Vendetta (2 page)

She moans again as I put her in the backseat of my black SUV and buckle her in. I round the back, and open up the trunk, looking for something to bind her with. I shake off the fleeting thought that maybe she wouldn't fight me. It's Leighton Moore, for fuck's sake, of course she would.

Fishing out the cable ties, I go back and secure her wrists, then her ankles. It doesn't seem like enough. I don't want to see her eyes when she wakes up, which could be any second now, so I remind myself to hurry the fuck up. I take off the scarf from around her neck, feeling the silk under my fingers for just a second. Then I pull out my pocketknife, and slice it in half. I blindfold her, and then gag her with the other half.

At this point I know it’s probably overkill, but I've never kidnapped a woman before, so who knows? Plus, it's Leighton. She's not just any woman.

Of course I know Leighton Moore. I only wish I didn't.

I knew who she was the first time I laid my eyes on her. It didn’t make any fucking difference in the grand scheme of things. I was doomed to keep seeing her and not being able to do anything about it.

Shaking off that thought, I finally get in the car and start it, backing out and getting the hell away from this place.

When I'm far enough away, I pull over into a secluded woodland area on the side of the road and just sit there, my car idling. What the fuck do I do with her? I could take her to my place, I guess, but I'm barely ever there. Most of the time I’m either at my uncle’s house or I’m out, working. I take out my phone and stare at it, contemplating. I glance back at her, and realize I have no choice. I have to call my uncle.

LEIGHTON

My head aches, the throbbing sharp and unbearable.

I try to open my eyes, blinking furiously, but something's in the way.

I’ve been blindfolded.

I try to move, to sit up, but I've been restrained with something sharp cutting into my wrists tied in front of me. My ankles won't move either. My mouth is gagged with silky cloth, and I’m so parched I would give anything for some water.

I squirm on the seat, the leather squeaking under me as I try to move. I make a noise against the gag, trying to scream, but it comes out like a pathetic moan.

Whoever is driving ignores me.

The motion of the car is making me feel nauseous. I don’t think I’ve ever been more terrified in my life. I squirm again, screaming into the gag. The music volume goes up.

Fucking asshole.

Where are they taking me? Who is driving?

I can feel the seat belt against my chest, holding me in place—at least on the outside. Inside I’m screaming, frantically needing to escape. I take short breaths in and out of my nose, trying to calm myself. I can’t afford to panic right now; I need to think.

It can’t be more than thirty minutes later when the car slows, and then comes to a halt. I listen intently over the music trying to figure out what's going on—and then there’s silence. The door opens, and then slams shut.

George? Devon?

Or someone else completely?

In this case, I think I’d rather the known devil.

My door opens what feels like years, but can’t be more than minutes, later, and someone leans over to unbuckle me. I smell a hint of spicy masculine cologne, something light and expensive. Familiar. I lean in, letting the scent envelop me.

I’m gripped by my hips and pulled to the edge of the seat, and then something hard digs into my stomach as he flips me over his shoulder. I flinch at the pain in my ribs from his not-so-gentle handling. He walks quickly, taking long strides, not once faltering.

We climb some stairs, each step making my stomach queasier. His steps are even, until he stops, and I hear the telltale sound of keys clinging against each other. He doesn't put me down even while he unlocks the door. His breathing is steady, he isn’t even panting.

Devon Andre. It’s him; I know it. He throws me onto a soft bed like I'm a sack of potatoes. I bounce once, before falling face-first into the mattress. Without warning, he flips me over and takes the blindfold off.

I stare into green eyes, framed with thick black lashes.

I don't know why I feel relieved. They don't look friendly at all.

Hard, cold eyes. Sinister.

He grins, eyeing me blatantly from head to toe, and it makes me shiver.

“Leighton Moore,” he says in a mocking tone, stuffing the piece of my scarf he used to blindfold me in his jeans pocket. The sound of his voice sends chills up my spine. He leans into my personal space, keeping eye contact the whole time and untying the gag at the back of my head.

The gravity of the situation settles in around me.
It's not a dream
, is all I keep thinking.
This is real.
Shit.

He walks out of the room, leaving me alone and helpless. And really fucking confused, because I can’t think of a single reason why he would do this.

Shit. Shit.
Shit.
I glance around, taking in my location. My eyes scan the walls, frantically looking for a window. When they finally land on one I exhale in relief. Maybe I can get out that way.

