Made: A Bad Boy Romance (Bad Boy Games) (14 page)

“Trust,” Marco says. “That’s what becoming a made man is all about.”

“Prove it. Give me something about this game—like why Round 2 has supposedly started, but there’s no action, just surveillance.”

Cesare and Marco exchange a long look. Then Marco says, “You stepped in for Etienne de Hainault after the game had already begun, technically speaking. The negotiation in the Eye was part of Round 1. There wasn’t time to make any changes to Round 2.”

“Tell me something I don’t already know.”

“The plans for Round 2 we obtained show that de Hainault arranged for the pawn to be kidnapped—”

I lunge at Marco, grabbing a fistful of his shirt. “What have they done with Brooke?”

Marco doesn’t back down and waits until I release him. When I step back, he says, “As far as I know, she’s fine. De Hainault’s plan was for her to be fake kidnapped so he could swoop in and rescue her—the sick old fuck’s fantasy.”

“Tucker knows about de Hainault’s plans.” My insides twist. “Where is she right now? Tell me you have eyes on her.”

“Not exactly.”

“Not good enough.” I stand with my hands balled into fists, looking back and forth at Cesare and Marco De Luca. “If you want my cooperation, I need to know that both my mother
and
Brooke Lopez will not be harmed.”

Marco glances at his grandfather. “I told you he was going soft.” He doesn’t bother to hide the contempt in his voice.

“Somehow I suspect a soft Nathan Costa will be even more dangerous than the man we used to know.” Cesare clasps his hands before him. “Do we have an agreement or not?”

Since I have no choice, and Cesare De Luca knows it, I don’t waste time with an answer. I need to find Brooke.

BROOKE

Tucker Voss is going to die.

I don’t know how I’m going to pull it off or what weapon I’ll choose for the deed. Doesn’t matter. I’ll use whatever’s handy at the moment because the bastard has to go. A blow to the head—if I hit the right spot—will work. Any number of commonly found objects could serve.

So yeah, Tucker Voss is going to die.

Assuming Nathan doesn’t get to him first. If that happens, I’m pretty sure Nathan will spend a few hours sticking toothpicks under Tucker’s fingernails or peeling his skin from his flesh. Then Tucker will be grateful for the straight-up violence of what I’m planning. He’ll go down like a side of beef.

What I haven’t solved is the problem of how to deal with the muscle who kidnapped me from the middle of a Manhattan department store. It’s not like spending hours bumping around in the pitch black trunk of a limo hasn’t given me time to think. A blow to the head wouldn’t work—not without a lot more power behind it than I possess. With Tucker dead, Gym Candy (as I’ve come to think of him) would be able to do with me as he pleased.

My clothes would come off first. It’s inevitable. He stripped me with his eyes the night Caylee and I walked into Dominion. Now he’ll spend hours satisfying every urge and craving he’s never been able to explore while avoiding jail time or Tucker’s wrath. That last part—Tucker’s wrath—is conjecture. I know nothing of their relationship, but it seems logical. From what little I’ve observed of how Tucker Voss operates, fear is his weapon of choice.

He used it on Nathan last night when we were up in the Eye.

I’ve never thought of myself as brave. Determined? Yes. Stubborn? Oh, hell yes. Brave is a word better applied to soldiers home from war or widows facing an uncertain future. The gag in my mouth and the zip ties around my wrists changes things.

I know Nathan is searching for me. He’ll find me, eventually. I have to stay alive long enough to make that search worthwhile. If I kill Tucker only to wind up as Gym Candy’s play toy, things are going to get a whole lot uglier before they get better.

If they get better.

The car slows. I have to brace my feet against the side wall to avoid rolling. The road noise changes from a steady rumble to an uneven crackle. It’s colder now, and no light leaks around the edges of the trunk hood.

The engine shuts off. Doors slam. Footsteps crunch on gravel and muted, masculine voices are followed by the
beep-beep
of a key fob being activated. The trunk hood springs open.

Even the dim light of a full moon night makes me squint after hours of darkness. Gym Candy yanks the gag away from my mouth.

