Chapter Two

Despite her plea, Frankie Donati appeared to be completely past the edge of reason. He continued to hold her against the wall using nothing more than one hand and his body weight. Her legs flailed, trying to find purchase. She kicked his knees out of reflex in hopes of breaking his hold so she could take air into her lungs. He was immovable, driven by his anger and desire for revenge. A revenge she knew she deserved.

“I’m… sorry…” she wheezed.

“Don’t talk,” Frankie growled, constricting his fingers until her eyes rolled backward.

Gloria’s grip tightened on the arm he used to keep her lifted off the ground. She felt liquid pool at her fingertips as her nails cut through the fabric of his shirt and into his flesh.

“I can’t say I’m surprised to find you cowering in a closet, Gloria,” Frankie said, his voice cold, calm, unshakeable despite what he’d just endured to get to her. “Is that what you were doing when they came for you? Is that how you watched my brother die?”

Gloria shook her head violently.

“No? Where were you when they killed him? Where were you when they slaughtered my brother?” he asked, his voice rising to a shout.

She tapped his arm as she started to feel faint. He released his grip just enough for her to speak. “He… hit… me,” she stammered out.

“Oh, you poor baby. Sergei knock you around a bit? My brother is dead!”

Again she shook her head. “Ste-Stephen… hit… me…” Gloria pleaded, trying to make Frankie understand.

Deciding to take a risky approach, Gloria dropped one hand from his arm. She shut her eyes hard as she reached for the arm he wasn’t using to choke her to death. He pulled his free arm away and tightened his grip on her throat but she refused to stop until she had his wrist in her grasp. She lifted his hand to the side of her head and touched his fingers to the stitches hidden in her hair. As if the long scar had shocked him back to reality, he jerked and released his hold.

Gloria fell to the ground, only barely catching herself on her palms. She wretched and inhaled too much air at once resulting in her hacking up even more. Still on her hands and knees she fought for use of her lungs. Everything burned, even her fingers.

“They were coming for me…” she said quickly before he could grab her again. “I wanted to… turn myself over… There were… too many of… them.” She looked up to find him staring down at her from a few feet away. “I wanted to… give in,” she continued and shook her head. “Stephen… refused… I tried to run… for the door… He caught me on the stairs… hit me from behind… with his handgun. I woke up a week later…” She glanced around. “Here.”

Frankie took a few unsteady steps back until he hit her dresser. He sank down until he sat on the ground

“Frankie, I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

Frankie drew his knees up until he could hang his hands over them. He didn’t speak, it didn’t even look like he was breathing. He just stared across the two bodies between them. They sat like that in silence for a few minutes until Gloria couldn’t take it anymore. She looked at the clock. It had been approximately twenty minutes since the first explosion.

“Frank, you need to leave. There is still time. The reinforcements will be here in a few minutes,” Gloria pleaded, swiping a tear from her cheek. She deserved this hell. She deserved this future. He had suffered enough. She would know.

He looked at the watch on his left wrist. “Two minutes and forty-seven seconds,” he corrected.

“What are you going to do?” she asked quietly.

“Wait.”

“How did you find me?” she asked, afraid of the silence more than his answers.

His right eye crinkled, telling her that he was probably smirking. “One of Sergei’s old friends told me. We had a conversation in prison last week.”

“Prison?”

“Hmm.”

“Frankie, look, I…”

“Get up,” he ordered, lifting himself up using the edge of the dresser.

“I…”

“Now,” he demanded after a glance at his watch.

Gloria had to use the wall to stand. Her knees shook, clicking against each other while her lungs felt bruised and her throat stung. His dark eyes raked over her thin nightgown. His body, already rigid from the mission he was on, strained further and she worried what would happen when that tension snapped. He strode toward her and she inhaled sharply as his fingers gripped her upper arm.

“Let’s go,” he ordered, pulling her along whether she was ready or not.

Frankie stopped just inside the doorway to her bedroom. He pulled his handgun from his back pocket and racked the slide. He took a step out to scan his surroundings. Gloria gasped at the carnage that lay outside her bedroom. She saw her main body guard, Stefan, slouched against the wall. Her eyes followed the blood trail up to a single bullet hole in the drywall. She looked through it and could see the inside of her bedroom, and her bed. The realization hit her like a freaking truck. That was the first shot that had woken her up. Frankie’s hand circled her wrist and he yanked her down the hall.

She lost count of the bodies laying between her room and the stairwell. Each had two gunshots to the head along with others that had dropped them long enough for the kill shots to be made. Blood flowed down the stairs leading to the first floor bringing to mind the final scenes of The Shining. She stumbled down a few stairs but was caught by Frankie’s demanding grip. He got them to the front door then pushed her back against the wall. He kept his arm pinned against her chest, immobilizing her as he looked cautiously out the front door.

Frankie growled in aggravation as car lights raced up the driveway from about a mile down the road. He looked at his watch and cursed. He laid his head back against the wall and shut his eyes.

“What are you…”

He held a finger up to his mouth and shushed her. She noticed his mask moving as if he were talking but she couldn't hear any words. The alarm on his watch went off loud and shrill in the quiet of the disturbed household. Frankie shoved off the wall and stood at the doorway just as Gloria heard a procession of twelve different clicks. Detonations activated along the driveway by the gate. Explosions lit up the sky once again as each device ignited beside the caravan of reinforcements.

Gloria’s jaw dropped as SUVS and cars were lifted into the air, spun, flipped or exploded. The red, orange and yellow of the flames reflected perfectly in Frankie’s black eyes. She didn’t need to see his face beneath the mask to know he was smiling.

“Damn, I’m good,” Frankie said with a shake of his head as he stepped out of the doorway.

Gloria followed after, feeling half in a daze as the flames licked along the broken cars and lit the dried grass beside the driveway. The grass caught quickly and flames suddenly raced across the lawn. She staggered down the steps in the wake of Frankie’s prideful strut. The gravel crunched under her bare feet, dulled by the shrill scream of the car alarms and the various men burning alive within their metal coffins. Tears started to drip down her face as an explosion rocked one of the SUVs and the screaming within suddenly stopped.

Ahead of her she could hear Frankie whistling a nursery rhyme as he walked by the carnage completely unphased. Once outside of the gate he took a sharp turn into the woods. She watched, holding her arms tightly across her chest to fight off the chill in her nightgown, as he threw back some old branches and brush to uncover a black motorcycle. He threw his leg over and casually went about getting the bike started. He revved the engine a few times and put his helmet on. He bobbed his head at the helmet on the seat behind him.

“Get on. I need to check something.”

Gloria glanced back at the burning cars and the house where so many men had just perished all so this man in front of her could kidnap her for himself. She remembered the sniper, all the perfectly timed explosions, the number of men lying between her bedroom and this bike.

“What about your team?”

“What team?” he asked, his voice muffled by his helmet.

“The people who helped you.”

Frankie put his kick stand back down and swung his leg over. He walked up to her, took her by the throat again and forced her eyes to meet his. He used his other hand to snap his visor up. He lowered his head.

“What team?” he repeated.

Her eyes widened and she swallowed at the implications of what he’d just said. She knew he could feel her pulse bounding beneath his fingers. She knew he could see the fear in her eyes and the unmistakable rising of the hair along her arms.

“Get on the fucking bike,” he ordered.