The Sacrificial Lamb (4 page)

“Why don’t you just fuck the poor girl and put her out of her misery?”

“I don’t do your sloppy seconds, Sal,” Domenic said. “Or his. Or his. Or his…” he continued, pointing at various men in the room.

“I guess it doesn’t hurt that you got your dick wet this afternoon,” Sal said with sly intonation. Domenic gave him a warning glance and wondered how much he knew.

“Must have been a real wildcat.” Sal gestured toward Domenic’s face. “Anyone I know?” he asked, dropping him a wink.

“You know a gentleman never kisses and tells, Sal.”

“I must not be much of a fucking gentleman!” Sal guffawed. Domenic just raised his eyebrows and looked away.

Salvatore Solinas was an enforcer as well as the head of security. In the dictionary under “mob goon,” there should be a picture of Sal. The man was built like a brick shit house. He had a loutish face—his forehead was large and sloped, hanging like a shelf over small, piggish eyes and a mashed in nose that had taken one too many punches. He was ham-fisted and barrel-chested and resembled nothing less than what he was. Sal had used his brute strength to work his way up in the ranks but wasn’t graced with much in the brains department. Despite that, he excelled at his job. He was the one who took care of Carlo’s personal protection, but he was also in charge of all the other enforcers. It was a good guess that the man knew about Alexis Montgomery, considering two of his men were guarding her. Sal was the man you went to see when you needed to knock some sense into someone or if you wanted a hit put out. You didn’t mess with Sal if you wanted to live to tell about it.

Speaking of hit men, that was where Tony Marino came in. Domenic glanced over at the man and was rewarded with a shrewd look. He was also big, but built more like Domenic—tall and leanly muscular instead of heavy set. A well-oiled machine, much like his weapons. Nothing got past Tony—he was always at attention. Eyes and ears working overtime and twitchy fingers ready to pull out his gun at any given moment. He was the best in the business. Not only was he a sure shot, but the man could find anyone. His critical thinking skills and increased intelligence allowed him to track down and eliminate any target Carlo set him on. Also another man Domenic wouldn’t willingly anger.

Kris was turned facing him, waving her ample ass in Junior’s enamored face. If there were such a thing as a geek of the underworld, Junior would be it. The runt of the litter, with large brown eyes and a baby-face, he commanded little attention from the other tough guys who surrounded him, and yet he was the biggest threat of them all. He was a computer whiz kid and had been hacking into secure systems around the world since the age of twelve. The boy could screw up a person’s entire life with a few clicks of a keyboard. Born with the name Joey Russo, everyone called him Junior because he was the youngest of the group and had been hired by Carlo at the age of sixteen. He had been working for the family for the last two years.

Junior had cracked the security of the Chicago PD and kept the family informed if anything important came up. Because of his skill, Carlo had been aware that John Montgomery had witnessed Santino DiRocco’s death, and he had an alibi in place by the time the police had come to arrest him. Of course Carlo had been let out on bail, having had no previous record. Nothing he had ever been found guilty of, anyway. Domenic found out later that Junior had also been the one to discover John Montgomery had a daughter living in the Chicago area and where to find her.

The rest of the men gathered here tonight were of no real consequence. They filled various roles in the organization, but were easily replaced if necessary. Domenic kept his ears open for any talk of the missing girl, but there was nothing. As far as he could tell, news hadn’t gotten around yet. He stayed for a couple more hours to make sure.

Making his farewells, he ducked out of the private room and crossed the club with quick steps. Not quick enough, however, as he was accosted by Kris, who was waiting by the door. She was now fully dressed—well, dressed anyway, the outfit she wore didn’t leave much to the imagination—and talking to one of the waitresses, glancing over her shoulder occasionally. She spotted him before he could make an exit, so he had no choice but to stop and talk to her.

“Hey, Nicky. I’ve been waiting for you,” she said, wrapping her arms around his waist and rubbing against him.

“You didn’t need to do that,” he replied, reaching behind himself to unclasp her hands.

“Come on, baby,” she whined, gripping him tighter. “Take me home with you.”

“Not tonight, Kris.”
Not ever
.

“Why? Do you have someone waiting there for you?” she asked with indignation, pushing him away and looking at his face pointedly.

“Even if I did, I don’t see how that’s any of your fucking business,” he answered in a quiet voice, glaring at her.

“Fuck you, Domenic,” she spat at him.

“You wish,” he said, smiling smugly as he passed by her, heading out the doors.

“Asshole!” she cried out after him. Finally, she was getting the hint. It took being as subtle as a Mac truck, but hopefully she would get it through that dense skull of hers that her pipe dream was never going to come true. Not with him, anyway.

Domenic stepped out into the warm night, and his head cleared instantly. The street was teeming with local nightlife—people walking and talking, men catcalling at the skimpily clad women heading into the dance clubs, souped-up cars cruising past with the bass blasting. He wanted to walk amongst them, getting lost and pretending he was like everyone else. He felt like dropping the mask and forgetting about everything he had sworn to do. At that moment he didn’t want to be Domenic D’Angelo, second in command of the Liseni family. He didn’t want his whole existence to be based on lies and vengeance. He didn’t want any part of the crime and violence. What he wanted was to shrug it all off and be one of
them
.

The valet pulled up at that moment and dispelled his fantasy. Domenic remembered who he was. He remembered what he had to do.

