Trapped Between the Mafia Brothers

Chapter 5 : Taken Again

Eden POV

The police station is ice cold and full of detectives from all sorts of government agencies. I lean forward in my hard, metal chair, wrapped in a pathetic blanket that they give to all the terrified victims. They keep calling me a victim too, and I understand why, but I don't feel very victimized right now.

I feel hollow and lonely.

The detective finally gather's his paperwork, giving up in a resolute sigh after his interview went absolutely nowhere.

I denied knowing anything, just like I said I would, and accepted the fact that life will just have to go back to normal now. One of the other detective's steps into the room, his smile lighthearted like I've been tortured and relentlessly abused.

Instead, my experience was pleasant and thrilling and new.

I've needed new for so long that I didn't think it existed. Now that I've had it in my grasp, that I've tasted its abundance, I'm lost in a flurry of my own thoughts that are filled with Dante and Ryder.

“Ms. Smith," the detective says, standing nearby at just a moment's notice. “Are you okay? Did you hear what I said?"

“No, I'm sorry," I whisper. “I'm just a little… flustered."

“That'se understandable, Ms. Smith. I just wanted to let you know, we called your emergency contact, Jack Ward. He should be on his way to pick you up from the station now."

I stand, tossing the blanket on the table. “I'd prefer to walk now."

His brow furrows. “Is that the safest idea? You've been through something traumatic, Ms. Smith. We really suggest you go home with a trusted relative or friend so they can keep a close eye on you."

Jack is neither close to me, nor worthy of being trusted.

“I'll be fine, I promise. I just need time to decompress. I want to walk alone."

He hesitates with his reply, looking out at the hoard of bees in a rattled hive. I've never seen so many cops in one place, let alone so diligent to work on a heist where the only thing that was taken was a simple, silver box.

“I guess I can lead you out the east entrance," the detective says. “It would help you avoid all of the journalists out front."

I stammer in surprise. “Journalists?"

“You've become a newsworthy sensation, Ms. Smith. Everyone was cheering for your safe return."

Everyone, of course, except for me. I prefer the company of two licentious bank robbers than I do the attention of cops and journalists. Not to mention how desperately I don't want to see Jack after his plot of whimpering on TV.

The alley plagues my mind, my feet dodging gritty potholes and smokers on their breaks from work. I think of the getaway car speeding up to my side, whisking me away in a dangerous format.

I try to remember that fear, but it solely resonated on the unknown, not the intent of those men who took me. After that first night, I don't think I feared them again. Why can't I be afraid now? Looking at my face on the news, at the footage of the bank being robbed, it was troubling.

I laid with the lions once, and now I felt like I had a connection to a pride.

Make it make sense.

I knock on the apartment door. Jack opens it swiftly like he was expecting the pizza delivery man, or another hooker, to be on our stoop.

“Oh, my god, Eden," he says, jumping forward to wrap me in an unnecessarily taut hug. “I just got a call twenty minutes ago that you were at the police station. I was about to come pick you up."

Something really makes me doubt that claim, but I don't mention it.

Why the f*ck would he wait twenty minutes or even twenty seconds?

“Come on, get inside. You look awful, Eden."

I ignore his petting, still consumed in thoughts of my captors.

This newfound case of Stockholm's syndrome is beginning to unravel me.

“Come talk to me," Jack suggests, sitting back down on the couch with the game controller in hand. Sometimes I think it's fused into his palms, wires hooking up to his fingertips and refusing to unplug. “Where are you going?"

“I need a shower, Jack, I was abducted. I need a moment to collect myself."

He snorts a noise and shakes his head. “Oh, god. Don't be so dramatic."

He's gone from concerned to dismissive in record time tonight.

I stop in the doorway of the bedroom. The sheets are pulled halfway off the bed and pillows thrown to the floor, no doubt to make room for other activities than sleeping.

I won't ever lay in that bed again.

I would argue with him, but I can't, my throat closing in shortage of valor. Maybe Dante was right. I've returned to my shy and innocent life. Mason was right, too, in the claim that I came from this shitty life, and I was returned to it.

Through the solace of a shower, I wipe away any scent, any lasting impression of their touch, down the Manhattan sewer system.

I linger out of the bathroom in a comfortable top and loose-fitting jeans. Dressing normal at least feels like the right thing to do right now.

“Are you going to cook dinner?"

I glare holes through the back of Jack's skull. “No, Jack. I'm not."

“Why not?" he grumbles at the screen, playing a shooting game meant for bored teenagers.

“I'm going for a walk instead."

I grab a jacket and head outside, wet hair be damned, so that I don't have to explain the scenario to Jack. He is pathetically immersed in his video games, in his constant cheating, and his innate need to disregard basic human decency.

