Of course, it hadn’t even been six minutes.
It felt like much longer than that.
---
Pulling into his driveway, Ethan turned off the car and turned to the passenger seat, quickly searching for the bag with the eggs. Locating them, he placed the eggs on the dash board while he loaded his arms up with bags, satisfied that he would only have to make one trip. He managed to grab the bag of eggs last, but then he realized he wasn’t going to be able to unlock the door, so he hoped Amanda hadn’t locked it behind him.
By the time he made it to the door, his fingers were freezing from the wind chill and he didn’t want to crouch and risk dropping the groceries, so instead, he lightly kicked the door a few times, hoping it would catch Amanda’s attention.
A moment passed—nothing.
Sighing heavily, he crouched down, shifting the bags of groceries in his arms and managing to turn the knob until, thankfully, the door cracked open.
The house was quiet, so he figured the baby must be sleeping, but he was surprised Alison didn’t immediately come rushing in to greet him. Maybe she was upstairs.
He was just about to turn toward the kitchen when he heard a muffled sound from the living room.
Turning toward the noise, Ethan was startled to see not his wife, but a heavy man in a black jacket and jeans.
His first thought was his gun—he didn’t have his gun, but then he looked beyond that man—and the four other dubious looking men—and saw Amanda, tied to a chair with duct tape over her mouth, and beside her, in another wooden chair, also bound with rope and duct tape, Alison.
All the bags crashed to the ground at once.
The color drained out of Ethan’s face.
On the couch, watching Ethan with a vague expression of boredom, was an older man with salt and pepper hair, nearly as dark as Ethan’s at one time. His nose was long and sloped over a mouth that seemed to be set in a permanent snarl. Bushy eyebrows furrowed above his steely gray eyes as he met Ethan’s gaze.
Antonio Castellanos.
Willow’s father.
Adrenaline surged through Ethan’s body—useless fucking adrenaline.
His stomach pitched and the bones in his legs seemed to melt, but he somehow managed to carry himself mechanically into the living room, his gaze jumping away from the other man’s, back to his wife, his daughter.
Where were his sons?
He couldn’t breathe.
He tried to open his mouth, but it was like he was having a stroke—his body wouldn’t listen to his brain.
“Ethan Wilde,” the older man said idly, the menace in his tone quite deliberate. “Do you know who I am?”
His tongue was trapped in his mouth and Ethan could only manage a nod.
The other man’s bushy eyebrows shot up. “Good, good. Did you know who I was before you raped my daughter?”
A noise escaped Amanda, sort of a gasp tinged with horror that made Ethan flinch. He couldn’t look at her—didn’t know how to respond.
Legs finally giving out, Ethan fell to his knees. The older man watched, his expression unreadable.
Ethan knew he was as good as dead.
His incredible luck had run out.
“Please… leave my family out of this,” he managed, meeting Antonio’s gaze.
“You didn’t answer my question.”