The nights were the worst for Alex, especially because she was left alone with her thoughts to keep her company. And morbid thoughts they were. Over and over she replayed the scene of her abduction and berated herself for not being more aware. Those men had been strangers to her, and while it would have been impossible to keep tabs on every tenant in the large apartment complex she lived in, she still should have been much more wary of the two thugs who had been coming toward her. Maybe if she had, she’d have been able to scream for help before being overwhelmed.

Woulda, shoulda, coulda. That seemed to be the start of every thought she had lately. Unfortunately, she had no proof that even if she had tried to do something to change events that the outcome would have been any different. It was possible things could have ended up worse. She could be dead right now instead of just a prisoner. She could very well be dead sometime in the near future anyway, but at least alive, she could plot some sort of escape.

Like she’d done the previous nights, Alex made a continuous circle around the plain concrete room. It had been painted an institutional gray, but the dampness seeping through the concrete had caused the paint to bubble up and peel. Thanks to the bucket where she was forced to void her bowels, the smell in the room was revolting. Wet concrete, soggy paint, and mildew, all overlaid with the stench of her own feces, which made her want to vomit. There were no windows or any other exits except for the single-bolted metal door. No way to air the stink out, and unfortunately, no way to break out either. The only way out would be the way she came in, and unless she magically acquired some superhuman powers from breathing in noxious fumes, that wasn’t likely to happen.

At least she was no longer crying. Somewhere along the line, her tears had dried up. Alex realized that since these could be the last days of her life, spending them sobbing wasn’t a particularly good use of her time. Instead, she was going to try to figure out ways to use her meager resources in an effort to escape. After what had happened today, Alex felt especially galvanized.

The cot was made of metal, which would have made a good weapon except for the fact that the frame was welded together. There was some rust along the edges but not enough for her to pry a piece loose. Under the rotted-out mattress she’d been hoping to find something she could use, but the crisscrossing latticework was too flimsy and also constructed as one large section. She tried to pull on it to see if there were any weak spots, but all it did was rattle loudly. Alex stopped after a few attempts when she heard a chair dragging along the floor in the other room.

She sat back on the bed just in time to see the panel open in the door as one of her captors checked on her. In order to seem less suspicious she bounced a bit, making it look as if she’d been getting comfortable. The springs began to creak in protest, a sound similar to when she’d tried to pull the bed apart.

When the panel in the door closed she waited a few more minutes, her heart pounding in her chest like a manic jackhammer. Alex heard the men start talking again in muted tones, and after a few minutes she was back working at the springs of the cot. This time she used the mattress to mute the noise, but no matter where she pulled and tugged, the springs remained steadfast. She gave a last desperate tug before sitting on the floor in defeat.

Alex’s hands were covered in grime and rust, and she wiped them against her skirt, but it didn’t do much good. All it did was transfer smear marks to the dark fabric instead. Not that it mattered—she was already filthy from being in this room for three days. Exhaling in a gust, she gathered her strength and stood up.

The next object up for scrutiny had been the wooden chair against the wall. Once again, she started to tug on the pieces to see if any were loose or could be knocked out. The back was just a flat panel held up by two long, thin slats of wood. They were glued in tight however and didn’t budge. Next she flipped the chair over to see if the legs screwed in. Still no luck, those were also secured tightly and so were the crosspieces. Alex considered smashing the chair against the floor in order to get a piece she could use against the men but soon figured out that wouldn’t work. The noise would surely draw them to the door to see what was happening, and when they figured it out, both men would come in the room guns in hand. There would be no way to fight with just a baton of wood. If it wasn’t for that stupid view panel in the door, she might have had a chance.

Unfortunately, those were the only furnishings in the room. No handy lamps with which to brain a captor, and the chair was heavier than it looked. She was more likely to injure herself as opposed to her enemies with the damned thing. Tired from her exertions, she placed the chair upright and sat on it. This change of perspective didn’t help. No other bright ideas were forthcoming.

Alex slumped in the chair, hands shaking, heart thumping heavily, and mouth dry. She gazed down at herself dejectedly, taking in the mess she’d become. Her once pretty clothes were soiled and full of dust. There were streaks of grime down her legs and caked in the creases of her ankles from kneeling on the floor. She didn’t even want to guess at the state of her hair.

After a moment she gave herself a mental shake. What difference did it make what she looked like? It wasn’t like she had anyone to impress. The fact that she was surrounded by a bunch of thugs should have made her want to look as unappealing as possible. In fact, she should just get on the floor and roll around on it. The grimier the better.

This thought made her bark out laughter in a short burst. The next thing she knew her chest was heaving painfully as she tried to keep her laughter muffled. Her arms were folded across her mouth, and tears from trying to keep in the hysterical laughter streamed down her face. The ridiculousness of this entire situation struck her as tragically amusing. Who else could have possibly managed to get kidnapped right at her own front door? Was this some cruel joke—her life just wasn’t exciting enough? Alex would have gladly lived an entire life of mediocrity over getting kidnapped.

Once the hysteria passed, she got up from the chair and began pacing once more. Sleep hadn’t been coming to her. Alex was forced to chase it down every night by walking circles to the point of exhaustion. It was the only way she could make herself fall asleep in this disgusting place, otherwise she would lie there, staring up at the ceiling, surrounded by her own stink and covered by a flimsy, scratchy blanket, in this hell tailor-made for her.