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Butthere’s a sharp prick in my neck. My eyes fly wide as I swipe at my neck, confused. I feel . . . nothing. And then everything tilts.

The world dissolves like watercolors in rain. My legs fold and I pitch forward, collapsing against a wall of solid muscle. His arms band around me like steel cables, and his heat blazes through my skin.

I try to fight, to push away, but my limbs won’t cooperate. I fill my lungs for a scream, summoning every ounce of Romano stubbornness, but all that comes out is a pathetic whimper.

His grip shifts, one arm sliding under my knees, the other supporting my back. The movement sends the room spinning, and my head lolls against his chest. Through my fading consciousness, I catch the layered scents of smoke and citrus.

Oh shit. I’m being kidnapped. Delilah was right. The man really was eyeing the merchandise.

It’s the last coherent thought that drifts through my mind before the darkness pulls me under.

7

Cade

My arms tighten around her as she collapses against me. She’s small and soft. Delicate. Too delicate for the monstrous fate awaiting her.

Any second now, her would-be kidnappers will show up.

I carry her into the farthest stall, closing the toilet lid before lowering her onto it. Her head lolls against the wall as I adjust her position, making sure she won’t slip onto the grimy floor. Her floral perfume mingles with the bathroom’s harsh bleach scent.

I shut the stall door and return to the sinks to wait.

Not even ten seconds pass before footsteps echo outside. A light, jaunty whistle drifts closer, followed by a feigned slurred voice.

“Luna? You in here, babe?”

Eduardo.

I turn on the faucet, letting the water run—a simple trick to make him think she’s here, splashing her face, trying to sober up.

“Luna?” Eduardo’s voice sharpens. “Are you okay?”

I move to the door, my body coiling like a spring. A part of me almost feels sorry for the kid.

The door creaks open, and Eduardo steps in, gun already drawn. Smart, but not smart enough.

“Luna—”

I strike before he can finish, my hand snapping out to seize his wrist. One precise twist at the perfect acute angle, and I feel the bones shift under my grip. The crunch barely registers as his gun clatters to the floor.

Before he can cry out, I yank him against me, his back to my chest, and drive my forearm across his mouth. His eyes go wide with panic as I twist his arm behind his back, locking it in place.

I feel the tension in his body—but he’s neglecting to tense the muscles that would save his life. Or maybe he’s unaware of what’s coming as I sink my hand into his hair. With a sharp jerk and a sickening crack, his body instantly goes limp, folding into my arms with a final twitch.

I ease him down to the floor.

“Sorry, kid,” I mutter. “Wrong place, wrong time.”

I hoist Eduardo’s dead weight over my shoulder, each second stretching taut as a tripwire. His body flops like a ragdoll, but I keep moving. The supply closet is just down the hall—I’d mapped it earlier, along with every other exit and choke point in this cesspool.

I wrench the door open and cram him inside, then wedge it shut. It won’t hold long, but I don’t need long. By the time anyone realizes he’s missing, we’ll be gone.

Next, I push through the swinging kitchen doors, and greasy heat slaps me in the face. My hand’s already on my gun as I enter. Three staff members freeze mid-motion, wide-eyed—a cook with his hands in a pot, a dishwasher dropping a stack of plates, and a busboy backed against the industrial oven.

There’s a crash of ceramic as they drop to their knees, hands flying up in surrender. The smell of fear mingles with burning garlic and dish soap.

“Where’s the cold storage?” My gaze snaps to the man closest to me, and he frantically points toward a steel door in the back. Perfect.