AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Sometimes, if you close your eyes, it’s easier, darling,” he murmurs, his voice smooth as spun silk and eerily convincing.
After a brief hesitation and with no exits in sight, I shut my eyes, while my heart is pounding wildly in my chest.
“Trust me, you won’t feel a thing.”
That’s just it. I’m feeling everything.
Fear.
Heartbreak.
Regret.
But then I think of Da and square my shoulders, standing tall and brave.
If I’m going down, I’m going down like a Mullvain.
Chapter Twenty-Five
KENNEDY
“You can remove the blindfold now.”
I do, blinking against the sudden brightness. After an hour in darkness, it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust.
I guess I should be grateful. The last time I was blindfolded and snatched against my will, my mode of transportation was the cramped space of a trunk.
At least this time, I’m upright, in an actual seat.
“The precautions are for your protection, Ms. Mullvain,” the driver says, his tone flat and devoid of emotion.
“Oh, is that why I don’t have my phone? For my protection?” Only a total prick would keep my phone. Shit, what if Enzo unlocked it? Saw all the calls to Knox?
He shrugs helplessly as we pull up to a tall gate.
The driver rolls down the window and addresses the guards. “Mr. D’Angelo is expecting her.”
A hornet’s nest erupts in my chest. He’s expecting me. Panic surges through me, and my fingers twitch toward the door handle. As soon as I try it, the driver turns around, his eyes cold. “Mr. D’Angelo wanted me to let you know the doors are locked.”
“Let me guess. That’s for my protection, too,” I mutter. My eyes land on a stone plaque lodged in the guardhouse that reads, “D’Angelo Estate.” I slump back in my seat, seeing my fate carved in stone.
The driver nods, and the tall gates swing open with a heavy, metallic clang.
I cast another glance at the driver, a stranger whose face I haven’t seen before. Come to think of it, most of the people I’ve encountered, I’ve only seen once and then never again.
Why is that?
Are they part of some exclusive subscription service, where heavily armed guards and drivers are delivered monthly like craft beer and book boxes? Or do they simply vanish because they piss off their boss?
Who knows what measures he takes for their “protection.”
The car rolls to a stop at a roundabout, and my heart rate spikes. Someone opens my door with practiced precision, revealing a man who looks more like a valet than a thug. His polite demeanor does little to ease my nerves, especially considering he also has a gun.
He takes my hand and helps me out of the car. “Mr. D’Angelo is waiting for you, Ms. Mullvain,” he announces as I’m guided out.
How do they know my name? A knot twists tight in my gut as I watch the car glide away, along with the last escape plan I dreamed up during the hour-long ride.
The place is swarming with guards, each one more imposing than the last, armed to the teeth and built like tanks. It might as well be a thug convention.
