Control: A Dark Mafia Captive Romance (Cherish Series Book 2) Read online

  Control

  A Dark Mafia Captive Romance

  Olivia Ryann

  Contents

  Preface

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  The Next Book Is Called Covet

  About the Author

  Preface

  Fiore — (Italian, noun)

  A brightly colored and conspicuous example of the flower of a plant together with its stalk, typically used with others as a decoration or gift.

  1

  Katherine

  I sprint as fast as I can, away from the cops that are pursuing me. Toward what, I don’t know. Running towards the two sagging warehouses, placed side by side like .

  My heartbeat sounds thunderous in my own ears.

  Ka-thump.

  My muscles are moving me forward, but my arms and legs protest with every step.

  Ka-thump.

  My mind races, trying to put together a puzzle for which I don’t have all of the pieces. There’s not a lot of coherent thought going on, just a bunch of reacting based on pure instinct.

  Ka-thump.

  I reach the bottleneck, where the two warehouses eclipse me. My movement is hidden from anyone behind me. I run through the narrow gap, continuing to the right. I see a partially open door just twenty yards ahead of me. My lungs are screaming for me to stop now, so I sprint to the door, ducking inside.

  As soon as I get inside, I miss the dusky light. In here, it’s dark and dank and moldy, and my eyes take a moment to adjust. The warehouse is full of old crates and boxes, stacked four times as tall as I am.

  I need to move. Standing here like this, I’m a sitting duck. Three avenues open up between the boxes, forcing me to decide which one to take. I choose the left, moving as quickly and quietly as possible down the row of boxes that tower overhead.

  There are some paths created by the boxes, here and there where a stack randomly ends and there is a gap before the next begins. I soon see that there are not just the three avenues, but actually a whole network of corollary pathways.

  Darting right, off the main path, I work my way inside the maze. As I go, I have to slow down because the paths that I travel are getting smaller and smaller, nearly trapping me amongst the towering boxes.

  I start to get the same claustrophobic feeling that I felt earlier in the SUV begin to rise. If I die in here, the cops could just leave my body among the boxes and no one would probably even notice.

  That is assuming that anyone would even look for me…

  Based off of the fact that my closest brother Tony just sold me to the cops who are pursuing me now, I seriously doubt that.

  I clutch at my chest and refuse to let these thoughts settle in my mind. Not when there is so much else at stake.

  I reach what seems to be the center of the maze, and I realize the main problem with being among the boxes. There isn’t anywhere to hide here.

  I stop, looking at the heavy cardboard box to my right, examining it for a way in. I find a seam, tracing it around the box with my fingers. But I would have to break into the box to get inside.

  I glance up at the towering stack of boxes above it, biting my lip. There is no way of knowing that the box at the bottom wouldn’t collapse, trapping me inside. And that’s only if I managed to get inside, without any tools to help.

  “Hey, in here!” comes a man’s voice. Although the voice is a bit distant, I recognize it as belonging to one of the cops. “She could’ve run inside this open door.”

  Shit. They are coming my way, it’s only a matter of time. I look around, crazed. I have to start moving, that much is for certain.

  I decide to move further toward the back of the warehouse, thinking there might be an exit or at least somewhere I can hide back there. In my rush to move quickly, I knock one of the stacks of boxes with my shoulder so hard that it actually rocks back and forth for a second.

  Recoiling, I dart away from the boxes, praying that they don’t actually fall. I hadn’t considered that possibility yet, but I don’t want to alert the cops that I’m inside this particular warehouse. Knocking some of these giant boxes to the ground will definitely do that, at the very least.

  Far behind me, I hear one of the cops curse, and get the sense that he just figured out that the boxes are moveable too.

  As I go, the pathway gradually opens up. I rush down the widening corridor, trying to make out what lies at the other end. My breathing sounds ragged and harsh to my own ears.

  I silently pray that no one else can hear my breaths. I keep going, moving by will alone, and then suddenly I am running out of the maze.

  I look left and right; on the left, at the far end, there appear to be a set of double doors. In front of me, there is a second floor of what appear to be offices. On my far right, there are stairs that lead up to the second floor.

  I race for the exit, ignoring a rat that scurries across my path. I pump my arms and legs, sprinting flat-out towards the doors. There is graffiti all along the walls here, all red and black, the artist practicing their tag over and over again.

  “Skinx”, it says. “Skinx skinx skinx skinx skinx.”

  I can hear the cops yell to each other as they navigate the maze. I can’t tell exactly what they are saying, because their voices are muffled by all the cardboard, but I know that they’re still in pursuit.

  I make it down to the double doors, only to find them padlocked shut, a locked chain twined between their individual push-to-open handles. I push on one door anyway, feeling panic rising again. It opens a quarter of an inch before the chain pulls tight.

