Underboss (With Me in Seattle Mafia 1)

It doesn’t help that I don’t know exactly what I’m looking for. The simple news of a new drug doesn’t give me much to go on. That happens every day in every city, and my family isn’t into the drug-dealing scene.

Maybe our fathers have us on a wild goose chase, just to see if they can pull the strings and have us follow along like good little puppets.

I wouldn’t put it past them.

I need some air, so I slide my feet into my running shoes, grab my windbreaker, and set off on a jog.

This little neighborhood near the water is beautiful. Full of older homes, it’s clearly an established neighborhood with low crime and little drama.

I would generally think of it as boring.

My pace is steady as I climb the first hill. Seattle is nothing if not hilly, but it makes for a good workout so I’m not complaining.

I just hit my stride when something sails over my head, and someone lifts me from behind.

“Let go of me, you asshole!” I’m kicking and flailing about, but it’s no use. I can’t see who grabbed me.

So I go limp. Deadweight.

The man holding me grunts with the effort it takes to hold me, but throws me onto a seat of a vehicle. And then we’re moving.

“Who the fuck are you?” I demand.

No one replies.

I know there are at least two of them. The one who grabbed me and the other who’s driving.

Fuck, this isn’t good.

They could kill me and dump me. My father would rain hell down on them, but they could still do it.

The vehicle—van?—parks, and I’m jerked out and taken down what feels like a series of hallways. Finally, they dump me onto a chair and tie my hands behind my back.

“What the fuck?” I ask—and am punched in the jaw.

I see stars. My mouth throbs.

“You’re asking a lot of questions.”

I frantically search my brain to place the voice. Have I heard it before? It doesn’t sound familiar.

“And that pisses you off,” I guess.

Someone punches me again, in the left eye this time.

“We’re going to teach you to keep your questions to yourself, bitch.”

The beating is ruthless. By the time they dump me on some random sidewalk in downtown Seattle, I’m bloody, bruised, and quite sure my right shoulder is dislocated.

It’s hard to breathe.

I pull the bag off my head but can’t see out of my left eye. What I can see is clouded and red because of the blood in my right eye.

Christ, I don’t know what to do.

I can’t go to the hospital. And I’m never stepping foot in that VRBO again.

How did they find me?

I’m going to pass out, and I don’t want to do that here, so I stumble to my feet and look around. I’m in an industrial area. People walk about, but they don’t look my way.

It’s as if women are dumped, bloody and broken, every fucking day.

Whoever grabbed me didn’t take my phone, so I pull it out of the sleeve in my leggings and punch in the address for the condo that Carmine and I lived in for several months. I know his family owns the building, and no one lives in the penthouse full time.

I’ll crash there until I figure out what to do.

According to my cell, I’m only a couple of blocks away. I hobble toward the building, having to stop and lean on the concrete to catch my breath a few times.

Did they break another goddamn rib?

It takes five times longer than it should to reach Carmine’s building. I’m ecstatic to discover that my codes still work on the door and the private elevator that leads up to the penthouse.

When the apartment doors open, I step in and lean against the wall as I listen for any movement inside.

There’s nothing.

It doesn’t appear as if anyone’s been here since Carmine and I were here before leaving for Denver last week.

Has it really only been a week?

The red roses Carmine got me are still on the sofa table, wilting. A pair of my heels lay on the floor next to the kitchen island.

This is the only safe place for me in the city. I need to call my father, but that will have to come later. I’m not even sure what my name is right now.

The adrenaline of the attack is wearing off, and I know I’m going to be sick. Nausea roils my stomach, and dizziness fills my head. I just want to sleep. I probably shouldn’t. I most likely have a concussion, but I’ll be fine.

Everything will be fine.

God, I hurt. More than I ever have in my life.

I swing by the kitchen to grab a bucket from under the sink in case I do throw up, and then stumble to the couch in the living room. The sofa is huge, deep, and so comfortable that Carmine and I took many an afternoon nap here, tangled up with each other.