shoulder or watch my own back, but it is the first time I’ve felt so off balance. Usually when it comes to taking charge of my safety—which has happened many times in my life—I’m more emotionally composed than I am right now.

Given the chance, I’d completely crumble right now.

Crumble into total devastation. Curled up in a ball, rocking on the floor. For every ounce of mistrust and fear I have for Brent at the moment, there’s a double helping of fucking love and measured misery that is eating me up inside. He’s betrayed me so badly, yet I can’t pretend that I don’t
crave
him with every feminine nerve inside of me. All I want, more than anything, is to rush into his arms and have him tell me why I’m wrong. To smell his cologne, to feel his arms wrap around me.

Tears sting my eyes and I don’t do much to hold them back. They don’t fall, just make browsing for and choosing the items I need a pain in the ass. I grab personal care things—toothpaste and a brush, deodorant and mascara. Then, two cheap yoga outfits and underwear, and a backpack to put everything in. I’m almost done when I remember my phone.

A man like Brent would have the resources to track my phone easily. If I make just one call, he’ll be able to trace me.

But…I don’t even have anyone to call.

I stop by the electronics section and browse cheap prepaid phones. What use do I have for a burner phone? It’s not like I have a wide friend group. Donetta is the only friend I can claim, and I doubt she’ll miss me. Everyone at work thinks I’m on medical leave with mono. Absolutely no one will pace the floor, worried because they haven’t heard from me in a few days.

There isn’t anyone to care about me. Not even Brent.

I. Am. Pathetic.

Despite my failure at making real personal connections in my life, I can’t be without a lifeline, and a phone is exactly that. I choose a small flip phone, and then pay for everything. I know the driver is waiting and the longer I keep him, the more cash I burn up in fare. I’m still not certain where to go, but I know I don’t have enough money left for him to take me away from here. On the way out, I’ll take an advance off my credit card at the ATM. Screw it, I need the money. I know Brent can probably trace my card too, somehow, but I can’t get far on the twenty bucks I have left.

I take a few minutes to change in the bathroom. Rolling up the uniform, I ditch it in the garbage can on my way out, grab my cash at the ATM and leave the store. The Uber SUV is in the same spot, and I sigh in relief. Part of me was a little afraid he’d get tired of waiting and take off or something. I’ve decided I want to go to the outskirts of the city to a motel for the night.

I slip into the back. I catch the side of the driver’s head as he looks down at his phone. He’s wearing black sunglasses now, making it hard to see his expression. Not that it matters. Getting buckled, I dig out the new phone and rip open the packaging. The car starts to move—he’s pulling out of the parking lot, I assume— while I pop the battery into the phone and attach the cover.

“Can you jump on the interstate and go south? I just need to look up an address quick.” This little phone is supposed to have mobile data included, but it’s so cheap that I seriously doubt I’ll be able to Google anything. I fiddle with the activation, getting so caught up in it that I don’t realize how far we’ve gone.

The driver’s been quiet this time, strange, I realize, since he made small talk the entire way to Target. I look up,
really
look up, and catch his image in the rearview.

My stomach bottoms out. Did I get in the wrong fucking car?

The driver is not my other driver; his hair is straight, not curly. He whips off his glasses and looks back at me in the mirror. Bright blue eyes, not brown, and a face that’s a good two decades older than the young man who drove me here.

How the fuck could I be so preoccupied that I didn’t even look at the driver before getting in? Fuck me for letting my guard down for a few seconds.

I reach for the door handle on instinct and a sickening
click
follows my actions.

“Who are you?” I demand, but my voice is shaking. I grapple for a lock release, but they’re childproof. The man slips his shades back on and settles against his seat like we’re on goddamned vacation.

“Georgios would recommend that you sit quietly and enjoy the ride, yes?” His Greek accent is thick and fills me with familiar disgust. Georgios. The intonation of their voices are the same, and if the driver is anything else like his boss, he’s capable of anything.

Anything.

This is Brent’s doing, isn’t it? I think I’m going to vomit and there’s nowhere for it to go but on the ground. Doubling over, I cross my arms over my middle and dry heave on the floor board. Nothing comes up and the pain and unease in my gut won’t go away. My throat tightens and I can’t breathe.

I’m panicking and I can’t stop it.

Brent knows how much I fear Georgios and how that man has ripped my life apart. My sister… he knows what happened to her. How could he do this to me? How can the man I love, the man I gave my heart and body to, turn on me like this?

Because it was all a game to him. A means to some end that I’ll likely never know about.

“Awwww, car sick?” The man taunts. He rummages in the front seat and hands a bottle back to me. It’s Vodka. “Have a swig and relax.”

“Fuck off.” I barely croak the words, but just getting them out makes me feel better. He chuckles as if he appreciates my spunk and uncaps the bottle for himself. The “swig” he takes could kill a horse. And if I’m lucky, or unlucky depending on how you see it, maybe him, too.

“Don’t be a bitch. Bitches get shot where I come from.”

I highly doubt Georgios would let anyone else kill me, so I know his threat is empty. But when he looks at me through the rearview again, I can feel the chill of his glare through his sunglasses.

“There’s nothing extra in it for me to deliver you alive.”

Icy shivers race down my spine. He stares at me until I finally look away, only because I’m afraid we’re going to crash if he doesn’t focus on the road again soon. I sit back the best I can, my arms still harnessing my middle. Trying to find my center, I take a couple shaky breaths and look out the window. We’ve gone north and aren’t far from the Canadian border.