I scream bloody fucking murder.

Gym Candy sighs and stands with one massive arm over his head, resting on the edge of the trunk hood. “Scream all you want. Ain’t no one going to hear. Even if they do, ain’t no one going to help. Your ass is mine, sweetness.”

“Not quite yet, Harley. Your time will come. For now, you’ll have to wait.”

Outrage propels my body upright. I glare at Tucker Voss. “If he’s Harley, who’s Sweet?”

“Why, me, of course. Sweet was my mother’s maiden name.” He gestures at Harley. “Bring her inside.”

Harley picks me up like I’m a giant bag of soybeans and tosses me over his shoulder. I protest, for all the good it does me.

Tucker turns around. “Oh, for God’s sake. Stop showing off. The girl knows you’re strong. Let her walk.”

“What if she runs?”

“I don’t think she’s that stupid.” He cocks his head and peers at me. “You’re not, are you?”

“Stupid? You better hope I am.”

“Hmmm. Interesting.”

While Tucker walks ahead, the big man puts me down. Slowly. Making sure my body makes contact with his bulk every inch of the descent. By the time my feet hit the ground, I need a shower.

“Run,” Harley says. “Pretty please?”

Sudden nausea swirls in my stomach.

He grins. “Pretty please with a cherry on it?”

I turn away from him and shove the memory of his text messages out of my head. A way to kill him occurs to me—poison—if I can put my hands on some. It’ll probably work too slowly, and that’s if I can calculate how much to use, considering his height and weight.

He cuts the twist ties with a pocket knife. I rub my wrists

The how-to-commit-murder problem keeps my mind occupied while I follow Tucker along a sidewalk that curves from the brick-paved driveway across the manicured lawn. The length is lit by graceful lampposts and reveals the expanse of a brick mansion ahead.

When we come to the back porch, Tucker stops to dig in his coat pocket for keys. I use the delay to take stock of the surroundings. The house sits on a stretch of green, surrounded by forest. That’s all I can make out in the dark. We could be hundreds of miles from the nearest town.

Once we’re inside, I ask Tucker for a glass of water.

“Work first,” he says. “Rewards later.”

Work?
“What are you talking about?”

“Follow me.”

He winds his way through the first floor of the mansion, stopping before glass French doors that open to an elegant study.

“You don’t expect me to believe this is your house, do you?”

“Of course not.”

“Is this the start of Round 3?”

“Yes. You need to know that this house belongs to Etienne de Hainault.”

“What’s the game this time? Why are we here?”

A wicked light gleams in Tucker’s small eyes, making nausea roil in my stomach. I don’t know how I’m certain, but there it is—I know he watched the surveillance video of Nathan and me. I can’t think about it. If I do, I’ll collapse into a puddle of tears and be useless.

“This round will not be as pleasurable as the last,” Tucker says regretfully. “I hope it will, however, be more profitable for us both.”

“Doesn’t Nathan have to be here for Round 3?”

“I’m counting on it.”

Which is so not good. I glance over my shoulder to see if Harley followed us through the house. I don’t see him. He’s probably out setting a trap for Nathan.

“The profitable part—what are you talking about?”

“You’re essential to the game. You should be properly rewarded for your efforts, and I’m not talking about the kind of money offered to the red shoe girls.” He pushes the French doors open. As he does so, a red light blinks on a small wall panel. Tucker swiftly enters a code and de-activates the alarm.

“I’ve broken almost all the safeguards installed in and around this house, except in this room. In here, Etienne has outdone himself, but I’m counting on you to succeed where I have failed.”

I take in the massive credenza along the wall and the antique desk that fronts it. The paintings on the wall are the kind ordinary people only see in museums. “I don’t know who you think I am or what you imagine I can do, but—”

“Don’t insult my intelligence.” Tucker crosses to the desk and pushes a button. A hidden panel in the desk slides back, and a slim desktop computer rises slowly. He pulls out the desk chair like a waiter in a restaurant and waits for me with an expectant look on his pudgy face.

