Catching Bianca: A Dark Mafia Romance (Shadows of Obsession Book 4)
Catching Bianca: Chapter 23

“We should do this every weekend,” Hailey mumbles from the massage bed beside mine.

As soon as I arrived, Hailey called Violet and organized a last-minute in-house spa day. I expected Arthur would promptly head home, but no. He’s here, watching TV in the other room. The two guards outside will alert him if anything seems out of sorts, so he felt there was little sense in breathing down our necks.

“We really should. It feels divine,” Violet agrees.

So do I. I’ve never had a massage before, but if I could, I’d get one every day. My masseur digs his elbow into my lower back, rubbing in small circles that ease the tension from my muscles.

Hailey told me earlier that she asked for three women, but there were only two available.

“The guy is yours,” she whispered while the beds were being set up in her living room. “Carter would have an aneurysm if another man touched me, and Broadway would break the guy’s hands if he got within breathing distance of Violet.”

Their possessiveness doesn’t toe the line of unhealthy. It’s kicked the line into dust and pissed all over what’s left.

I should’ve been appalled.

I should’ve rolled my eyes.

I should’ve told them both how toxic their men are, but instead, jealousy clinched my throat.

No one’s ever been so possessive over me. No one ever will.

After the massage, we have a light snack in the sunroom, then continue the spa day with a set of facials. Manicure, pedicure, hair styling, makeup artists…

By the time we’re done it’s past eight in the evening.

The guys should’ve been back by now. Ryder said eight.

“Does this always take so long?” I ask, glancing at the clock for the tenth time in the last five minutes, my manicured red nails picking nonexistent fluff off my black dress.

“Sometimes,” Violet admits, clutching a cup of peppermint tea. “Why? Worried about Ryder?” She bounces her eyebrows, exchanging a knowing look with Hailey who beams over her champagne flute.

“You like him, don’t you?”

“No,” I lie, chugging half of my champagne in one go.

“Oh, please. I saw you looking at him last week. You’re into him. Admit it.”

“Why would I be into him? He’s impossible. Rude. Arrogant. Most of the time I want to clock him.”

Violet chuckles into her cup. “Denial is a river in Egypt.”

“Exactly.” Hailey nudges my shoulder. “You like him. He’s into you too, you know? Doesn’t take his eyes off you unless he absolutely has to.”

“He made it clear that he’s not into me.” The bitterness coating my tone hints that I’ve been lying through my teeth.

Not that they believed me.

Hailey gasps, theatrically covering her mouth. “Now you’ve got to spill. What happened?”

My head hits the backrest of the couch, eyes falling shut. This feels weird. I’ve never had girlfriends to talk boys with.

Weird but nice, right?

“Fine, I like him.”

They both clap, muttering, “I knew it!”

“Well, like might be the wrong word. He’s not likable. He’s infuriating, but my God is he hot.”

Violet straightens in her seat, her purple eyes glowing. “You’re both hot. You’d make a disgustingly beautiful couple.”

My mind soars, pushing forth the images of me and Ryder in his bathroom last week when he zipped up my dress. At the time, my head was filled with filth. It always is when I think about him: different positions—face to face, me on top, or him bearing down on me, that hot, steamy kiss he’s denied me.

But now Violet’s said couple, my blood flows faster and my heart picks up the rhythm. Ryder doesn’t just make me feel horny. He makes me feel. Safe. Precious. Protected.

I’m in so much trouble…

“It doesn’t matter,” I sigh, finishing the last of my champagne. “He’s not interested. He ignored my flirting before we left for Scarlett last week, and after we came back, I asked if he’d push me away if I kissed him.” My cheeks heat at an alarming pace, the humiliating rejection still fresh in my memory. “He said he would.”

I don’t mention he then proceeded—at my request—to fuck me silly. They don’t need that detail. Kissing is more intimate than what we did in his kitchen. He refused intimacy, ergo: he’s not into me. Not how I want him to be.

“Bullshit,” Hailey clips, shaking her head. “I don’t believe for one second that he’d push you away.”

“Why would he lie?”

The sound of the main door opening stops Hailey answering my question. Heavy footsteps thump against the marble floor and Carter enters, his eyes replaceing Hailey as if he needs reassurance that she’s here and safe.

Koby’s next, bathed in red. Then Broadway, his white Oxford shirt spattered with blood, some of it drying in his hair… a human head in his hand.