  Shit! I bang the door with my hand, only wincing afterward at the noise. I need another escape route, or at least a hiding place.

  I glance behind me, then to my right. I don’t want to be locked in here, but it looks like I don’t have a choice. I start running to the other end, focusing all my energy on the ratty looking set of metal stairs that lead up to the second floor.

  My lungs burn as I reach them. I clatter up the first few before I realize how loud I’m being. Glancing out into the forest of boxes, I slow my pace, hoping that I haven’t already given myself away.

  Every slow step is gut-wrenching. I creep up the stairs on silent feet, taking off the second I hit the landing. One of the offices is right in front of me, the door left carelessly ajar, and I scramble inside. I close the door behind me, but the door only swings three quarters of the way shut.

  I glance around, trying to get my bearings. There is a large plate glass window right behind me, part of the wall of the office. I don’t care, though. This way at least I’m not as horribly exposed as I was on the stairs. I look around the office, which is filled with dozens of stacks of small boxes. I spy a desk back behind all the boxes.

  Bingo. I can hide there.

  Getting low to avoid being seen, I make my way between the stacks, finding the desk in the far right corner. It’s made of musty old wood, leaning terribly under the weight of boxes stacked on top of it. It looks as though it may collapse at any moment, but that doesn’t matter to me.

  I gladly get on my k
nees and scramble underneath it, grateful for the cover it provides. I get a charley horse on my thigh as soon as I stop moving, my body protesting all the sudden activity of the last hour.

  I massage my leg as best I can, sitting and straining my ears for the sounds of the cops. I try to breathe as regularly as I know how, my mind whirring.

  Is it possible that they will just give up, figuring that maybe they had the wrong warehouse? Can I please, please get one single break in this day of horrors?

  When I hear the faint clatter of boot steps on the stairs, I swallow. I should’ve known that I’m not that lucky. I squeeze me eyes shut for a second, fighting back the tears that prick my eyes.

  There is no time for tears, not right now. I slap hand over my mouth, terrified that if I make a sound, they will know just where to find me.

  Thunk, thunk, thunk…

  I listen to the sound of heavy boots leaving the metal stairs, prowling in my direction. Shivers begin to wrack my body as the sounds grow closer and closer.

  “In here, Hunt,” one of them says, just outside the office. “Look at how the dust has been disturbed, here and here.”

  “Could’ve been whoever tagged downstairs.”

  “You ever known a tagger who explored any area without leaving a mark?” The cop chuckles.

  There is the long, sad sighing creak of the office door being opened.

  “You ought to come out right now!” the cop calls to me. “We’re not going to hurt you unless we have to.”

  No, you’re just going to sell me on to some crazy person. A person who believes that they can and should own people.

  I clamp my mouth shut, trying to squelch the bitter tears that threaten to overwhelm me. Huddling under the desk, I pray to God, even though I don’t believe in him.

  Please. Please, if you’re listening… save me. Please!

  I jump as the cops overturn one of the stacks of boxes.

  “Come on!” the same voice calls. “Don’t make me hunt for you! Just get out here!”

  “She’s not in there,” the other cops says, his tone bored.

  “Yes she is.” The voice grows closer and closer. “And she had better come out, if she knows what’s good for her.”

  I can’t move. I can’t breathe. I can’t think.

  All I hear are the footsteps, circling, ready to jump on the slightest sign of life.

  “Let’s check some of the other rooms up here, man.” The cop sounds impatient. “We don’t have all day to deliver the girl. I have shit to do.”

  There is a long pause. I sit there, terrified, while the cop tries to make a decision. Then a dissatisfied male sigh.

  “Yeah, okay.”

  The footsteps start to recede. I am so relieved that I almost let out a whoosh of breath. I shift a little to my left, and the desk creaks loudly.

  The footsteps pause. There is a muttered curse.

  “I fucking told you she was in here,” the cop says. “I fucking told you!”

  They footsteps fly my way. I close my eyes, shivering convulsively, unable to watch the cop search for me. He grabs my arms, dragging me out from under the desk. My eyes pop open as he hauls me upright.

  “You fucking stupid bitch,” he hisses, triumphant. “You are going to regret ever running from us. We are going to make sure that you are sold to a buyer who makes you beg for your death.”

  I see the other cop approaching, a syringe at the ready. I open my mouth to reply, although what am I supposed to say? Instead, I just start blubbering, making incoherent sounds.

  “Get her right here, in the arm,” the first cop says, holding my arm out.

  The officer jabs me in the arm, a quick pinprick of pain. Everything starts to blur, the whole world around me losing shape.

  “Should’ve dosed her right off,” one of them murmurs.

  And then everything goes black.

  2

  Katherine

  I wake slowly, realizing that I am face down, resting on something hard. I push myself up on shaky arms, looking around the space I find myself in. I’m on the floor of the room, my body heat being seeped away by the cool cement. I try to focus.

