Page 5 of Beautiful Torment (Empire of Kings #1)

He lifts me off the ground and tosses me over his shoulder, heaving a breath from my lungs at the impact. There isn’t an ounce of gentility in his bruising grip around my thighs or the warning he gives me when he smacks my ass.

“Be a good girl, and maybe I’ll be nice to you.”

Somehow, I doubt that.

He stalks through the garden, and after a moment, the faint sound of additional footsteps drawing closer makes me wonder if it might be Eugene or Tony. But if I can hear it, so can my stalker, and he doesn’t seem fazed in the slightest—which means it’s not likely to be a threat.

The realization that he might not be alone snaps me back to reality.

This man has a motivation, and it can’t just be an obsession with me.

The most reasonable conclusion is that he’s an enemy—someone who could benefit from my kidnapping.

Anyone my father has wronged, enemies of the Vitales, and particularly the Stavros family, are all sound assumptions.

Truthfully, the rivals of the Cosa Nostra are far and wide, and it could be anyone.

The shadow of this exact scenario has followed me for the entirety of my existence.

I’ve always known it might happen. I was told as much so many times that it became a foregone conclusion.

Perhaps that’s why I feel oddly numb. Or maybe it was the whispered reassurances of my mother, who told me they’d return me once Papà fulfilled their demands. Except, he won’t.

My life isn’t worth much to him.

A cool breeze sweeps over us as he hauls me off, unlocking a new fear I haven’t yet considered. An image springs to mind—one of him tossing me over the railing to plummet to my death.

In a moment of bravery or stupidity, I thrust a knee into his chest and try to wiggle free. An irritated grunt catches in his lungs before his giant palm collides with my ass in a stinging slap. This time, I yelp.

That’s definitely going to leave an imprint.

“What did I tell you?” His rough words heat my blood, temporarily disorienting me.

“I—”

A protest lodges in my throat when I’m lowered onto a chair.

I don’t know what his plans are, but there’s no point in abandoning myself to an emotional outburst. I learned long ago that would get me nowhere, with the harshest lessons being from my father.

Anything but neutrality is a sign of weakness, and I learned to dissociate out of necessity.

Taking a Mafia princess hostage is a power play, but these men don’t know me.

They’ll expect easy tears. They’ll probably try to break me in unimaginable ways.

The only variable I can control in this situation is depriving them of the satisfaction.

So, as I wait for what comes next, I invest my energy where it matters, which is figuring out who I’m dealing with.

Off the top of my head, I can think of at least ten of the most likely culprits.

“Ares Stavros?” I offer up my first guess.

My question is met with a hollow laugh.

“Any of the Stavros brothers?”

That goes unanswered entirely.

“Need a hand, boss?”

My brows pinch together at the unmistakable accent of a New Yorker. Which Seattle rival has East Coast guys in their outfit?

“No,” comes the gruff reply.

A moment later, a third man joins us, speaking to his cohort in a low murmur. They both have New York accents. Strange. They must be contract hires.

Meanwhile, my stalker tugs my arms around the back of the chair and secures them with rope. When he finishes, he drapes my long hair over the seat, his fingers barely grazing my shoulders. My skin prickles at the sensation.

He moves to the front next, his gloved palms sliding down my calves as he pulls my legs apart. A small, unsteady exhalation escapes me, and he pauses. Did it sound…breathy, or was that just my imagination?

God, how embarrassing. I blame romance books and twenty-five years of abstinence. It only gets worse when I use humor to cope.

“You ever heard of buying a girl a drink first?”

A long, uncomfortable silence follows as he binds my ankles to the chair legs.

“Do you make a habit of propositioning men who abduct you for a date?” he asks.

“Oh, is this a kidnapping? I thought you were flirting with me.”

He cinches the final knot around my left ankle tighter than the last, then rises and leaves. The sound of his footsteps drifting away steals some of my bravery. Because no matter how small and insignificant it may be, there’s a rapport with him. The other men, I’m not so sure of.

“Wait,” I call out, hoping he doesn’t notice the undercurrent of panic in my voice.

For a beat, I hear him pause, but the words die on my lips. What am I going to say to him—please don’t leave me?

He chooses to walk away, his footsteps fading into the backdrop with a haunting finality. I listen for the sound of the door shutting behind him, and I think I hear a click, but it’s difficult to tell over the rustling of the leaves in the garden.

A minute passes before one of the other men approaches, and the uncertainty of what he might do makes me break out in a cold sweat. Time seems to stretch on indefinitely as I consider every worst-case scenario.

