Wild Card (Vegas Underground 8)

Huh.

Maybe I’m not going to die. Yet. What kind of hitman tucks his jacket around his victim to make sure she doesn’t get too cold?

“Please, Mr. Tacone.”

The trunk slams closed and I choke back a sob.

Shit! Fuck a duck. This is bad. Very bad.

My breath comes in little pants as the car roars to life and pulls away from the curb.

I’m so dead I’m so dead I’m so dead.

I don’t want to die.

That realization strikes me a little too late.

Too bad I continuously engage in risky behavior.

“I don’t want to die!” I scream, as if that might somehow convince the hitman to let me live. “Mr. Tacone!” I shriek. “Let me out of here.” I shriek until I’m hoarse, but of course it does no good. I can’t reach the emergency latch to open the trunk, and can’t get enough power with my ankles bound to kick out the lights.

Eventually the car rolls to a stop and the engine shuts off.

Now is when I should scream, but my throat is sore and dry and I’ve exhausted myself.

The trunk opens and the Tacone brother stares down at me. “Not a fan of the screaming,” he says, pinning me with a look.

That’s all he says.

Strangely, that’s all he needs to say. It’s like we both know I won’t do it again. He threatened a gag earlier, and I don’t want to make him follow through on that threat.

Also because he’s that dominant and something in me likes to submit.

Keeping his jacket wrapped around my shoulders, he hauls me up over his shoulder again and carries me into what seems to be a single-family dwelling in the suburbs.

Well, okay. He’s probably not planning to kill me here.

Or it seems unlikely. Too much blood.

And noise.

If he’d pulled me out of the trunk in some remote wooded location I would’ve been sure it was time to dig my grave. But this looks like it could be his house.

Huh.

He carries me inside. I lift my head and attempt to look around. It’s a beautiful modern home with luxurious furnishings. It smells like him— earthy male and leather. He carries me into what must be his bedroom and drops me on the king-sized bed. The comforter is an iridescent gun-metal grey. “Don’t move,” he says and walks out of the room.

Yeah, right. I’m not that stupid. I quickly scan the room and my eyes land on a pair of nail clippers on the bedside table.

Bingo!

I lunge for them, army crawling with my elbows across the bed and snatching them up. One snip and the ankle ties are free. I don’t waste time with the wrist ties, I just launch off the bed, palming the clippers as I run for the front door.

I’m almost there when something thin and soft wraps around my throat and jerks me back.

I drag in a desperate gasp, my fingers flying to the material at my throat.

His tie.

He’s choking me with his tie.

Except he’s not. He alternates cutting off my air flow and letting me breathe.

The man knows exactly what he’s doing.

He’s probably killed dozens of people this way while he forces their final confessions out of them. Did my father die this way?

“I thought I told you not to move.” His voice is even. Deep. Seductive, but I don’t think that’s what he’s aiming for.

I’ve never been into breathplay—it seems too risky to me—but I pretend this is sex, a scene. Something that could be ended with a simple utterance of my safeword. And just by flipping the scenario into sex-land—same as I did at my place earlier—my fear ebbs away. The blank panic fades. My body comes alive.

I let my head fall back on his shoulder and rub my bound hands between my legs.

His chuckle is soft. His lips are right at my ear.

“You like to get choked out while you’re getting it hard, Caitlin?”

Oh gawd. The man picks up what I’m putting down without even missing a beat.

“Maybe,” I admit. But there’s no maybe about it. I’m already wet. “Have you practiced breathplay?”

And the tactic totally works, because he forgets about pulling the tie taut around my neck, instead sliding one hand down my belly and into my pants. When he slowly swipes one finger over my slit, I’m shockingly slick and wet.

“I’ve choked a few people, yeah. You wanna try?”

I don’t miss noticing that he’s asking. It seems incongruent with everything else he’s done, and I take it as a good sign. Maybe he’s one of those guys who’s fine with killing a woman but not with raping her.

It sort of fits the mafia profile—at least the one portrayed in movies and television. They may be dangerous and operate outside the law but there’s still a code they live by. They just honor their own rules.

Maybe his rule is not to force himself on a woman. Or maybe it’s just his pride. I sort of doubt he would ever have to force. Not with those looks and the money and power behind them. Women probably throw their panties at him on a daily basis.