Ruthless Vow (Vegas Vicious #2)

5. Nicole

5

Nicole

I regain consciousness slowly, like coming out of a dreamless sleep. It’s a gentle awakening.

At least, until it isn’t.

The sharp, intense scent of ammonia burns my nostrils and hits my brain with all the subtlety of twenty espressos injected directly into my jugular vein. My eyelids fly open. A hand waves a vial in front of my nose, making me gasp.

“Smelling salts,” a male voice says.

I’m awake but groggy, disoriented. I’m not sure where I am or what’s happened, but I am sure that my mouth is as dry as chalk, my head is pounding, my stomach churning. My shoulders, upper back, and neck ache, like I’ve worked out too hard.

“I don’t feel well,” I whisper, staring at the floor.

“A shame,” the same male voice says, the words at odds with his icy tone.

I lift my head and find myself staring at a muscled, male chest hidden by a black shirt that’s open to reveal a V of skin. Tattoos of thorny vines wind up around the base of the man’s throat.

I know this chest, this throat, these tattoos. But my logic and normal brain functioning haven’t quite come back online yet. All I can do is dumbly raise my gaze to meet Leo Russo’s jet-black eyes.

He lifts his hand and something brushes against my lips. A straw.

“Drink,” he orders.

I obey, taking a long sip of cold water. I make a sound of protest when he pulls the straw away.

“Slowly,” he says.

A moment later, the straw brushes my lips and I take another long sip.

He pulls the straw away again and moves out of my line of sight.

The ache in my shoulders and upper back make me wince. I tip my head back and look up. I’m on my feet with my arms raised and restrained above my head, handcuffs around my wrists.

Padded handcuffs. That aren’t just padded…they’re fuzzy. Like a plush toy. And they’re pink.

It strikes my still-muddy brain as funny, that a mafia boss would use padded handcuffs, and I can’t help but let out a small, somewhat hysterical laugh.

“Something fucking funny about this, Nicole?” Leo asks from behind me, his silky tone laced with menace.

“Handcuffs,” I say, then lose my train of thought and forget why I was laughing.

Leo moves to stand in front of me.

“Let’s talk,” he says, the words a command.

My hazy, crazy brain remembers him giving another command. Come. And that makes me remember his long, thick, pierced cock.

Is this a dream? It wouldn’t be the first time Leo has starred in my subconscious fantasies.

“Is this a sex playroom?” I blurt, pulling a little on my restraints, there’s a lot of give and I reposition my arms and shoulders to ease the ache. “Like a fifty-shades kind of thing?”

His eyes narrow, but I catch just a glimmer of surprise in his gaze. “Sex playroom,” he repeats.

“I don’t—” Why is it so hard to form a coherent thought?

“Sorry to disappoint you, Nicole, but this isn’t a sex playroom. It’s a place I bring people when I want answers to difficult questions.”

“Questions—”

My brain feels like it’s wrapped in cotton balls. I don’t know where I am or what’s happened. I don’t know—

Hazy memories drift through me, slowly sharpening and coming into focus.

The yacht.

The graveyard.

Luca…Cassio…

Leo.

Again, I failed. All my efforts to stay hidden were for nothing. He found me. He drugged me. He brought me here.

Full awareness slams me like a two-by-four upside the head.

I glance around the room. It’s about twenty by twenty. No windows. Sparse décor. There’s a simple wooden table with four simple wooden chairs. A concrete floor with a drain in the center. A wheeled, stainless steel service cart with an array of tools and instruments: a hammer, a saw, scalpels, pliers…

My stomach lurches. I take a deep breath through my nose and smell lemon cleaner, which tells me this room has recently been scrubbed clean.

Most likely scrubbed clean of blood.

I form a very clear picture of precisely how Leo intends to get answers to his questions.

I draw a shaky breath, fear gnawing at me.

“Start talking, Nicole,” he says, his voice soft. Terrifyingly soft.

“Are you going to kill me?” I ask, my whole body trembling.

“Yes,” he replies flatly. “And you will be grateful when I do. It’s what will precede the killing that should scare you, my piccolo lupetta .”

His words make my skin prickle, leaving me cold and clammy, my heart racing. I test my bonds, jerking my hands, making the chain clank.