He cried to the news station about wanting me back, but he left out that he's a child who is incapable of cooking his own dinner and doing his own laundry. That's all our relationship is. I'd say he is more of a nuisance than a boyfriend.

But like I told Dante before, it's not worth the fight that follows when I attempt to break up with him.

We argue, he crosses the line, and I end up apologizing and sleeping on the couch.

I walk aimlessly down the sidewalks, wondering how terrible it would be to just sleep out here for the night instead of returning home. Anywhere but there would be better suited.

“Excuse me?"

I stop, hearing a deep voice. I eye the man standing nearby, his eyes squinted in curiosity. He's burly and thick, unwavering as very few pedestrians pass by between us.

“Are you Eden Smith, the woman who was kidnapped?"

I nod, groaning internally. “Yeah. That's me."

He smiles, popping the door open to the back of the car he leans on. His hand brushes his jacket where a large, silver gun is tucked into his waistband. I stare at the sight, a little numb to the reality of it after my last encounter with a pistol wielding crook.

“Get in."

I struggle to move, and he shoves me hard into the backseat, kicking at my legs to curl out of the way of the door he slams shut. I realize that he isn't anything like the bank robbers. I pull at the door handle and hit the glass, the stranger swinging the pistol backwards into the side of my face.

My body goes limp against the seats. Blood pulses from a cut under my eye.

“Ple—"

“Shut up! Stay down, or I'll hit you again!" He yanks the car into traffic, and I do as I was told, blinking back spots as the blood runs warmly down my jaw and throat. “Stop crying, dammit."

I sniffle, trying to compose myself. No matter how much I loathe Jack, I should have stayed back and put up with his ignorant antics. It would have been better than this.

The car finally screeches to a stop, and I tense, being flung out of the backseat by a firm grip on my arm. I hiss a breath and land on a polished concrete floor, taking in the sight of a fancy parking garage that isn't seeing much use.

Other than the car that I just pulled up, there's no other vehicles around this massive space, only a handful of very domineering and seemingly pissed-off men. They all wear similar suits, in shades that vary from gray to navy.

I don't move out of perpetual anxiety.

“Eden Smith, right?" the man in front of the group asks. He looks down the edge of my cheek, gawking at the bloody scratch that sits there now. “I'm going to need you to be on your best behavior, or there will be more retaliation than that measly cut."

I nod hastily. The man smiles in response.

“Someone take her into the suite."

Another man answers before anyone moves. “The lounge has strict rules on conducting business in—"

“I know the damn rules," he snaps. “It's not business if she behaves. The Donahue's just want to have a few words with her. There is no trouble if she doesn't cause any," he adds, looking down at me from above, “got it?"

“Yes," I chirp. “No trouble. I swear."

“See? She listens well enough. Someone escort her upstairs. Erik and Asher are up there waiting. You know how they are."

I don't recognize those names, but I have an overwhelming urge that tells me they have something to do with the robbery. I consider the countless possibilities while being dragged through an empty hallway and then shoved into a glass elevator. I sink to the floor in exasperation.

It's a long, silent trip down the next hallway before the man throwing me around kicks my knee inward, prompting me to hiss and fall into the wall nearby. I kneel on my wounded, aching leg while the door is yanked open haphazardly.

The specimen behind the door is broad and unwavering. He looks down through his light brown eyelashes to stare plainly at me, much like an exterminator would look at a rat in his path.

The man waves away my escort before coming down onto his knees in front of me. I breathlessly beg for mercy, for an explanation, for anything that would resolve my hyperventilating.

“Eden?"

I nod. At least they are thorough with every step in kidnapping me. They continue to ask if my name is correct. Due to my poor luck, it's correct.

“You don't have to be so scared. I'm harmless. I just want you to come into the room and answer some questions for me. Okay?"

He holds out a hand for me to take but I refuse, mesmerized by the gold flakes of his irises. He's a stoic breed of handsome, the kind that wears a suit and hangs out in fancy hotel rooms.

My only issue with that is… why I'm here with that kind of specimen.

I walk into the room, staggering my pace when I observe an older man with similar features sitting at the desk by the large bed. My heart punches through every pulse in agonizing panic.

“I'm Asher Donahue. This is my father, Erik," the younger man exhales, ushering me to sit on the bed.

He stands behind Erik, a man who doesn't react in legible emotion other than the deep and permanent creases of his rutted brow.

I'm stuck in memory of their last name. My eyes widen in horror.

“Donahue?" I ask. “As in the Donahue family whose safety deposit box was stolen?"

Erik flares his nostrils and snarls his response, “Yeah. That's right. Now, you're going to tell me who stole the contents of that box, and where they took it. Otherwise, we're going to have a f*cking problem here, Eden."