Page 111 of Free to Judge

“I fell in love with his daughter.” Then I swallow before admitting, “Then I fucked everything up.”

McCullough mutters, “Yeah. You’d better hope you bleed.”

Clifton adds, “Because if not, Keene can still take you.”

Keene barks, “Jon’s meeting us there. What’s our ETA?”

“Fifteen minutes if we don’t get stuck on the bridge.”

“Then don’t get stuck on the bridge,” Keene snaps. “Bastard has my girl.”

Fortunately, we don’t get stuck, and we manage to craft a plan using the computer in the slick vehicle McCullough and Clifton have access to, as well as the small armory they keep in the back. By the time we meet up with Jon, I have hope we’ll be able to get her out alive.

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

The dark tulleof my gown is shredded from the damp warehouse floor I was tossed onto before the brutes dragged me into one of the two chairs and zip-tied me in place. I twist and turn, trying to find some give. Fortunately, the voluminous skirts of my dress are able to shift even as they absorb the blood I’ve shed within the layers. Somewhere in my less than delicate transport, I’ve lost my heels. Besides that, I do a quickassessment. My worst injuries appear to be my ribs from when I was kicked in the van, a split lip, and an eye nearly swollen shut from the fist to the socket.

“The real question is are they bruised or cracked?” I try to breathe as deeply as I can without causing further injury. If they’re cracked, I don’t want to puncture a lung. The pain is agonizing, but I can breathe, so that’s a good sign.

Keep breathing, Kalie. It will not only help you keep calm but avoid crying.

Meanwhile, do what Dad would have you do. Assess the situation.

Two of the three men who’d taken me pace back and forth. One sits across from me in a ladder-back chair. Cigarette smoke curls in the air above his head, mixing with dust and rot and motor oil.

“She’s tougher than she looks,” one of them mutters, wiping blood from his knuckles.

I glare at him. He’s the one who threw the punch at my eye. “I hope it hurts, asshole.”

“Enjoy that smart mouth for now,” the seated one replies, voice lazy. “The boss hasn’t got here yet.”

My senses sharpen. The boss? Who’s that?

The metal doors groan as they open.

There’s a hitch in the footsteps, telling me it’s not someone who is intending to rescue me from this hellhole. Instead, the thump and drag echoes. Sharp. Deliberate. There’s nopop-popof automatic gunfire. No shouted orders.

Just one man approaching, as if the whole world belongs to him.

I lift my head up, despite its pounding, and wish I hadn’t when the man steps just inside the circle of light.

He’s much older than the others. Tall. Straight-backed, despite the cane in his hand. Expensive coat. Irish wool. His silver hair is combed back from a face that is all too familiar. I should recognize it, as I’ve seen it every day of my life. Had this version of it not been etched with a lifetime of bad decisions and hard living, he’d be just as handsome as the son he sired and abandoned.

But by his own choices, my biological grandfather will never be half the man my father is.

He peruses me in much the same manner. It doesn’t freak me out until he smiles. “My God. I always thought you were the spitting image of my baby girl, my Riley.”

I shudder hearing that name out of this man’s mouth. It’s the birth name of my Aunt Cassidy. And hearing it from her birth father’s mouth is like another full punch to the ribs. “Don’t you mean Cassidy?” I sneer.

He spits on the floor. “I dare you to call her that again.”

I keep my focus on breathing evenly. “Want to formally introduce yourself?”

“You know damn well who I am, lass.”

“Oh, I know,grandfather.I was trying to be polite.”

His smile deepens. “Such exquisite manners, young Katherine. We never truly had a chance to bond as family, did we?”