My reaction pleases him. The corners of his lips curl slightly upward—the sinister smile of a remorseless killer. He’s a fucking tiger playing with his food.

“I want to tell you a story,” he says, his tone light, conversational. “The first time I tortured a man to death, I was nineteen. By the time I was twenty, I had killed four more men. But I had not killed a woman. Not yet.” He rests his palm against my low back and walks a slow circle around me, letting his fingers trace my waist. When he’s behind me, he leans close and says against my ear, “I used my knife. Up close and personal. I removed parts of her, one at a time. I asked her questions, and for each answer I didn’t like, I took a piece of her.”

He slides his hand up until it rests on my left shoulder blade. “She had a tattoo right here. A rose. Lovely work, really. In fact, her tattoo inspired one of my own.” He taps my shoulder blade. “That was the first bit of her I cut away.”

Terror gnaws at me. My panic tastes like iron and ash.

“It took her seven hours to die,” he says. “Seven hours. She screamed and begged for her life for six of those hours. But by the seventh, she was begging to die. She was talking non-stop, sharing every secret she’d ever had.” He moves to stand in front of me once more, his gaze locked on mine, obsidian, soulless. “And when she was done, I thanked her and slit her throat.”

I press my lips together, desperate to hold back a cry of fear.

He reaches into his pocket and removes his wallet. It’s pale beige, the leather very smooth.

“A souvenir,” he says, turning the wallet so I can see the black lines of a rose. He quirks a brow. “Do you have any tattoos, Nicole?”

“No,” I whisper, horror settling in my veins.

He slides his wallet back into his pocket and lifts a knife from the cart.

“Do you see this curve?” he asks, turning the knife. “It’s excellent for skinning. And this handle?” He taps his index finger against it. “If things get messy, my grip won’t slip. Textured rubber. Excellent for wet conditions.”

Panting, I stare at him, my panic nearly overwhelming.

But as my father and aunt forced me deeper into their twisted expectations, they had me trained for the possibility of a situation just like this, trained to cope with panic, with chilling fear.

Tactical breathing. Box breathing. Slow, deep breaths in a controlled pattern. I do that now, letting it begin to calm my nervous system and reduce my adrenaline.

And as I master my panic, I recognize that Leo’s intention is for me to be terrified, hysterical, to let my own reactions amplify his actions.

He’s about to be disappointed.

I silently list five things I can see : the service cart, the table, the four chairs, the walls, the floor.

Four things I can physically feel : the padded lining of the handcuffs, the cement floor beneath my feet, the clothing that covers my body, the tips of my fingers resting against the chain that hangs above me.

Three things I can hear : the rasp of my breathing, the whir of a fan somewhere behind me, the beat of my heart.

Two things I can smell : lemon cleaner, and the memory of the ammonia smelling salts.

One thing I can taste : the cold water Leo gave me.

And as I finish my lists, my breathing regular and smooth, I realize that while Leonardo Russo wants me terrified, wants me to devolve into a babbling mess, and is using intimidation to get me there, he has no intention of harming me, at least, not yet.

Because he would have left me thirsty if he wanted me to suffer.

Because on the cart at my side are a set of handcuffs that have no padding, that would bite into my wrists and cause great pain. Handcuffs he could have used if he wanted me to suffer.

And because the chain above me is taut enough that my arms are raised, but there’s enough give that I can move them and ease the ache. If he wanted me to suffer, the chain would be so taut that my full body weight would be hanging on my wrists and shoulders, my toes barely touching the ground, or maybe not touching at all.

At this moment, the only suffering Leo wants me to experience is fear.

“You’re a Moretti,” he says.

“Yes.” No point in denying it. He found me at my father’s grave.

“You think I had something to do with your father’s death. An explosion of some kind.”

“Yes.” No point in denying that either. I had told him as much on the yacht.

“But your father died almost three years ago—”

“Twenty-seven months,” I say.

“If you wanted revenge why not kill me years ago? Why wait until now?”

I stay silent but the answer echoes in my mind.

Because my aunt wanted me in a position where I could funnel the Russo secrets to her. She said that the death of the firstborn Russo son might throw a wrench in the flow of information. She said that she didn’t want that much turmoil in the Russo organization until she was ready to make her move. And as a good soldier, I followed my aunt’s orders.

