Page 77 of Broken Blood Ties

“Isabella, what’s wrong? Where are you?”

Bass picks up from somewhere in the club and I move to a stall. “Luna. They won’t let me leave. I-I keep trying—” I let out a sob. I’m dead. Shit, someone is going to threaten to chop off my body parts unless my father agrees to something and he never will.

“Bella, where are you? Send me your location.”

The door to the bathroom opens, and when I whimper, I smack a hand over mouth. Snot drips from my nose and I fight the urge to sniff.

“Bella, did you hear me? Send me your location, I’m coming.”

I sniffle.

“She’s in here!” One guards yells into the hall.

No, no, no. “They know. They know my last name. I can’t leave,” I whisper.

“Gotcha!” A man kicks in the stall door and I tumble back onto the toilet.

“Drop a pin! I’m coming.” Luna yells into the phone.

The man reaches for me, so I turn, putting my back to him, and struggle to send off a pin.

He pulls my long hair and I scream, losing the grip on my phone and it clashes to the floor. I kick wildly as the man pulls me from the stall. The smell of bleach overpowers the peachy scent of soap somewhere in here, and I claw the hands fisting my ponytail.

I twist and yell, blubbering incoherent words. Another guard appears in the doorway holding a syringe.

“Rose said to give her this.” He stalks forward, and I shake as he grabs my neck and injects me with something. I let out a scream that fizzles to a croak before the world goes black.

* * *

My eyelids flutter open. What in the absolute hell? The room spins, an array of black velvet curtains hang to cover every wall in the room. Where am I? Where—I struggle to right myself and quickly realize I’m bound. My arms are wrapped behind me, hugging a chair, and my ankles are tied painfully tight to the legs. I pull against the ties, the weight on my body making the chair creak with a cackle. It’s laughing at me, and I jolt into a panic, tugging against the rough bindings digging into my wrists.

No, no. I’m so screwed. I pinch my eyes shut, trying to breathe.

Why am I so cold?

I do my best to blink away the heavy weight over my lashes, forcing them to crack despite the blurry smear of black, white, and red.

My pulse quickens, and my head pounds, each throb shooting a stabbing pain behind my eyes. My stomach turns as my body sluggishly catches up to my reality.

Willing my eyes wide, I take in the room. It’s massive, reminding me of one of those hotel conference center rooms you can rent for meetings or weddings. Except there’s no furniture.

Bastards can’t even decorate. I snort at myself, trying hard to sober my mind. Focus, Bella.

A cherry-red committee table, shaped like a semicircle, sits toward one end of the room with black leather chairs pushed in behind it.

The weak light casts strange shadows along the white marble floors, streaked with swirls of red and I fixate on it, panting.

It’s eerily silent, the slightest thump of music barely audible. I strain again against the bindings, but they don’t budge. My breathing is shallow, and every once in a while, I let out a gasp of pain as I work to free myself.

My last name is going to get me killed. Did my pin even get to Luna? Should I have called my father? One of his guards I ditched for the evening? They’re so tired of my shit, they probably wouldn’t have even answered my phone call anyway.

My skin prickles with goose bumps. Why the hell am I so cold? The sequins on my dress whisper and rustle with every shudder, and I crane my neck looking for someone, anyone.

It’s as if my thoughts summon him, because there’s a rippling sound, as though he morphed through the curtains like some sort of ghost.

A tall man with thinning dark hair slowly approaches, hands tucked into his suit pockets. There’s a gleam in his beady eyes, and his pointed nose flares.

“Miss Buscetta,” he says without question.