Page 36 of Possessive Sinner
Three minutes later, we're tearing down Las Vegas Boulevard in my car. Mauro, my second-in-command, who just returned from a business trip to Phoenix, drives. Hard. The engine snarls as he cuts through traffic like the laws of physics are optional. In the back seat, Alessio checks his Glock with quiet efficiency, sliding the magazine in with a soft click.
Next to him, Damiano does the same, though he looks almost cheerful about it. I sit in the passenger seat, phone in my hand, watching the tracker. The little dot moves steadily across the map. Toward the industrial district. I pull my own pistol from the glove compartment and rack the slide. The sound is sharp. Final.
"Where are they taking her?" Damiano asks from the back.
"Warehouse district, from the looks of it," I say.
An eternity later, the area looms ahead of us. Dark. Silent. Waiting. Mauro takes another tight corner without slowing; the car fishtails slightly before gripping the asphalt again. Behind me, Damiano leans forward between the seats. "You got any idea who took her?"
"No."
"How many?"
"No idea."
Damiano chuckles softly. "So we're going in blind."
Alessio glances up from his weapon. "We have no idea who, how many, or what we're walking into?"
"Exactly." I don't like it. Not because of the odds. I've walked into worse. But because Audra is in there.
Damiano slaps his knee. "I like it."
Alessio shakes his head slowly. "Crazy motherfucker."
Normally, I'd be grateful to have them with me. Two men I trust with my life. But right now, my mind is somewhere else. Audra. Who the hell took her?
My thoughts drift toward a name I don't like thinking about. El Recaudador. Could he have found out about her? The bastard has been poking around every corner of our operation lately. If he somehow traced my surveillance of her… I wouldn't put it past him. My pulse kicks once. But no. That seems too far-fetched. Even for him. So who else? And more importantly—why?
The gun presseshard into my back. "Move."
I stumble forward. The warehouse door screeches open, and they shove me inside. The light hits me like a slap. Fluorescent tubes buzz overhead, flooding the enormous room with harsh, unforgiving brightness. For a second, my eyes struggle to adjust. Rows of boxes stretch along the walls, stacked neatly on pallets. Perfectly organized. Clean. It almost looks… normal. Like any storage space in the city.
Except for the chair. It sits in the middle of the room. And someone is tied to it. My breath stops.
Pete.
His head hangs forward, his chin almost touching his chest. His shirt is soaked through; dark patches spread across the fabric. Blood. There's blood on the concrete beneath him. Toomuch of it. My stomach turns violently. There is something on the ground around his chair. Small shapes. Dark. Wrong.
My brain refuses to understand for a second. Until it does. Oh God.
No.
No—
His fingers.
A choking sound rips out of me, and I double over, dry heaving as bile burns the back of my throat. The man behind me grabs my arm and yanks me upright. "Move."
I stagger forward. My vision swims. Pete doesn't move. Doesn't react. Doesn't even lift his head.
Please be alive.
Please be alive.
The man with the gun shoves me toward the center of the room. My knees almost buckle when I see Pete up close. His face is pale. His lips are cracked. Blood crusted along his jaw. His hands… I look away before my mind can finish that thought.
"Boss," the man says behind me. "We've got the wife."
