Saint (A Dark Mafia Romance)(64)

“I do.”

He pauses in the doorway, turning to look at me. “You’re really all set to give up Anton?”

“Does it look like I’m going to lose sleep over it?”

He whistles. “No honor amongst thieves, huh?”

“I think you’ve watched too many movies.”

Marlow chuckles. “So it’s nothing personal with Anton?”

“Of course it is, his guys shot at me.”

“Nothing to do with Sierra Hammond.”

My mouth goes tight as my heart jumps in my chest.

Marlow grins and shakes his head. “The criminal with the heart of gold. You’re killing me here, Roarke.”

“Can we get a fucking move on?” I hiss.

He laughs as he turns and steps into the warehouse. “That heart’s gonna get you in trouble, Roarke.”

I step in after him, and it’s only then that my normally honed senses finally scream at me. It’s then that my survival instinct finally manages to shoulder its way through the anguish of worrying about Sierra to scream in my goddamn face.

And suddenly, I freeze.

The warehouse is pitch black. SWAT isn’t suiting up in here, and there’s no FBI strike team getting ready to roll out.

“The fuck is going on, Marl-”

The blow comes at the back of my head, knocking me onto my knees. I snarl, jumping up and spinning around, slamming into the guy and knocking him back into the wall.

The guy goes limp as I smash his face against the corrugated metal, but as I whirl around, something slugs me in the gut, dropping me.

An overhead light flickers on as I suck painfully for a breath of air and try and stagger to my knees. Hands grab me, and I’m still roaring and trying to tear myself away when someone grabs a fistful of my hair and yanks my head up.

And then I’m looking right at her.

Sierra.

She’s being held by two of them, her hands bound, her mouth gagged. She’s screaming through it, kicking and fighting and lurching away from them, and it breaks something inside of me.

I explode, ripping myself away from the hands holding me back and lunging for her. The crack comes sharp to my side, sending me reeling to the floor. And I’m still roaring like a fucking wild man as four of them tackle me and pin me to the ground, my eyes locked on her.

Oleg Liski steps into the light next to her, grinning that yellow smile at me. And next to him, smiling right at me as he claps Liski on the shoulder?

Marlow.

My lips curl back as my eyes narrow at him. “You son of-”

I don’t finish before he strides forward and sinks his shoe into my side with a snicker. Sierra screams through her gag, lashing out with her foot and catching Oleg in the shin. He snarls as he turns and suddenly cracks a hand across her face.

And I fucking roar.

I roar like a fucking caged animal and something in me shatters - the beast completely destroying his cage as I lunge for him with every intention of killing him with my bare fucking hands.

But my hands never touch him, and I don’t make it two steps before there’s more of them dragging me away from him and raining fists and heels down all over me.

I’m fading, badly.

She’s screaming, and I try and get up again, but the fists and the boots and the whatever else they’re hitting me with come raining down all over again, knocking me to the ground. I look up, my eyes searing into hers, and I lunge once more for her before something goes crashing into the side of my head.

This time, I don’t get up.





Chapter Thirty-Two





Sierra




The chair creaks beneath me, the rough old wood biting into the back of my thighs. The rusty metal under-frame squeaks, grating against my ears as I shift in it. I’m pulling at the ropes binding my wrists to the arm rests, but I know it’s useless.

I hiss as I twist once more, the rope rubbing raw against my skin and the wood digging into me before I swear loudly and kick at the big old metal desk in front of me.

I’m alone in the dusty old room - an office of some kind. Judging by the machines and reams of paper I saw on the way in as they dragged me in here, this must have been a printing facility way back. Old rusty file cabinets line one wall, stacks and stacks of four-decade-old copies of the Boston Herald along another.

Apparently, Richard Nixon has just resigned, according to the front page.

I can feel my heart thundering in my chest as my eyes dart around the room. I squeeze them shut, trying to center myself, trying not to shake, and trying to force myself to take deep breaths.

I’m doing everything I can not to lose it completely, but the truth is, I’m scared. The truth is, I’m terrified, because I know I’ve stepped way over my head here. I’m so far past “normalcy” for someone like me that I’ve forgotten what normal even is.