Page 65 of House of Cards (The Devil’s Den #2)

Zoey

Talk about instant karma.

I dared give Smith ‘God Amongst Men’ Hutchinson some lip, and my reward is a leering thug dragging me out of bed in the middle of the night.

Not just any leering thug. I recognize him the moment he bursts into the room.

How could I forget Luis’s Antichrist friend from the Labyrinth? The one I conked over the head with a mannequin arm. Judging from the look of utter hatred and spite that flashes over his features when he grabs hold of me, he hasn’t forgotten about me either.

“You call this keeping me safe ?” I yell at Smith as I struggle in the man’s grip, trying to wrench myself free.

Antichrist yanks me to the edge of the bed by my hair. I whimper at the pain, scratching and clawing when he grabs my throat.

I needn’t have bothered. This creep’s only interested in my tits. His eyes are glued to my chest, a depraved twist to his mouth as he openly studies me.

“Best part of the job,” he says, quirking a sleazy smile as he squeezes one of my tits through the thin t-shirt I wore to bed last night, back when I still thought Manny was going to smuggle me back to the city so I could go look for Ricky.

Fuck. Fuck!

Tears sting my eyes, but I blink them back furiously. I can’t fight if I’m busy sobbing like a little girl.

“Touch her again and I’ll rip your fucking throat out!” Smith yells, struggling so hard that he gets an arm free, socking the guy trying to pin him to the ground. Blood spurts from the man’s nose as he rears back with a yell of pain.

“ Oye! Déjala en paz ,”? 1 barks the man standing near Smith. He’s older than the thug feeling me up, with a lined face and dead eyes that make me think he’s been doing this kind of thing for a decade or two. “We don’t have time for this bullshit, Miguel.”

Miguel lets go of me, turning to argue with his boss in Spanish. I don’t know what Boss Man says, but it makes the creep slink away from the bed with a scowl.

My eyes lock on Smith. He’s struggling with the bloody-nosed cartel douchebag who’s trying to zip tie his hands behind his back. Miguel sees me looking and goes to kick Smith in the stomach.

I force my eyes away, choking down an angry sob, and send an imploring look Boss Man’s way.

But if it’s empathy I’m after, I’m looking in the wrong place.

Boss Man barely glances at me before his gaze drops to the floor, searching for something. He finds it a moment later, stalking forward to snatch it up. He tosses it at me, and I realize it’s my hoodie and sweatpants from last night.

“Cover yourself,” he says, his words heavily accented. His order has nothing to do with modesty—he just wants his men to think with their heads, not their dicks.

I slip on the sweats with shaking hands, mind reeling.

What the fuck is happening? I was supposed to be safe here.

Smith’s handler drags him to his feet, pressing his big gun into Smith’s back. Miguel heads my way, but stops at a tongue click from Boss Man, who comes to fetch me himself. Guess he still doesn’t trust Miguel not to slow things down.

I rear back out of sheer instinct, and get another warning tongue click. It takes every ounce of willpower to keep still as Boss Man takes a zip tie handcuff out of his vest and secures my hands behind my back.

So tight, I hiss in pain.

Smith whips his head around at the sound. His eyes lock with mine, and I see something there I’ve never seen before.

Fear.

Not for himself.

For me .

“Move,” Boss Man says, grabbing my arm and hauling me off the bed when my body chooses freeze instead of flight or fight.

I swallow down the terror swirling around inside me, and push forward on numb legs.

They march us into the hallway, me and Boss Man at the back, Miguel and the thug up front with Smith. I’m hyperaware of the men’s boots on the marble floor. The smell of sweat and cigarettes. The steely hand gripping my arm.

But with my eyes focused solely on Smith, everything else is little more than a blur.

“Who sent you?” Smith asks, voice eerily calm. He glances over his shoulder to address the question to Boss Man, but his eyes flicker to me for just a moment, mouth tightening. Trying to reassure me, probably.

The fear is gone, replaced by his usual stoic mask.

Guess he’s been in situations like this plenty of times in his life. More commonly on Boss Man’s side, I assume. He knows the drill.

Boss Man says nothing, but Miguel answers Smith with a rifle butt to his kidney. Smith doubles over, Miguel dragging him a few steps before he can straighten again.

“Shut the fuck up,” the third thug says, shoving Smith forward.

We’re herded down the grand staircase at a dangerous speed, me stumbling halfway down when I miss a step. I would’ve broken my fucking neck, but Boss Man yanks at my arm, bruising me as he pulls me back on my feet.

Smith risks a quick glance over his shoulder when he hears me gasp.