When I’m seated, I rest my hands in my lap.

“You’re Brooke McKinnon Lopez. Your father was Rogelio Lopez. Your mother was Elizabeth Ann McKinnon.” He drags his fingers along my jaw. “You allow strangers to assume you were adopted because no one believes a fair-skinned girl with red hair could be a Latina. They are wrong because you take after your mother. Your sister, on the other hand, is the spitting image of your late aunt, Yireth Lopez Calderon, down to that magnificent ass.”

Chills race down my spine. Tucker Voss has been watching me and not just with Nathan and not only recently. “What do you want?”

“Your father was a gifted forensic accountant who wasn’t smart enough to keep the secrets he discovered to himself. For that reason, he and your mother met their fate on I-95.”

“It was an accident! I’ve seen the police report.”

Tucker shrugs. “Believe what you want. They’re still dead.”

I might not wait to kill him. Fuck Harley. I’ll take my chances. I grip the arms of the chair to keep myself from wrapping my fingers around Tucker’s throat or doing something else equally impulsive.

“Thanks for the reminder,” I grind out. “You still haven’t told me what you think I can do for you.”

“You have excellent technical, research and analytical skills. I want you to use them on this computer and see what you can find. Etienne has hidden a wealth of useful data here. I want you to find it for me. It’s really not that different from what you do for your employer. What’s his name?”

“Chad Elmore.”

“Chad the Cad, isn’t that what you called him after your woefully unsatisfying one-night stand?”

It’s too much. I jump up from the chair and kick it away. Tucker Voss outweighs me by about a hundred pounds. His fat looks like the solid kind that pads the top of muscle. He’s only a couple of inches taller than I am and the pure rage racing through my veins promises I can take him.

Tucker produces a gun. “I wouldn’t if I were you. Certainly not until you hear what I have to offer.”

“You couldn’t possibly have anything I want.”

“What about your sister’s life?”

Shock stuns me into silence. “She’s with Alexander Ferrara.”

“Good girl. You
were
listening. Here’s what you need to know: Ferrara isn’t going to survive the night. My friend Harley will make sure of that. When Harley’s done with the business end of things, he’ll take your sister. What can I say, he asked; I couldn’t turn him down. To him, Samantha’s like the toy prize inside a cereal box. I’ve warned him she’ll only last about as long as one of those cheap toys, but he won’t listen. You, on the other hand, are a much more sturdy female, good for hours of fun, as you proved with Nathan earlier today.”

Anger still fuels me, but it’s cooler now and far more determined. “I’m going to kill you.”

“You’re welcome to try, but that’s a bad idea since I’m the only one who can call off Harley.”

I run to the French doors and pause, listening for any sign of movement or indication that Tucker and I are not alone in the house. Silence. I whirl on Tucker. “What have you done?”

“Alexander Ferrara owns an estate nearby. He’s in residence along with your little sister. Harley is on his way there now. Unless he hears from me, Ferrara will be dead before dawn, and your sister will belong to my friend.”

It takes me a moment and then a few more to rein in my emotions. When I’m calm enough to speak, I say, “Tell me what you want. I’ll do it. Anything.”

“Well, of course, you will.” He chuckles. “I never thought you’d do otherwise.”

“So call off Harley. Now! Make him come back.”

“Oh, no. Not until Nathan arrives.”

I blink, confused. “You know he’ll kill you, right? And he’s good at everything he does.”

Tucker snorts. “He’s wanted to kill me for years. So no, my dear, don’t worry your pretty head about me. Worry about Nathan. Worry that he finds his way here in time and while you’re worrying, see if you can come up with a way to convince him to kill Alexander Ferrara for me.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then I guess it will be Harley’s lucky day. He’ll win two prizes instead of one.”

I sit with my legs curled and a plush throw over my body in an oversized armchair in the living room. The front door is unlocked, and the porch lights glow. Before he left, Tucker lifted all the blinds and opened the curtains so anyone looking through the windows from the outside won’t be able to miss me.