Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 55860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 279(@200wpm)___ 223(@250wpm)___ 186(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 279(@200wpm)___ 223(@250wpm)___ 186(@300wpm)
The cavernous room is empty except a card table and chairs where a man in a brown suit sits. Based on his appearance alone, he must be mob-related. Whether this is to do with Jack or my father, I have two jobs. One, get out of here alive. And two, don’t let anyone know I’m pregnant with the next Marino. I’m so scared that my teeth chatter. I sit up, hug my knees to my chest.
“Are you cold, Miss Mayfield?” the suited man asks in a mock-courteous tone.
I don’t answer him. I decide not to give him a single word, nothing he could use as a clue that I’m pregnant. The older man stands up, chewing the cigar like a movie villain, and walks over to me. I try not to shrink away from him, but the overwhelming stench of too much cologne and the acrid smoke are too much for me. I make a split-second decision as he leans over me.
“We haven’t been properly introduced. I’m Vincent Alfredo Carbini, head of the Carbini Organization. Since you’re so cold on the floor, I bet you’d be more comfortable sitting in my lap,” he chuckles, a nasty suggestion that pushes me over the edge.
I heave and puke all over the leg of his expensive trousers. It was the nearest part of him I could vomit on, and I feel oddly pleased with myself for managing it. He curses and shoves me back with his foot, shouts for one of his men to clean up the mess. He stomps back over to the folding chair and one of his guards starts wiping off his shoe, his pants leg. It’s not very effective and he’s grumbling.
A shaft of light spears across the floor from a door I hadn’t seen. Another guard enters with a bucket. He stomps to my side and dumps the contents onto me. It’s ice-cold water, probably meant to wash the vomit down the floor drain nearby. I jump up, shrieking and indignant. I pull my wet t-shirt away from my body with disgust and glare at the guy with the bucket.
“Oooh, she’s a feisty one,” Carbini snickers. “I can see why Jacky Boy likes her so much.”
So this is about Jack. I should feel relief that for once, my father hasn’t let me down, but I don’t. All I feel is cold, raw fear. I keep the promise I made to myself, not saying a single word. I just spit on the floor in his direction and go stand by the wall near where I now realize my dad lies in a heap missing all the action.
I hold the soaking wet shirt out from my body to keep them from seeing it plastered to the curve of my growing belly. It’s all I can do to keep the secret, to keep the baby safe for now. I’m going to make this as difficult as possible for that nasty old bastard until I can figure a way out of here.
I glare right at him, no fearful downcast gaze for me. My hair is dripping water in my eyes and I want to shove it back, but I’m concentrating on holding the wet fabric away from my chest and stomach and trying not to show the terror that is threatening to drown me.
Carbini dials his phone and puts it on speaker.
“I guess you got my message, Jacky Boy” he chortles. “She’s a pretty thing but not your usual classy type.”
My heart turns over. I resist the urge to scream out Jack’s name, to beg him to come find me. But this asshole just did me the biggest favor of my life because he made sure Jack Marino knows I’ve been kidnapped. I’m so grateful my knees are weak. I decide it’s okay to sit down.
I arrange myself leaning against the cinderblock wall, hugging my knees. It blocks the view of my belly and gives me a break from holding the clammy t-shirt in my hands. I listen, but Jack doesn’t say a word on the other end of the phone. I almost start to wonder if this guy called Jack at all. It could be a cruel trick to mess with my mind and give me false hope. Except Carbini explodes out of his chair screaming into the phone, something like, “Don’t you fucking hang up on me!” By the time he finishes shouting, his face turns a purplish red with rage that makes me think he has high blood pressure.
There’s a knock at the smaller door in the back where the bucket guy entered. A guard goes to answer it. “That’ll be the food,” he says.
As soon as he opens the door, I hear a muffled gunshot and watch him fall. Everyone is drawing weapons, and I’m afraid I’m going to be hit by a stray bullet if this turns into a gunfight. Suddenly, I register the face of the shooter. It’s Jack striding through the door. I want to applaud, to fly to my feet and shriek with happiness. Before I can worry about him being hurt or killed or before I can think another thought, the guy who had been cleaning my puke off Carbini’s shoes gets to his feet smoothly and fires his pistol into Carbini’s forehead.