Panic doesn’t describe adequately the force of whatever this is going through me. He’s whisking me away to another country and no one will ever know what happened to me. I’ll disappear, simply vanish from everyone else’s reality. Georgios is vicious enough that he’ll keep me in a new reality, a
hell
, forcing me to suffer beneath the surface of society’s collective gaze. I will cease to exist.

Each mile brings us closer until signs come into view announcing the border crossing. The man reaches back and scrambles to grab ahold of me.

“Get up here next to me,
girlfriend
.”

I swat his hand away, but he catches my knee. His grip is like an iron clamp and he uses that strength to pull me by one leg until both knees bump the back of the front seat. Pain sears through my thigh, but without any of the accompanying edge of pleasure Brent brought me.

I pry at his hand and he lets go long enough to get a new grip. I can feel the bruises coming up beneath his thick fingers.

“Fine!” I shout as he makes another grab for me, not wanting his hands on me a second longer. We’ve slowed down now and blend into a triple lane of traffic waiting to cross the border. I try and climb into the front seat as gracefully as I can, but there’s no good way. I end up supporting myself by gripping his meaty shoulder and hating myself for it.

Finally in the seat, my gaze lands on the door lock. Hope flits through me. I could bolt, make a run for it. He’ll never catch me across three lanes, even with the congestion. There are border guards lined up ahead, checking passports and vehicles. I’d reach one of them before my kidnapper got ahold of me.

I swallow and temper my breathing. Be. Normal. Act compliant. But my fingers slowly uncurl from my palm and creep toward the lock.

A metallic click makes me pause. I know what it is before I look.

I’m well versed in the sound of a cocked gun.

“You’re my girlfriend. My willing and compliant woman. Smile, bitch, and slide over here.” He pulls me over and up against him, his arm sliding over my shoulders. I have no idea where he’s suddenly stashed the gun, or the vodka, but I know the deadlier one of those two is close by.

He won’t shoot me, not when he’s stuck in traffic with no chance of escape himself. Even if he blew a hole in me right now, he couldn’t stash my exsanguinating body anywhere.

“You won’t shoot me.” I’m braver this time. There’s no waver in my voice. I know he won’t shoot. He can’t. There’d be no way out for him but his own capture.

He doesn’t bother to look at me as a confident smile pulls his mouth up.

“Perhaps not at this very moment, no. However, Mr. Masters is an expendable acquaintance. One text message from me, at any moment, will end his life.”

I can’t care about that. Brent! He did this to me.

But I can’t stop the flutter and rise of anxiety and grief that any harm might come to him. I just…I just can’t. Despite everything, he’s a part of me that I can’t unlearn or release. I don’t question my captor or push him to see if he’s serious. I already know the answer. Georgios would kill his own mother if the inclination arose. Everyone was replaceable to him, even his longtime business partner, Brent Masters.

“Be a good actress and your sugar daddy lives. Do you agree?”

Resigned, I slink into my seat and nod. I no longer care that his arm is around me, nor do I really feel the burn of the smile I plaster on my face. He produces a passport for me and makes small talk with the border guard. This was all planned out—Georgios was just waiting for the correct time. Who knows how long he’d really been tracking me and plotting my capture?

Suddenly, there is a tap on my window. I jump and feel the sharp glare of my captor’s warning stare slice through the back of my head. A young border guard smiles and waits for me to lower my window. I do. As the glass inches down, removing a barrier between myself and freedom, I feel all the fight start to ebb out of me. Fresh air slaps me in the face, teasing me.

“Hello there,” the guard says. “How are you today?”

Are you fucking kidding me? The man’s arm tightens around me, painfully so. I hold back a wince and think of Brent. Of dead Brent. I shouldn’t care.

I shouldn’t love him.

“I’m—I’m fine.” I find my voice. “Thank you.”

“Here’s your passport,” my captor says, handing a passport to me. I whip to face him, one eye cocked. I don’t say anything as I dumbly hand the passport across to the border guard outside my window. Obviously someone like Georgios would have fake documents at his disposal.

“Will you be staying long?” There’s a lilt to the border guard’s voice that is starkly Canadian, just like on the movies. He’s handsome in a clean-cut way, if bored and disinterested. I try to make eye contact with him, but he doesn’t look at me as he flips the passport book open.

I have no idea what my captor has already said to the other guard, so I shrug. “Depends on how much fun we’re having, right hon?”

He squeezes my shoulder. “Oh, we’ll be having plenty of fun.
Dear
.”

The young guard’s pale face flushes red. He takes a step back and nods. “Okay, then. Enjoy your time in Canada.”

That’s it. Just like that, the barrier goes back up and we drive through the checkpoint. It’s heavily wooded through here. It’s beautiful, really, the trees and undergrowth are full and thick and lush. There seems to be miles and miles of perfect places for this creep to hide my body. Cut to pieces, scattered all over the fucking place.

That’s how this is going to end, isn’t it? He’ll kill me, and then they’ll kill Brent.

Brent’s eyes flash in my mind. The way they turn dark and possessive and glow with an almost loving light while he’s pounding into me. There’s a connection between us that I can’t explain. The fire between us might be extinguished now, but the flame inside me?

It’s still there, burning. Rising. Consuming me.

It’s not going to end like this. I do not consent.

In fact, I wholeheartedly, one-hundred percent, absolutely refuse.