The Woman at the Docks - Jessica Gadziala Page 0,14

seeing, someone else calling for help for me.

The house when it came into view was almost painfully average. From the neatly trimmed—if a bit brown from the sun—front lawn to the quaint light blue paint to the wooden shakes, the charming front porch, to the faux well at the curve of the front walk. It was all so perfectly average. No one would guess something nefarious transpired here, that the local mafia kidnapped women and dragged them here. To do God-knew what with.

The driver hit a button on his dash, making the garage door grumble open. And in we rode, waiting for the door to close again, blanketing us in complete darkness once the engine cut.

"Come on," Lucky demanded, hand closing around my upper arm, tight, but not bruising, dragging me out of the car. With the man behind me pushing me along, there was no way to fight.

So I begrudgingly went along, being led through a door at the side, into a hallway.

"No," I snapped again when Luca Grassi's hand moved out, opening a door, showing us all a staircase leading down. "No," I cried out again when I was pushed forward toward the stairs.

Nothing good ever happened to women in basements.

Ever.

My hand shot out, grabbing the railing, nails digging at the walls even as Lucky's arms went around my midsection, carrying me down.

I expected the space to be dingy, dark, smelling of must and stale air.

Instead, it was a somewhat bright space, the entire area—walls, floor, ceiling—painted in a shiny off-white color. There wasn't much around, though. There was a folding table pressed up against the longest wall. There were folding chairs propped up against the side of it. There were a few cans of paint in a back corner, likely what was used to paint the space.

I couldn't help but wonder if the fresh paint was put down to cover up some other deed done here. Blood stains that wouldn't come out fully.

Was there enough paint left in those cans to paint over my blood when it was left behind?

"Romy," Luca Grassi's voice called. "Have a seat," he added when my gaze shot to his, seeing the other man had pulled out a chair, set it in the middle of the room.

"Let me go. I won't come back to the pier."

"It's too late for that," Luca Grassi told me , gesturing toward the chair again, leading Lucky to drag me over, push me down.

"Why don't you go find her something to drink?" Luca suggested, jerking his chin toward the stairs.

Lucky moved to do just that. And even though he said nothing, for some reason, the other men followed behind. Leaving the two of us alone.

"Just let me go." Was that my voice? Sounding so small and airless?

To that, Luca grabbed another chair, unfolding it across from me, and sat down, legs wide, leaning forward toward me. It was a friendly movement, but felt intimidating coming from a man like him.

"I'm hoping I can do that," he told me, stealing the more desperate plea from my lips. "If you stop fighting, and start cooperating."

"You're going to have to forgive me for not trusting a mob boss at his word."

"There's no such thing as the mob," he informed me, deadpan, something practiced, something he likely said over and over since he was a little boy.

"Does anyone fall for that?"

"You'd be surprised," he said, sitting back when the door upstairs opened, and footsteps came our way.

Lucky came up at our sides, holding out a sweating bottle of water toward me.

My pride wanted me to refuse. But my mouth felt like cotton. So I took it, had a couple of tentative sips.

"Want me to stick around?" Lucky asked, looking at his boss.

"Hang upstairs for now," he demanded, getting a nod before his man ran off again.

"They're well-trained," I mumbled, helplessness making me mouthy. "Like puppies."

"They're respectful. Like grown-ass men," Luca corrected.

"But handsy with women."

"You were fighting."

"You were kidnapping me."

A touch of humor lit his dark eyes at that. "You were trespassing. After having been expressly warned not to do so anymore."

"So, what? I was asking to be abducted?"

"You were requiring me to detain and question you,"

"Do the semantics help you sleep better at night?" I asked.

"With you acting as a thorn in my side, I don't foresee any sleep until I get the answers I need."

"Am I supposed to feel sorry for you? Poor little mafia guy. It must be so hard for you."

To that, his lips twitched. "I've known cold-blooded