The color fades from my cheeks, my body’s temperature cooling so fast I’m dizzy. Hailey cringes, eyes widening as she angles herself away from the bloodied head, but Violet’s not fretting. She’s delighted, her face lighting up with a bright smile.

I’m vaguely aware of Carter leaning over Hailey for a kiss, but by the time Broadway comes closer, aiming for Violet, I’m operating on autopilot. Jerking to my feet before I can blink, backing away from the head, unable to tear my eyes from the blood pouring out of its stump, from the red-covered murderers.

My heart’s going like crazy.

I wasn’t afraid when Ryder told me Broadway was on a killing spree. Hearing and seeing are two very different things, and now, I can’t breathe. Everyone’s focused on Broadway as he drops the dead head on the side table beside Violet and lifts her up.

Everyone’s focused on their kiss.

Everyone save for Koby.

“Hey, you okay, Bianca?” he asks, frowning at me. “You look pale. What’s wrong?”

I try inhaling, then exhaling, I try stopping my feet, but nothing works. My legs are leaving, whether I join them or not. Words fail me, lungs scream, vision blurs, the room sways.

The last of the four arrives, his eyes replaceing mine across the room. I read his lips more than hear the “Fuck” he spits out as he charges right at me.

He won’t hurt me. None of them will hurt me. I’m safe, but rationalizing doesn’t help. The reality of what my life has become robs me of my senses. I knew who these four men are and what they do, but, again, knowing and staring at the evidence are two different things.

Carter spins abruptly as my back hits the wall. I slide down, pumping my fingers around my neck.

Koby’s closing in on me fast, determination flooding his face. “Shit, what’s happening? What do you need?” he asks, the metallic stench of blood more potent with every step he takes.

“I think she’s having a panic attack,” Hailey mumbles, up on her feet, worry creasing her forehead.

Ryder’s beside me in a flash, pushing Koby away. “Get out,” he seethes. “You and Broadway, go get cleaned up. And put Vincent’s head away. Now.” His big hands grasp mine, pulling them from my throat. “Let’s get you outside.” He doesn’t wait for me to speak, hauling me into his arms. “You need some air.”

My legs wrap around his middle, hands clutching the short hairs at the back of his head. I bury my face in the crook of his shoulder where the scent of his cologne is most potent. It covers the stench of blood.

I cling to him harder, shaking in his arms and panting. The heat of his body seeping into mine eases my tremors. It loosens the noose around my neck. I inhale a shallow breath, relief gunning through me when the air doesn’t stop in my throat but slides down, feeding my lungs.

“I’ve got you, Winter. You’re safe,” Ryder whispers, pushing the front door open. “Try again, okay? Breathe for me.”

My fingers dig into his shoulder blades as I obey the command. The cold evening wind lashes my skin, inducing another wave of shivers.

“Good, that’s good,” Ryder tuts against my temple. He sits me on the hood of his Jeep, moving both hands to caress my back. “Now slower.”

I inhale again, regaining a modicum of control over my breathing. My face is still buried in Ryder’s neck, waiting until the heaviness leaves my chest.

“There you go, that’s better.”

He keeps drawing patterns on my back while I get myself under control, shame heating my cheeks. I’ve never lost control like this before. Not even when I was kidnapped and locked in Blaze’s mansion, unsure whether I’d get out alive.

God, what have I done?

That one decision—to replace Charles Vaughn—flipped my life upside down. Up until then, I’d thought organized crime only existed in movies and books. I’d considered the mafia a figment of Hollywood’s imagination in this day and age.

Sure, I knew there were organized crime groups back in the day. I heard everything about the bosses, the shootings in the nineteen sixties, seventies and so forth. I know all the famous names like Al Capone and John Gotti, but I was convinced the era of organized crime was long gone.

After all, how the hell can they operate in this modern, digital world? There are cameras everywhere, phones have microphones, people can be traced through facial recognition all over the planet.

How can these people still be making big money off illegal activities? They’re not petty thieves. They don’t sell drugs on street corners. They supply them on a large scale. Drugs, guns, illegal currencies flood whole states. They traffic women, enslave them in brothels, they murder in broad daylight, in plain sight, and yet they’re not rotting in jail.

But now I know why.

Because the system’s rigged.

Cops, attorneys, prosecutors, agents, judges… everyone’s on the payroll with the biggest players. It’s much more lucrative to take a hundred or two hundred grand cash under the table regularly than jail the man who’s helping you live your best life.

So yes, I was living in some alternate dimension where organized crime was a thing of the past… until I collided with that world head-on. Every movie I watched about the mafia, every documentary, every book I read came flashing before my eyes.