Until I didn’t. Until I failed to kill Leo on the yacht.

When I don’t answer, he again rests his hand on my waist and walks to stand behind me.

“Who have you been feeding information to for all this time? With your father dead, there is no male Moretti heir…”

Still, I say nothing.

“Tell me your secrets, Nicole,” he whispers against my ear, his chest pressed against my back, the fronts of his thighs against the backs of mine.

He wants my terror, my panic. He craves it.

He’s going to be disappointed.

“Oh, I could tell you everything,” I say. “But then what would we do for fun tomorrow? I’d hate to ruin your whole week in one go.”

He’s in front of me so fast, I don’t see him move. A spark of fire lights in his eyes and suddenly he’s cupping my face, digging his fingers into my jaw to hold me in place, locked in his fierce gaze.

“You have a hell of a mouth on you,” he says, his voice a low growl now. “Never knew that. You were my little mouse. Quiet and well behaved. Now my little mouse has turned into my little wolf.”

That’s what he’s been calling me. Piccolo lupetta. Little wolf .

“Or maybe you were never a mouse,” he says. “Maybe that was just part of your ruse.”

“You think?” I bite out. “Wow, you’re brilliant. No wonder you’re in charge of everything now. This whole stolen kingdom of yours.”

His grip on my face grows tighter. Not painful, not yet. But I can’t move.

“Who do you work for?”

“Actually, I work for you,” I say. “Or I used to. I’m assuming that giving two weeks’ notice isn’t going to be necessary at this point.”

“I’d say that’s a safe bet. It’s too bad, really. You were an excellent assistant.” He’s drawn so close to me that I can feel the heat of his breath on my skin. “My father said the same, that you were an excellent assistant. He cared about you.” The last words are bitten out with rage. “He told me to look after you, to make sure you stayed safe if anything ever happened to him. And the whole time, you were betraying him.”

He studies my face. “How did you get the job with my father? You’re young. No more than thirty.”

“Twenty-six, actually.”

“Very young to be the assistant to a man like my father. He didn’t allow anyone close to him, aware of his comings and goings, that easily. It’s too dangerous to trust anyone who doesn’t share blood. There’s more to it. I need to know. You’ve worked for my family for a couple of years. Tell me how that came to be.”

I decide to go with a little truth to help balance any necessary lies. “My mother knew him. They grew up on the same street. Went to the same elementary and middle schools. They were friends.”

“Unusual. Men like my father don’t have female friends, unless they’re the bed-sharing type. Was your mother sleeping with my father?”

“No,” I say, certain of it. “The last time she saw him, she was a child. Twelve, I think, maybe thirteen.”

He nods, and I think he’s had me investigated and he already knew the answer before he asked the question. He just wanted to hear what I would say.

“Where’s your mother now?”

“She’s dead.”

“Did you avenge her death like you attempted to do with your father’s?”

I can’t help but flinch at his icy, flippant words. “The only thing to blame for her death was a tree she wrapped her car around late one night. She drank too much near the end and got behind the wheel when she shouldn’t have. Luckily, she didn’t take anyone else with her.”

Leo shifts his grip on me, his fingers circling my neck, his palm terrifyingly close to cutting off my breath. My heart starts to pound harder. I make a sound of protest.

“Who’s Charlie?” he asks.

Startled by the question, I blink.

“Charlie,” he repeats. “Is he your lover? Is he the one you’re working for, giving you orders on what to do, what to say, how to act?”

He increases the pressure on my throat. His fingers are long and very strong. I have no doubt that he could crush my windpipe with very little effort.

“I’m thinking Charlie is the one with the real answers here. Not you,” he says.

I stare at him, breathless, afraid.

He studies me, expression intent. Like he’s memorizing every feature, every freckle, every lash.

His gaze flicks to my lips, back to my eyes.

Something shifts in his expression. He traces the side of my forehead, my cheekbone, my jaw with the index finger of his free hand.

A shiver courses through me, a twisted combination of fear and… arousal.

He sees it. I know he sees it.

I gasp and try to turn my face away, but he doesn’t let me.

Red tinges his cheekbones. His lids lower over his dark eyes. The pressure on my throat eases as he shifts his grip, his strong fingers sliding to the back of my neck, cupping the base of my skull.

