I figure the phone has turned off by now but as long as there's a possibility she had the phone on her when she was taken, I can find her, whether they let me or not.

LEIGHTON

Stevie punches me across my probably swollen face, back in the same room I was before.

“Fucking bitch,” he yells, wiping the spit off his chin. I don’t have it in me to move or resist. Everything hurts. “That was my flesh and blood you killed.”

He didn’t tie me to the chair, or anything. He’s been hitting me, landing punches everywhere for the last hour.

I’m glad I killed the bastard. He deserved to die. I tell him so. Another punch, so hard my vision blurs for a moment. My heavy lids are barely staying up. I feel like I’m about to pass out any second.

George comes in, carrying a bag in his hand. "Boss said to sedate her."

Sedate me? Fuck, no. I didn’t hold on for so long only for them to drug me. If I'm out, there's no way I can get out of this place. I shake my head violently, and start thrashing against the chair. Stevie’s hands grip my shoulders tightly, holding me in place. It fucking hurts but I don't give him the satisfaction of knowing that. He brings a knife to my neck, and leans into my personal space, his foul breath fanning across my cheek. “Stop it or I'll kill you. I am so fucking close to just ripping you all apart,” he says.

I slump in defeat, just hoping he doesn’t keep punching me. I don’t doubt his words for a second.

“Boss said not to touch me,” I say, enunciating the word, but it comes out mumbled. “When Devon finds out what you did—”

“Of course, Devon,” he mocks me. “Your Romeo is dead, he won’t save you this time. You killed him.”

I break out in cold sweat. My heart is pounding so loudly, I'm sure everyone in the room can hear it. “No.”

“Yup, froze to death.” He laughs, a maniacal sound. “Serves him right, the motherfucker. He's been a thorn in my side that just wouldn't go away. And I didn't even have to get my hands dirty in the end. Looks like you did the job for me—princess. Is that what he called you?”

Seconds pass, but it seems like hours until I return to reality, and the buzzing in my ears stops. I hear the sound of sobbing, and then I realize it's me. My heart squeezes at the thought of him lying there. The last thing he saw was me, on the other side of the gun.

I killed Devon.

George nears me with a glass of water, dropping some powder in it and swirling it with his dirty finger. I consider just letting him do it. I deserve it for what I did.

But I still have to warn my father about what's going on. I still have family left. I killed Devon, and I'll bear it forever on my conscience, but I need his death to have meaning, at least. I can't give up now.

I back away from George as much as the chair lets me, trying to see what he's going to give me. “George,” I say through tears, the hysterical note in my voice more than obvious. “Please, don't do this.”

“Leighton,” he says as if he's talking to a child, “it was going to happen all along. It's what happens when your own boss chooses to protect enemy bastards instead of finishing them off, all at the expense of his own.”

“My father's been nothing but good to you,” I say, indignant. George was his advisor, his second in command. Nothing ever happened without him being included in it.

“Yes, but he's gone soft, you know. Times have changed; we need a stronger hand. And Dom, he's got a future ahead of him. You understand.” He has the nerve to sound apologetic about it.

I shake my head violently, jerking away as Stevie grabs for my shoulders, holding me still in place. He grabs my jaw and squeezes my cheeks. “Keep still, bitch.”

George brings the plastic glass to my mouth, holding my jaw down so I drink it. I spit it out of my mouth. He shakes his head at me, and then nods to Stevie. Stevie grabs for my head and tilts it back, pinching my nose, while George pours the rest of the liquid in my mouth. I choke on it, trying not to swallow it, but in the end I run out of air and let it slide down my throat.

eighteen

DEVON

I read the message again. They couldn't have been that stupid, could they? Last location reads one of our warehouses. They're fucking morons, but I'm thankful. At least I know exactly where to go. And I had my phone tracked as well, because they never told me where I am.

I could tell my uncle about it, but I don't. I know it's stupid, I'm wounded and I'm probably no match for however many of them are there, but they think I'm dead, and there's an element of surprise there. They won't expect me to come after her. And who knows who else of our men, or Keith's, is a traitor, and could tip them off that we know the location.

No, I'll have to do it myself. Or, well, with as little help as I can get.

I wait until midnight. I don't know why. Time is wasting, and God knows what they're doing to her, but I can't risk getting caught. Even as I get out of bed and search for any clothes I can find, I know it's a stupid idea. Thankfully, there's a button-up pajama top that will have to do, all the better for not hurting my shoulder trying to wear a shirt.

As I'm fumbling with the buttons, my phone screen flashes, letting me know it's go time. My heart skips a beat. What if I'm late already? What if they did something to her and it's all my fucking fault?

I'd know if she was dead. I can just feel it; I know she's still holding on.

I grab the phone and try the door. For some reason I expect it to be locked, but it opens and I walk out into the corridor, trying to find a way out. As I pass through the dark hallway, I see a figure standing and duck. The pain from my shoulder slices through my body, but I ignore it. I couldn't risk taking any pills, for fear of them slowing me down. It helps, too, keeping me alert.

I hear a couple of unintelligible voices, and then they fade away, until I can’t hear them anymore. I exhale in relief, but stay low as I head for the huge glass doors on the other side of the room. Hopefully, they lead outside.

I open them just a little, and squeeze myself outside, inhaling the cold, fresh air. I look around and want to groan in frustration. It's a fucking garden, iron fence all around, and I don't see a gate or anything like that. The house is an old one, and everywhere I look there are mountains.

I backtrack, but then the figure is back with a friend and there's no way to get inside without them seeing me. I turn back and look at the fence. If my shoulder wasn't so bad, I could jump it. Too bad I have to do it either way.

I run across the garden until I reach the end. The fence only comes to my chin, but it's still a struggle. I raise my good hand and latch onto the railing, then, applying as little pressure as I can on the other, somehow maneuver myself over it, landing on the other side on my back with a thud.

“Fuck.” Now my whole arm hurts, not just the fucking shoulder.

Why couldn't she fucking shoot somewhere else, like my fingers? Or not at all? All she had to do was tell me she didn't want to come with me, and I would have let her go.

Even as I think it, I know it's not true. I wouldn't have let her go, because I was so focused on just the two of us, thinking it should be enough. I didn't stop to consider that she's still losing her family. Of course she would have fought me. God, I'm such a jerk.

I bring my good arm up and cover my eyes, breathing deeply and trying to calm my pounding heart. Finally, I stand up. It's a fucking effort. I look down and the plaid fabric is stained with crimson, spreading fast.

I trek through the snow-covered ground for I don't know how long, hoping I'm going south. My feet are freezing because I don't have any shoes on. I just need to find a road, and then it should be easy. Emerging between the thick trees, my feet finally hit solid ground. I turn my head from one side to the other, looking for any light source. And then I see it, flashing way further down the gravel road. I look back and the house I left is nowhere in sight.