His Queen of Clubs

Chapter 2-2

Vlad

The girl should be awake by now. I’m not on expert on narcotics, but I’ve seen this concoction used before. I researched how much to give her, and I doubt I guessed far off on her weight.

I have her bound on the bed in the upstairs loft of my rented townhouse. Mika stands in the doorway, kicking a hacky sack back and forth while I check Alessia’s pulse. It feels weak and erratic. I grip her face and turn it from side to side, trying to make sure she’s not faking it. The way her head lolls tells me she’s not. Her lids flutter open, but all I see are the whites of her eyes, like they’re rolled back in her head.

A shot of pure alarm makes my heart pound.

“Alessia. Wake up, printsessa.” I lightly tap her face. “Wake up.”

Her lips move but I can’t hear what she’s saying.

“What’s that?”

She mumbles something flops her hand at me and that’s when I see the medical bracelet. It’s rose gold and expensive-looking so I didn’t notice the symbol at first.

Fuck.

I flip it over to read what it says.

Diabetic.

Double f**k.

With my phone, I Google what to do in the case of an emergency with a diabetic.

Fuck. According to the screen, she needs emergency medical care, and I’m not about to surrender her to the local hospital. If the girl dies, she’s absolutely no use to me. And I don’t want her death on my conscience. I already have far too many.

I disposed of her purse in case they could track her by her phone, but now I’m kicking myself. I shout to Mika to bring me a can of Coke from the kitchen.

When he brings it, I tell him in terse Russian, “I need you to drive back to the casino and get her purse. I threw it in the trash can outside the elevators and in front of the door where you picked me up. It’s very important—could mean her life. But don’t get caught. Understand?”

He’s frightened by my tone, but he nods quickly.

“You can do this, Mika. Call me if you can’t find it.”

“I’ll find it,” he says, throwing a frightened glance at the girl tied up on the bed.

“And don’t bring her phone with you! Leave it in the trash. Just the purse and the rest of the contents, okay? Go quickly, now.”

Mika agrees and dashes off.

I c***k the can and scoop under the girl’s shoulders to prop her against my body. “Drink, zaika.” I attempt to dribble Coke from a can into the mafia princess’s mouth.

Diabetic.

I never saw that one coming.

The Tacones are so perfect, so wealthy. The girl is so beautiful; it’s like I didn’t think something like illness or ill-fate would touch them.

But of course, sickness is immune to wealth or power or even beauty.

Fuck. For some reason, her handicap makes it much harder for me to hate her. And I was struggling as it was. It’s hard to hate the beautiful. It’s like someone not liking a puppy or kitten.

It’s almost hard to believe how perfect her face is. Full, bow-shaped lips, thick, slightly-arched brows, long lashes. Her olive skin is flawless and smooth.

Alessia’s lids flutter and her lips move against the can. She swallows. “Yes,” she murmurs, acknowledging what I’m trying to do.

“Good girl.”

I keep at it for an agonizingly long time. Waking her from her faint, trying to get the sugary substance down her throat to bring her blood sugar levels back up.

“Mika’s picking up your insulin, printsessa,” I murmur as I dribble more Coke down her throat. “You’re not dying today.”

She makes a sound as she swallows. She understands me. Knows what’s going on here. Her attempts to open her lids are getting more successful. Her eyes track my face, brows dip.

“Why?” she rasps.

“Why kidnap you?” I don’t know why I’m inclined to make conversation with her. She doesn’t deserve any politeness or special handling from me. But it’s like it’s impossible not to answer. “Your brother killed my cell.”

Her eyes drift closed again.

I put the can to her lips again. “Drink. You’re no use to me dead.”

She mumbles something, her full lips wet with the amber liquid. I want to lick the sweetness from them. Bite those lips. Punish her for being a Tacone. For being so beautiful. “What’s that?”

“f**k you.”

I chuckle. “You still have a little fight in you, hmm? Good. I liked wrestling with you back at the casino. Made my d**k hard.”