There’s that fear again.

My stomach drops when we’re dragged into an entertainment area with a door on each side. The pool table and overstuffed sofas have been pushed up against the wall to make room for all the captives.

The villa’s household staff huddle in one corner, a man training his rifle on them to keep them at bay.

Some are crying silently, others staring blankly ahead.

Two more armed men have the security guys on their knees, spaced out in a line, fingers laced behind their heads, wrists zip-tied. Their faces are bloody and bruised.

Jesus, there must be over a dozen armed men in this room. Most are keeping their rifles trained on the captives, but a few are gathered in the middle of the room like they’re waiting for something.

Or someone.

One of them moves aside to murmur something to his comrade, revealing another captive in faded jeans and a blue jacket.

Ricky?

“Ricky!” I shriek, surging forward. But Boss Man yanks me back so hard my teeth click together.

My brother is on his knees, slumped forward like he doesn’t have the strength to keep himself upright. One eye is swollen shut, and blood mats his hair on the same side. His windbreaker is torn, his jeans stained with blood.

He isn’t he zip-tied like me and Smith, and I realize that’s because his one arm is hanging at an odd angle, like it’s broken or dislocated.

There’s a grubby, blood-stained bandage on his left hand, tight enough that I can see the stump where his pinkie finger used to be.

The men gathered in the center of the room make way for us. Miguel shoves Smith down on his knees beside Ricky. I’m the next to go down, and I bite back a yelp of pain when my knees crack against the marble floor.

When he sees me, Ricky’s one good eye widens slightly. “Hey, Sis.”

I try to reply, but I’m too choked up. He looks fucking awful—like the jaws of life just extracted him from a car wreck that should have left him crippled or dead.

“Are there more men?” Smith hisses in a low, urgent voice. “Is Elonzo with them? Did you see a man with?—”

The butt of a rifle cracks against the side of Smith’s head before he can finish, sending him to his side.

“Smith!” I cry out, lunging forward without thinking. It’s not like I can do anything, anyway.

Boss Man yanks me back by my hair. “ Cállate, puta! ”? 2

I know enough Spanish to know I’ve just been called a whore, and enough common sense to know I’ll be in even deeper shit if I don’t shut the hell up.

Miguel yanks Smith upright, backhanding him when Smith spits onto his shoes. But Smith’s eyes never leave Ricky’s face. There’s grim validation there, and something else.

I’d guess remorse, but that doesn’t make any sense.

I turn to look as the door we came through bangs open.

Luis and another armed gangster stride in, dragging a sobbing maid by her arm. Her black-and-white uniform is rumpled, her face streaked with tears and mascara. There’s a dark red bruise over her eye, like she got punched in the face, and her lip is split.

“Bitch was hiding in the closet,” Luis announces, shoving the woman into the corner with the rest of their captives. Soon as he releases her, she collapses against one of the older woman and bursts into tears.

For an awful moment, her harrowing sobs are the only sound in the room, and we’re all forced to bear witness to her misery.

Luis’s eyes sweep the room, narrowing with recognition when they land on me. A slow, cruel smile spreads across his face as he swaggers my way.

“Back for dessert, Ratoncita ?” he says, grabbing his crotch.

“No thanks. I’d probably get food poisoning.”

He’s not wearing a bandage anymore, the grotesque stump of what’s left of his ear on full display. I try not to look at it, but that just seems to piss him off even more.

He crouches down to my level, snarling right in my face. “Boss said your ass is mine when this is over.”

His eyes drop to my hoodie, probably to ogle my tits, and he reaches for me.

Beside me, Smith lets out a dry chuckle. “She already marked you as her bitch. Sure you want to give her a chance to finish the job?”

Luis’s face contorts with rage. He lunges at Smith, his fist connecting with Smith’s jaw in a sickening crack. Smith’s head snaps back, but he recovers in a second, a taunting smirk spreading across his bloodied lips.

“That all you got?” Smith spits a mouthful of blood onto the marble floor and tilts his head in my direction. “No wonder that little girl took a chunk out of you without breaking a sweat.”

Luis unleashes a string of curses, driving his boot into Smith’s ribs. Smith doubles over with a pained grunt, but when he looks up, that same infuriating smirk is still there.

“Know why she took your ear and not your balls? Because she couldn’t fucking find them, you little bitch.”

Luis grabs a fistful of Smith’s hair, yanking his head back to expose his throat. He pulls a knife from his belt, pressing the tip against Smith’s jugular.

“ ?Basta! ”? 3

Everyone freezes at the sound of Elonzo’s voice.