My head spins. Time slows, the two of us frozen in a moment of connection.

I could turn my head. I could voice a protest. I could struggle or cry out.

I do none of those things.

And then his mouth is on mine, rough, demanding, his tongue pushing past my lips, my teeth.

I whimper, disoriented by the hot wave of lust that courses through me. I am his prisoner, bound, unable to escape. He has all the power. And that only adds to the desire slamming through me as Leo kisses me. Like he owns me. Like I am his to command, to do with as he pleases.

I’m drowning in dark longing, my whole body aching for his touch, arching into his kiss, aching to get closer. His lips are carnal, brutal, bruising me, claiming me.

And then he’s gone. He steps away, his obsidian eyes singeing me everywhere they touch.

If my hands were free, I’d wipe my lips with the back of my hand. But my hands are bound above my head and so all I can do is stand before him, panting, every nerve sensitized, my emotions a convoluted soup of embarrassment and anger and lust.

“Tell me where to find Charlie,” he says after a long moment.

“How do you know about him?” I say, breathless, my voice thick.

“You said his name in your sleep. Mumbled it over and over… Charlie, Charlie. That you’re coming for him. That you love him.” He says the last part as if tasting something sour. “Who the fuck is Charlie, little wolf? If this motherfucker gave you instructions to fuck with me, you will tell me everything.”

When I say nothing, he changes direction, his tone gentling.

“You made the wrong choice, Nicole. But you know what? I get it. I get why you did what you did.” His tone is soothing, cajoling. “If I had been the one to end your father, you would have had every right to come after me with everything you’ve got. Part of me would even respect that shit. You failed, but I would respect the attempt.

“But you did something very wrong, something I can’t forgive. You put my family in danger. You put my men in danger. And this Charlie has something to do with everything. He’s using you as a weapon, as a pawn.” He strokes his thumb along my jaw. “Tell me who he is.”

I take a deep breath in and let it out very slowly. I can’t think of a lie. All I can think of is the feel of Leo’s lips on mine, that carnal, punishing kiss.

Besides, there’s no sense in lying when truth will serve me better.

“Charlie is my cat,” I say. “He’s a ten-year-old tabby and literally the love of my life. He’s currently staying at a cat hotel waiting for me to pick him up. And, unless he’s been keeping the truth from me all these years, he is not a criminal mastermind.”

It seems that I’ve managed to render Leo Russo speechless, even if only for a moment.

“Your cat.”

“My cat.”

His phone buzzes. He grabs it, glaring at me, and takes the call, moving to the other side of the windowless room.

For the first time, I notice that he’s limping. For a moment, I’d forgotten that he’d taken a bullet on the boat, even if it hadn’t come from my gun.

While I wait, I tug on the handcuffs that, despite their padding, have become less comfortable with every minute that has passed.

Leo ends the call. He grabs the cart and moves it to the far wall, well beyond my reach, then, without looking at me, stalks out of my line of sight.

I hear the whir of an electric motor and the chain above me lowers even more, until I can drop my hands all the way down. I can’t stifle the sound of relief that escapes my lips.

Then I feel something nudge the backs of my legs. A padded stool with a low back. I settle on it with a sigh.

Behind me, Leo bangs on something metal. A second later, there’s a metallic creak. I twist my head to the side.

“Leo,” I call.

He pauses in the open doorway but doesn’t turn.

“Tell me the truth,” I say.

“About what?” his tone is cold and bored.

“The woman who took seven hours to die. Why did you kill her?”

He takes so long to answer that I think he is going to ignore my question and just walk away.

Finally, he says, “She and her husband were running a human trafficking ring. Young girls. Pre-teens. They kept them drugged to keep them compliant. They took the daughter of a man who worked for my cousin as a gardener. The girl died before we could recover her. Fentanyl overdose.”

The crazy thing is, his answer doesn’t surprise me. There he goes, being all Captain America again. Like, a Captain America who doesn’t mind spilling a whole lot of blood.

“Why did you kiss me?” I whisper.

He takes even longer to answer.

“Because I wanted to and you didn’t say no.”

He doesn’t say good-bye. He just closes the door behind him and literally leaves me hanging there.