Her eyes fly back open, pupils narrowing in fear as soon as they land on my face.

I give her a wicked smile.

She blinks several times, but it seems to take too much effort to keep her eyes open, because they roll back and she slides back into a faint.

Oops.

The adrenaline spike she got from my taunt probably wiped her out.

I’m a sicker f**k than I thought because even with her passed out I want to f**k her.

Hard.

Rough.

I want to ride the mafia princess until she screams and begs me to let her come.

It seems to take forever, but finally I hear Mika’s footsteps racing up the stairs.

“I got it,” he says in Russian, holding the pink purse. “No one saw me.”

“Good job.”

I dump the contents on the bed. Lipstick, wallet. A syringe and bottle of insulin falls out, along with a test kit and a piece of paper with hand-written instructions taped to it. If unconscious, administer glucagon. The glucagon is in a red kit labeled with the same black Sharpie. Instructions inside have me mix the powder with saline in the syringe. As I work, I bark orders at Mika. “Check the bag for an electronic trace. It could be something small and thin, like a watch battery.”

I follow the instructions and pinch the skin of her belly, jabbing into the fat layer and slowly pushing down the plunger on the syringe glucagon.

I check my watch. How long will it take? How long does she have before her body shuts down completely? I don’t know enough about diabetes to know what I’m dealing with here.

“Nothing,” Mika reports.

I search through everything on the bed. The contents appear to be innocuous.

“Give it to me.” I hold my hand out for the purse. Nothing changes in the boy’s face—the kid is always stoic as f**k, but somehow I know I’ve offended him. “I trust you, Mika, I just want to double-check.” I point to the stuff on the bed. “You double-check my work here.”

The boy nods and moves to the bed, picking up and looking over everything the way I had.

He’s not a good kid. I’m not sure he even has a moral compass. I’ve seen him beat boys twice his size on the street for no reason at all. He’s dangerous as hell.

But like a feral dog who finds someone to feed him, he’s bonded to me. He’ll do whatever the f**k I say without question. Kidnap a woman and tie her up on a bed? No problem.

Drive a car to the enemy’s lair? Whatever you say, boss.

And as much as I know I’m doing him a disservice, I don’t trust him with anyone else. I know he’s broken. His b***h of a mother made sure of that… Junior Tacone completed it when he orphaned the kid from his bratva. I have little to offer, but at least I will give him his dignity and the skills to survive.

Alessia stirs. Her eyes open.

Thank f**k.

She groans and rolls to her side. “I’m going to puke.”

It takes me a moment to translate the word puke, but the look on her face helps. “Mika, hand me the trash can,” I order in Russian.

Mika moves quickly, his intelligence and reflexes perfectly honed for emergencies. The kid has probably been through too many to count. A girl puking is nothing compared to what he’s seen.

I get there just in time for her to lose her lunch in the wastebasket.

Mika makes a sound of disgust.

“You can go,” I dismiss him.

It’s not because I want to be alone with the girl.

Yeah, right.

I want to strip the girl bare and tie her up to this bed. Taunt her with my c**k and record her pleading.

Instead I get a wet washcloth and bring it to her. And because her hands are tied, I wipe her mouth with it.

She glares at me. We’re close. I loom over her, checking to see if there’s anywhere else to clean. Her focus falls to my tattooed knuckles, follows the ink on my forearms, stops at the bulge of my biceps.

She swallows.

I sprout a chub. Does she find my strength attractive? The way her pupils dilate makes me think she does. But then, who knows if she’s ever been close to a man who wasn’t her brother before.

“You could’ve killed me,” she accuses.

I allow one corner of my lips to lift in a humorless grin. “I still can, printsessa.”

I watch a ripple of fear run through her and she attempts to scoot up to sitting without the use of her hands. I let her struggle, enjoying the way her fuchsia dress rides up her ripe thighs. Her legs are long, lean and strong, her calves shapely. Somehow the heels are still on.

She licks her lips and my boner grows. “I need to check my blood sugar.”