Captured by the Mob (Bianchi Crime Family 2)

“And you just happened to knock on this door?” he growls, sliding his hand lower to my throat. He doesn’t squeeze; it’s as if he’s caressing me but I can feel his fingers on my pulse. Our eyes stay on each other, and my heart does a flip for some strange reason. Why? Maybe it’s the adrenaline flowing through me.

I break the connection and answer, “It was my second to last house.”

“Okay.” I can’t tell if he believes me or not, but I hope he does. “So what’s going to happen, Ms. Conlon—or do you prefer Mariana?” Fuck if I know. Is he giving me an option? Shit, he has my ID. I’m so in trouble.

“I’ll be quiet. I promise I won’t say a thing. I don’t want to die,” I plead. His expression goes from soft to hard, grimacing as if he doesn’t trust me to keep quiet. I’ll never speak of it again if he lets me walk out of here.

He cups my chin and gives me a deep, penetrating stare. “I’m going to give you a chance to go home. Don’t talk to anyone, or you’ll pay for it.”

“I promise. I’ll be good and never mention it to anyone. I’m so sorry.” I move my body again, but he holds me still and reaches down by his feet. Fear dances up my spine, and I become rigid beneath his grip.

Sitting firmly and straight in his arms, I feel the hard ridge of something pressed against my ass. I can’t be sitting on his gun. Am I? I move my hand under and am completely shocked. That’s not his gun, although I’m sure he gets rounds off all the time. Holy fuck. He’s carrying a massive weapon.

“Sorry,” I whisper as a groan comes from him. I was still feeling it up. What’s wrong with me?

“Don’t set off my other gun. It doesn’t help that you have your sexy ass on me. I’m not going to violate you. Just relax, Mariana. Here—drink this.” Goodness, why does the way he says my name turn me on? This is the worst place to be and the wrong person to get aroused by.

It’s clearly Gatorade, but he opened it; so what if it’s poisoned? “What is it?”

“What does it look like?” he bites out, getting annoyed by my question.

“Gatorade.”

“Well, then? Drink it,” he barks out.

“Okay,” I answer, bringing it to my lips, but not taking a sip yet because I can’t take my eyes off him.

“Drink. You need to feel better.” I cock my brow up at this guy who’s threatened to kill me, and here he is worrying about my health. It’s bizarre, and so is the feeling coursing through me as his thumb rubs my arm in a slow, soothing motion. A shiver races up my spine.

I take a drink, a small one, because I don’t actually like it. “More.”

“I don’t like Gatorade,” I reply like I’m at a five-star resort and not at the mercy of a killer. He’s probably going to get very pissed. I meet his eyes and I don’t see annoyance or anger; he doesn’t look upset at all.

“Maybe a different brand? Powerade?” Is he serious?

“No. I don’t like salty drinks. I’m fine. I really just want to go home and sleep. I swear I don’t know who you are, or that man, either.” My eyes scan the room, but I don’t see him anywhere. He was dead on the floor before I collapsed.

“Fine, but I will know if you tell anyone.”

“I swear, I won’t say a word,” I plead, crossing my fingers over my heart in the shape of a cross.

He grasps my chin harder than earlier, turning it so our noses nearly brush against each other. “Not a word, you hear me? Or else.”

A part of me wants to reach up and kiss those tense, frowning lips, and the other half is telling me to run like the wind. “Of course, sir.”

He clears his throat, which draws my attention to his thick neck and broad shoulders. He’s got me by at least hundred and fifty pounds and yet, he’s holding me so tenderly. This man is too damned good looking for my own good and messing with my damn flight or fight instincts. “Where is your vehicle?”

“Around the corner,” I mutter.

“Is there someone waiting for you at home?” I should say yes, because that means he might worry that someone would come looking for me and let me go.

Slowly, I slide off his lap and take a deep breath before telling the truth. “No one.”

“Drive carefully.” I arch my brow, wondering why he’s being kind to me when I’m clearly a liability. Is he lulling me into a false sense of security? I walk to the door with him. He holds it open and adds, “Oh, and sweetheart, keep your mouth shut.”