While locked in Noretto’s house, I imagined my death a thousand times, each time in more gruesome detail.

Would he rape me before putting a bullet in my head?

Would he hang me by my feet and beat information out of me until he got what he wanted?

Would he keep me locked in a room, starving, crying, and begging for mercy?

Maybe he’d skin me alive, then leave me rotting on the side of the road or in a ditch somewhere.

Maybe he’d let all his men have their way with me.

It was maddening. The constant onslaught of thoughts, my imagination running wild. I waited for my death, but it never came. No pain, no rape, no bullets. No harm.

Instead, Blaze stopped by multiple times a day for a chat. I was fed, kept warm and safe. He sent me clothes, books, jewelry. He kept complimenting my eyes, hair, my fucking nose. It was surreal. I’d slowly lower my guard during the day, then force it back up at night, telling myself it was all some elaborate manipulation and Blaze couldn’t be trusted.

But in the end, none of the blood-and-pain-filled scenarios I conjured came true.

Blaze let me go.

Just.

Like.

That.

Still, the confusion, the brainwashing-like effect I felt had me begging Vaughn for a cabin in the mountains where camera surveillance, and therefore tracing our location, would be impossible. I needed time. I needed space to calm down and put myself back together after the rollercoaster I’d experienced.

But Vaughn said nothing was impossible for these men. That a cabin deep in the Alaskan forest would be more dangerous than an apartment in DC. That if they found us in some remote location, we’d have nowhere to run. We’d be dead.

I trusted his judgment. He was a cop, for Christ’s sake. A remarkable cop with a list of successes longer than a spoiled kid’s Christmas wish-list…

So how is it that he’s the one I’m most afraid of? Noretto makes me anxious, but not scared. And Ryder… he makes me feel safe while he holds me tucked into his chest.

This is madness.

Letting out one last shaky breath, I inch away from Ryder, my legs untangling from around his hips, hands falling from his broad, muscular shoulders.

He takes my injured hand, scrutinizing the bandage.

“Sorry,” I whisper, removing my hand from his grasp. “I’m not sure what happened there but I’m fine now.”

“Fine my ass,” he mutters. The words are harsh, but his tone is far from it, concern ringing in every syllable. “You’re not fine. It’s okay not to be fine all the time. It’s also okay to admit you’re afraid. What did it? Was it the head? The blood?”

“I’m not afraid, I just… I don’t know. I knew who you all were, but knowing and seeing it—” I pause, gathering my thoughts. “It got a bit overwhelming for a moment.”

He pushes a lock of my hair over one ear, searching my face as if wondering whether I’ll have another meltdown if he lets me go. That neglected string inside me sings under his protective stare and, against my better judgment, I glance at his lips.

Our eyes meet, tension stacking up higher and higher until… it topples over when he takes a step back. Raking a hand through his hair, he fishes his keys out of his pocket.

My throat tightens, the sting of rejection morphing into physical pain. I grind my teeth, pushing that feeling down the only way I know how: by summoning anger.

The acidic feeling fills my veins, growing more potent until it morphs into full-blown rage. At him for acting like he cares then shooting me down, at Hailey for putting stupid ideas inside my head, at myself for these idiotic feelings…

“Come on, let’s get you home.” He reaches out to help me down from the hood.

I swat his hand away, sliding down and landing on my heeled feet. “Why home? We’re going to Scarlett.”

“You’re shaken up, Bianca, you—”

“I’m fine,” I emphasize the word the same way he often does as I shove him out of my way.

It’s childish, but that pang of rejection, of not being good enough, fills my mouth with a vile, bitter taste.

I hate it. I hate how vulnerable and raw he makes me so I lash out. Anger doesn’t hurt. Well, not as much as rejection.

“Your mood swings are tiring, Winter,” he says, catching up with me as the security guard lets me inside.

“Remember what you said on our way to Cleveland that first week?” I clip back. “About ignoring each other?” I spin, jabbing my finger into his chest. “Let’s do that.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” His warm fingers clasp my upper arm when I try moving away.

“It means stay away from me.” I yank my arm out of his grasp, walking away. My heels click against the marble corridor, beating out a polyrhythm alongside my stuttering heart and the deep breaths that can’t calm my frayed nerves.

Broadway and Koby are back downstairs, both in fresh clothes, their hair damp.

“Feeling better?” Hailey asks cautiously.

“Much better. What time are we leaving?”