Page 7 of Auctioned to the Mafia Don
Quickly, I run a list of the areas where they might be hidden: the back corridor, the service wing, near the helipad, if the property has one.
I cut left just as a guard comes through the side door with his weapon half raised, eyes on the raid instead of the stage. I hit him low and fast, driving my shoulder into his ribs before he has time to decide whether I am merchandise or a threat. His back hits the wall. The gun slips, and I catch his wrist. Twisting until something gives, before slamming his head once against the doorframe.
He goes down, and I take the gun. I don’t plan to use it unless I have to, but unarmed women get grabbed in hallways. Armed women get considerably more respect, especially in this group.And an armed woman searching for the children that mean everything to her is even more dangerous.
Chapter Two
Maya
The corridor beyond the stage is narrower than the one they brought me through, with utility lights and concrete floors, and none of the expensive lies from the front room. The air smells like bleach, dust, and panic. Somewhere ahead, footsteps pound away from the raid. Somewhere behind me, an agent shouts for everyone to get on the ground.
I keep moving.
My wrist is bleeding where the zip tie cut too deeply. My knees ache from the stage. My heart is steady. I pass one open room. Check it, empty. Another. Storage. The third though tells an entirely different story. Inside, there are two chairs, a table, a half-eaten sandwich, and a child’s hair ribbon on the floor.
My chest tightens. I was right, they were here.
I bend, snatching up a small pink hair ribbon —Erin— squeezing it tight in my palm. Erin and Heath were here. Myfingers curl so hard my nails press into my palm, threatening to tear my skin.They were here. They were just here.
A door slams somewhere further down the hall; the sound jerks me into action. I run. The corridor turns twice before it opens toward a service exit. The sounds are different here. Less gunfire. More engine noise. Wind. The thump of rotor blades starting up outside.
No.
I reach the last bend and stop short, long enough to look around the corner cautiously. Running in blindly gets people killed, and I have not come this far to be stupid when I’ve got them in reach. Through the wired glass window in the exit door, I see the back drive flooded with harsh white light. A black helicopter waits beyond the service lane, blades beginning to turn. Two men move toward it with purpose. One of them is carrying a bag. The other has his hands on the shoulders of two children. Erin and Heath.
For one second, the whole world narrows to them. Erin’s hair is loose around her face. Heath is walking rigidly beside her, his small body angled toward his sister like he can make himself larger by force of will alone. They are alive. And they are right there.
I reach for the door, but as my hand touches the handle, I recognize the man guiding them. The close-cropped hair. The hard jawline. It’s the same man who was whispering in Stefano Savarese’s ear.
Omar.The name comes from deep in my memory. From files read in midnight hours, and photographs from various agencies. Omar Strada. Capo. Stefano’s right hand. Loyal enough to be dangerous. Intelligent enough to be a problem.
He opens the helicopter door as I push through the exit door.
The cold night air hits my face, damp and sharp after the heat of the auction room. The gun solid in my hand. The cut on my wrist pulses. Attention drawn by my movement, Omar looks back, and our eyes meet.
He knows immediately that I am not what I was advertised as, and I see the calculation happen in real time. The children first. Threat second. Escape route third.
Smart. I hate smart men when they are between me and my target.
“Federal agent,” I shout, raising the gun and locking in on him through the sight. Sometimes the truth is a weapon even when it arrives late. “Step away from the children.”
Erin flinches. Heath turns his head. Omar’s hand moves beneath his jacket.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” I warn.
He pauses. No fear reflected in his expression, simply an assessment. The helicopter blades beat harder, whipping myhair across my face, tearing sound apart before it can fully form. Behind me, the building continues to erupt into shouted commands and broken glass. In front of me, two children stand six yards away from disappearing again.
Six yards.
That is all.
I start forward.
One step.
Two.
Omar’s gaze shifts past me. And I know before the metal touches my temple that I’ve let my guard slip and caught it too late. The gun presses cold against the side of my head, just above the cheekbone. I swallow hard, twisting my hands in defeat, I refuse to drop the gun in my hand but drop my target line on Omar.