Then, without warning, the bag comes off my head.

My eyes water as they adjust to the moonlight and the two figures in front of me.

Their faces are obscured with black balaclavas, and they’re both wearing jeans, leather jackets, and gold chains.

Without question, they’re either Cosa Nostra -affiliated or they’re soldiers.

They aren’t high enough in the ranks to dress the part, which is never a good indication.

They don’t call in the guys in suits when they want a dirty job done.

But would my stalker let them hurt me?

“What’s the matter, sweetheart?” goon one asks. “No jokes for me?”

“Didn’t your mothers ever tell you it’s rude to start a conversation without introducing yourselves?”

“Yeah, sure.” Goon two laughs. “You want our addresses and social security numbers while we’re at it?”

“Fine.” I sigh. “For the sake of simplicity, I’ll call you Marv and Harry.”

The guy on the left sniffs. “Cute.”

“Hey, I liked that movie,” the newly coined Marv pipes up. “It’s a classic.”

“Sure is,” I agree. “Now, can we skip to the part where you tell me what you want? It’s been a long day, and I’m tired.”

“A long day she says.” Harry snorts, his voice raspy like that of a habitual smoker. “What’s a long day for a Mafia princess entail?”

“Shopping, if her little business is anything to go by.”

I roll my eyes. I’ve seen enough of these guys to last me a lifetime. In their minds, anything a woman accomplishes is little more than a hobby—something to entertain them while their husband stays busy with his side pieces.

There’s no point wasting my breath telling them that I’ve built my ‘little’ six-figure business as a stylist from the ground up.

In a world where almost everything is out of my control, work has been my one constant, and I’ve thrown myself into it.

I’m proud of what I’ve accomplished, and I don’t need validation from anyone who refuses to acknowledge it.

“Let me guess, Marv, you prefer women to be kept.”

“Ain’t no shame in that,” he says.

“If it’s what she wants, there isn’t,” I agree. “But I get the feeling you aren’t the kind of men who allow alternative options.”

“Eh, I am who I am,” he admits. “Won’t deny it.”

“It’s funny.” Harry points a gloved finger at me. “Wasn’t there a time not so long ago when you were staring down the barrel of the same future?”

I shift in the chair, the ropes biting into my wrists and ankles. Apparently, they know more about me than I thought.

“Nah, she dumped that guy,” Marv tells him. “For his brother.”

“Ouch,” Harry mutters. “It’s a wonder you’re still breathing. Was that before or after he went to prison?”

“After,” Marv confirms. “But it makes you wonder when it started.”

“That’s not how it happened.” I blow out an annoyed breath, wondering why I’m even bothering to explain myself.

“That’s the word on the street.”

“Well, rumors abound.”

“What was the issue?” Harry drawls. “Matteo better in the sack?”

“Of course, that’s what you’d think.”

“Nah, these Mafia princesses are supposed to remain untouched until marriage. You wouldn’t break the rules, would you, Abella?”

I don’t dignify that question with a response.

“Well, if not that, then what?” Marv wonders aloud. “Because here you are six years later, still not married. Smells like trouble in paradise, if you ask me.”

“Well, I didn’t ask you,” I reply in a bored tone.

“If it were me, I would have locked that shit down within the month,” Harry says, tipping his head to examine me. “What kind of bozo puts a fine piece of ass on the shelf for six years?”

“Fortunately for me, it isn’t you.” I scrunch my nose at the thought. “And my love life is none of your business.”

“The way I see it, right now—” Marv’s voice drops an octave, his threat clear. “Everything in your life is our business.”

“Or what?” I demand. “You’re going to send me back to my father piece by piece? Go on, then. We both know if that’s what your plans are, you’ll do it no matter what I tell you.”

“It must be a sore subject for you,” he says. “Being that your fiancé is at the Cat House at this very moment, banging his regular broad fifty different ways from Sunday.”

“Oh, please,” I scoff. “Like you don’t do the same thing every weekend.”

“Sounds a little jaded to me,” Harry taunts.

“You call it jaded. I call it realistic.”

“I think I get it now.” Marv wags a finger in the air. “You thought you upgraded, and now you’re bitter because Matteo can’t keep his dick in his pants.”

“You got me, Freud,” I mutter. “How much do I owe you for the session?”

Marv snorts. “You give this much lip to your fiancé?”

“I show respect where it’s due,” I tell them. “Rules don’t apply across enemy lines.”