  I’m in a small bedroom of sorts, with a cot, a scratchy gray wool blanket, and a bucket. Everything is dreary and gray, the same color as the cinder block walls. There is no window in the whole space, which can’t be more the eight feet by eight.

  It’s a jail cell, I realize. I’m in a jail, and no one knows or cares that I am here.

  That thought swirls around in my head, but I can’t hold onto it. I can’t hold onto anything for too long, which is okay for me right now.

  The world is still fuzzy, which I blame on the drugs the cops gave me. Whatever I was injected with has left a bitter tang in my mouth and makes my bones feel weak. I sit up, noticing that my pale pink dress is gone, replaced with a starchy grey shift dress, the material prickling my bare skin.

  My bra is gone too, which means that someone saw me all but naked when they changed my clothes. I check for my panties, and I’m relieved to find that I’m still wearing the same slip of white satin as before.

  At least there is that.

  I get to my feet, my whole body aching from running for my life the day before. My bare feet protest the most. I can feel fresh blisters that have sprouted all along where my toes were in contact with my shoes and the pads of my feet.

  I limp over to the cell-like door, pressing my hands against the flat metal. There is a slot halfway down the door, just six inches by three. I bend down to look through it, my body protesting. On the other side, as far as I can see, there is just a stretch of bare wall.

  “Hello?” I call out. “Hello? Anyone?”

  Silence is the only answer, and it is deafening. I turn around, facing my tiny cell. My brain is still mushy, which keeps me from pondering the worst parts of my situation.

  The look on Tony’s face just before the cops hauled me away. Guilt, anxiety, maybe just a little bit of smugness.

  My father, who apparently sold me to an unknown buyer. I can’t even unpack those feelings without feeling enraged, so it’s better to just leave them be.

  The future, shrouded in mystery.

  Where will I be going?

  Who will I meet there?

  Will I even survive very long?

  College is seeming like a far away dream right now.

  Instead, I spend the next few hours learning every inch of my cell. I trace the seams of the cinder blocks. I pull the cot away from the wall, finding a spot in the corner where somebody chipped out a pocket in the floor with some kind of tool. I fold and refold the blanket, searching it for hidden mysteries.

  I realize about two hours later that I have to pee. Like, really, really bad. I call out the door’s slot for a while, but there is no response.

  With no one coming to my aid and my bladder about to burst, I am forced to use the bucket. I squat over it, hovering, and relieve myself. There is no toilet paper or anything, so I am forced to let myself drip dry.

  Then I lay down on the cot, shivering and afraid. Eventually, the hazy effects of the drug are gone from my system. I draw the wool blanket around my frame, shaking. But the wool only keeps out the cool air; it can’t keep out the thoughts that threaten to overwhelm me.

  The mysterious future. Tony. My father and the rest of my family. Will anyone even know that I’ve been kidnapped?

  These thoughts, and variations thereof, repeat and repeat until I’m a sobbing, crazed mess. Then I cry myself out. I sleep for a while. I wake, and remember where I am. The cycle begins again.

  Stress. Cry. Sleep.

  A whole day passes without a sign of life from outside my door. At one point, I sit by the door and yell for someone to come, but no one does. Not even when my belly starts to cramp with hunger

  It’s only on the beginning of the third day that I hear heavy boots coming down the hallway, toward my cell.

  I scramble off the cot, holding the wool blanket clos
e.

  “Hello?” I say, putting my eye to the slot.

  Straining to look down the hall, I can see the shape of a large man dressed all in black heading my way. I stare at him, at his bald head, at his beady eyes and the grim expression on his mouth, at the unslouching set of his shoulders. If I saw him on the street, I would cross to the other side to avoid him. But he’s a person, and I haven’t seen a person in three days.

  When he approaches my door, I don’t know whether to be more excited or frightened. He doesn’t say anything as he unlocks my door and swings it open.

  “Come,” he says simply, gesturing for me to leave the cell. I realize that he’s Russian, or maybe Polish or Ukrainian, just from the way he speaks.

  “Where are we?” I demand, shivering with a mixture of cold and fear.

  “You no talk,” he orders, moving toward me. “Just go out.”

  I look at him for a second, wondering if I should resist him. Then again, what am I really resisting? I have no idea where I am now or where he is supposed to lead me to.

  “Just tell me where I am—” I plead.

  He cuts me off by grabbing me by the shoulder. He inserts a thumb into the flesh there, digging painfully into my skin until I cry out and begin to shrink from his touch. I reach for him, my fingernails finding purchase in his meaty forearm, but he doesn’t even blink in reaction.

  “Move!” he yells, giving me a shake.

  He rips the wool blanket away with his free hand as he shoves me out of my cell and into a long, sterile hallway. The hallway is shockingly white, broken up only here and there by doors to other cells.