Page 2 of Dangerous King (Savage Kings of New York #2)

I think of my father, still alive, the last I heard, still cooperating with Giovanni's demands to keep me safe.

I think of my mother's trembling hands when I left with Giovanni's men.

If I do anything—anything—to jeopardize my standing here, Giovanni will make sure they both pay.

Or my older brothers, or my sister, who is only a year younger than me.

I haven't touched any of them in fourteen years.

We talk via FaceTime, but that's all the contact we have.

Tentatively, I take another step forward, away from the basement.

But then, there it is… another sob.

It's muffled, barely there, still powerful enough to slice through me like a blade. It reminds me so much of myself. Down there.

That woman… she didn't do anything. I know it deep in my soul. She's not a threat. She's not a spy. She's just trapped , like I've been all my life.

But she's not you , the logical part of my brain whispers. She's someone else's problem. You don't even know her name.

I lean my head back against the wall, squeezing my eyes shut.

My heartbeat pounds in my ears, faster, louder, wild.

They're calling Ringo. If I leave that woman down there, she'll die.

Not quickly and not painlessly. My stomach turns violently.

I remember what it's like to scream with no one listening.

To bleed with no one coming. I remember the chair.

That fucking chair.

Giovanni had it custom-built. Reinforced and bolted to the floor.

A grotesque hybrid of a dentist's chair and a gynecologist's torture rack.

And once—once—he had me tied to it. He videoed me, every heinous thing he and Roberto did to me.

They sent it to my family because, they said, my father had forgotten who his boss was and what they would do to me. I was fifteen.

Another sob floats up from the darkness below. Softer this time. Ragged and broken. The sound of someone who has lost all hope. The sound stabs my heart and seizes my lungs. It's the sound of a trapped creature, a creature who doesn't want to die.

A sharp, ugly sound crawls up my throat—half sob, half snarl. My hands tremble. The cheese in my palm falls to the ground, but I don't care. I'm already halfway down the stairs before I realize I've moved.

Like in a trance.

I have no plan. I have no idea what I'll do.

All I have is the memory of blood under my fingernails and the echo of a girl's sob too close to my own.

A faint light glows from a corner of the large open area.

It flickers, barely holding on. There are other lights, lights that work properly, but this one has been deliberately tampered with to instill maximum fear.

Down below are more doors—cells—lining the walls.

I know them. I know every single one of them.

I've spent a few excruciating days locked inside one, when my mother tried to contact the police.

At other times, as a reminder of who I really was in this house, Giovanni made me feed some of his guests and forced me to clean up after each one.

I don't want to know if the cells are occupied. I don't want to see if the stains are still there. Or if the people inside are still the same.

My eyes fly to the woman tied to the metal chair in the center. She's not a woman. She's no older than me, maybe nineteen. A girl, really. She's slumped forward. Her wrists are bound behind her, legs strapped wide at the base. Her head lolls slightly to the side.

I have never seen her before. She must have heard me, because suddenly she sits up, and my heart breaks. She's trying to be brave. Her spine straightens, and determined lines paint her beautiful features.

On shaking legs, I take another step closer. Giovanni had that chair built for pain. I know. I've sat in it. I still wear the scars from it. Be a good girl and tell your papà to behave , Giovanni said, petting my hair. And right now, I'm the only one who can stop whatever is going to happen to her.

Tears are falling down her face, and her eyes dart wildly through the room, not even noticing me, but she juts her chin forward in an effort to appear less fearful.

It's not quite working, though; the assortment of torture instruments on the tables around her would have me scared out of my mind, too.

Suddenly, as if she's finally sensed my presence, her head moves up.

Our eyes meet. Her beautiful black eyes are filled with fear.

I press a finger to my lips. I have no idea what I'm about to do.

None. Or maybe I do and don't want it to be true.

But the fact of the matter is that I cannot allow Giovanni and his men to hurt her.

They'll kill your family , the same voice, the same words that have kept me here for all these years, remind me.

Shivering, I take a step back, feeling the back of a stair against my Achilles heel.

It would be so easy to dart up the stairs, to hide in the family room until Ringo arrives.

Then the men would go down here, and I could rush back into my room. Nobody would ever know that I was here.

Except her.

The girl.

The girl who watches me intently with something like hope in her eyes.

The girl who is the same age as me.

The girl who could be me.

The girl who will be you one day! A new voice stops me. I swallow.

But it's true. One day, my dad will die, or he won't get reelected, and I will be useless to Giovanni. Useless and a liability. And we all know where that ends you in the Cosa Nostra. I'll be lucky if he just shoots a bullet through my head.

A wild idea rushes through my head. If I can free her, if we both manage to escape, then maybe I can use her phone to call my family in Sicily, warn them, tell them that I'm free and they need to run.

We can meet up somewhere. It's possible.

All I need is a little bit of luck—God knows I deserve some luck.

It's a foolish plan. An idiotic plan. But it's all I have.

Tears sting my eyes. I haven't felt my mamma's or papà's embrace in fourteen years. I miss them so much, it hurts.

With that impossible, outlandish plan in mind, I hesitantly make my way over to the rows and rows of torture instruments.

The girl's eyes are still locked on mine.

Hope wars with fear. She's muzzled, but small whimpers escape her.

Worried that they might hear her, I press my finger to my lips as I pick up a sharp-looking scalpel.

This should do. It should cut through the leather straps holding her.

For once in my life, I want to do something right. I don't want to be a coward anymore, and I don't want Giovanni torturing this girl.

Her breath is sour with fear; I feel it on my face as I saw through the leather holding her right arm down. It goes faster than I hoped, I have to be careful not to saw through her skin.

There. Her right arm is free.

She holds it out, gesturing for me to give her the scalpel.

Right, that will make it much faster.

The thought that she might use it to stab me never enters my mind.

Quickly, I pick up another scalpel and start on her leg, while she frees her other arm, then it's only one more leg.

She doesn't have any shoes on; come to think of it, neither do I.

Too late now. Can't run upstairs to get some .

With a moan, she removes the muzzle from her mouth. I signal her to keep quiet and to follow me. Again, I press my back against the wall as I make my way up, knowing that way the stairs won't squeak. She fumbles for my hand and follows my example.

It's when we reach the kitchen that my heart begins to gallop. Madre di Dio, what have I done ?

She squeezes my hand. A grin spreads across my lips, despite the acid burning in my stomach from fear.

Giovanni will be furious . Strangely, that thought widens my grin.

For the first time in my life, I'm going against him.

And in a way he'll never forgive me for.

Never. The next time I'll see him, it will be me in that chair; I just know it. Carpe diem , I think. Seize the day .

I tug on the girl's hand and move us toward the patio door.

I know the code for the lock, and minutes later, we're out in the sprawling backyard.

I have also memorized where the floodlight triggers are located, and we avoid them as our feet move silently over the wet grass.

A pebble cuts into my sole, but as I hear aggravated screaming and the barking of dogs, I realize that is the least of my worries.

Shit , the dogs , I forgot about the dogs.

Dobermans, to be exact. Five of them.

The sound of shots being fired inside adds to the cacophony of the frenzied dogs.

"Run," I yell at the girl, and push her toward the ten-foot wall surrounding Giovanni's property as the dogs home in on us.