Page 8 of The Mobster’s Prize

But he’s not allowed to hurt me.

“What’s your deal anyway? Who is this so called ‘boss’ that you work for?”

The creases around his eyes may leave a permanent indention, but surprisingly he answers me.

“Dario Moretti.”

Shit.

Moretti.

The King of LA.

The “boss” of the West Coast.

How on earth did my dad get mixed up with the mafia? That man will kill us both if he doesn’t get his money back.

“So, you’re a monster?” I meant mobster, but my nerves made my mouth betray me. Same difference I suppose. These men are dangerous. And he’s one of them.

Dag gives me a side glance, still not pulling over to shut me up.

“Have you ever killed anyone?”

Nothing.

“Were you born into the family?”

I’ve heard everyone in the “family” has a role. Some of them are henchmen who deal with disposing of bodies. Those who are blood have more power.

“This is my last warning. If you don’t stop talking, I’m putting the tape back over your mouth and locking you in the trunk.”

We’re on a remote road right now. No one would see him. For the first time, I decide maybe shutting up is the smart thing to do. When we get somewhere less secluded, I’ll try again.

“Fine.” I turn toward the window, and start paying attention. To every road. Every sign. Every landmark. Memorizing every detail of the drive. We’re climbing higher into the mountains, and things are starting to look familiar. This looks like the route we used to take to Tahoe.

Hope sparks, and I sit up straighter, watching for all the familiar spots. We’re definitely heading to Tahoe.

I know Mr. Callahan at the pub. Mrs. McGuire runs the diner. I know Dotty, who runs the only flower shop in town, and Miss Martha, who owns the cute little gift shop on Main. If Dag takes me through town, someone will recognize me.

Someone will help me.

“I really need to pee,” I say, as I spot an exit sign, getting closer to town.

“We’ve got another forty minutes to go.”

Forty minutes?

That’s past town.

That’s okay. I know Mrs. Hodges, who lives up on the ridge. Mr. Klein, whose cabin is right next to the state campground. I even know where some of the ski instructors live. I’m sure wherever he’s taking me, there will be someone who I can escape to for help.

But as we keep driving, getting deeper and deeper into the most remote part of the mountains, the area becomes unrecognizable. The trees grow thicker. The road narrows. And there isn’t a home in sight.

I don’t see the ski lodge or any of the mountain resorts. No gas stations. Not even a single snowmobile trail running along the side of the road hinting at there being any form of humans in these parts. There’s nothing. Nothing but trees.

My hope dies a slow, painful death.

“Home sweet home,” he says, pulling onto a thickly wooded driveway. And keeps driving and driving. It’s almost another ten minutes before a cabin appears up ahead. Even his driveway is a mile from the main road.