Devon walks back in. This time I take him in, dressed in a black T-shirt that hugs his body perfectly, and jeans, his standard. He pulls a knife out of his pocket as he nears the bed, making my breath hitch.

He wouldn't.

Actually, I can't say I have any idea of what he’s capable of, but it seems I’m going to find out. I’ve never heard of him being ruthless, but who knows. Obviously he hates me enough; otherwise I wouldn’t even be here.

“Do you know how long I’ve wanted to do something like this to a Moore?” A humorless laugh escapes his full lips. “And now I have the princess herself,” he continues, turning the knife over in his hand. “What do you think I should do to you?”

He comes closer, so close his controlled breath mingles with my shaky one. Locking his gaze to mine, he slides the ice-cold knife up my leg, from my ankle to my knee. I squeeze my eyes shut, hating the tear that slips out, streaking my cheek. His thumb catches the tear, then he brings it to his lips, his intense eyes boring into mine, and he licks it. The sick bastard. The knife continues its trail, sliding up my thigh and under the knee-length skirt I’m wearing. When he lifts the skirt up slightly, another tear escapes.

“Should I go higher?” he asks in a deep, low voice. I squeeze my eyes shut but refrain from shaking my head. I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me beg. The knife gains more pressure but then he suddenly lifts it off my skin, and then I feel it cutting through the plastic tie on my wrists. I open my eyes, following his every move.

“You try anything, and I’ll kill you.” He points the tip of the knife at me when he says it, looking me over from head to toe. Over the years he’s given me a few dirty looks, but he’s never looked at me like this.

With such loathing. Like I’m nothing.

“Or maybe I’ll let my men have you before I do,” he continues, although I hear the falter in his voice. I wish it gave me hope, but I don't feel it.

He squares his shoulders, then leans down and cuts the tie holding my ankles together. I stand up as soon as I can, just to feel my legs again. He pushes me back onto the bed, where I fall against the mattress.

“Did I say you can fucking move?” he asks, crossing his arms against his chest, the knife still in his right hand.

I whimper, shaking my head. He turns around to leave.

“Why did you bring me here?” I dare to ask.

His whole body stiffens, and when he turns back he gives me a slow evil grin. Shaking his head, he says, “You are not that naïve.”

DEVON

I descend the stairs from the top floor, jiggling the keys to the room I just locked Leighton in as I pass two of my uncle's men. They nod at me, but they don't say anything.

“Nobody goes up there,” I say, with as much calm as I can muster. It should be a given, but I want them to get the message loud and clear.

I may not be in charge around here, but my word still stands for something.

Inside, I'm anything but calm. The news must have spread by now that Leighton
fucking
Moore is locked up in a room on the top floor of a house full of people who want nothing but to harm her.

I don't live here, but it's a huge well-guarded estate, and nobody comes in or out if they're not allowed, so that should be enough to keep her inside. I hope she doesn’t try to escape, but that'd be really underestimating her. Sooner or later, she'll get an idea.

Reaching the guest room, I close the door and lock it behind me, taking off my heavy jacket and setting it on a chair in the corner. I exhale deeply, unbuttoning the top of my shirt and pulling out the envelope I stuffed in my pocket. It feels heavy and rough under my fingers. Exhausted, I slump onto the bed, stretching my neck left, then right, and running my hands through my hair. Looking for any kind of distraction, I glance around the room, at the sterile white walls and the black furniture, devoid of any personality, but it’s no good. I can't put it off anymore.

I open the envelope.

It’s different than I expected this moment to be.

There’s a deep hole somewhere inside my chest where a heart should be, because I feel nothing as I read that the skeletal remains of three bodies were found at the new high school construction site.

I feel nothing as I read that the bones belonged to a man, a woman, and a small child.

Without emotion, I go over the evidence and look at the photos of personal effects they found with the remains—a golden watch, a set of wedding rings with a date engraved on them, some disintegrated clothes. A red toy car that used to be mine.

This isn't news to me. I had eleven long years to come to terms with what I know is the truth.

My whole family is dead.

It doesn’t hurt anymore. Now, it’s a simple fact.

On a windy September night, the Moores took down my family. Rebecca, thirty-three years old, my mother. Joe, thirty-five years old, my father. And Joey. Just shy of five years old. My little brother.

For eleven years we’d had no word of them. They were just . . . gone.

There's no doubt in my mind I wasn't meant to be standing here right now. That there was supposed to be a fourth body in that unmarked, long forgotten grave. Why else would my uncle come and pick me up from boarding school the morning after they disappeared? Why else has he kept me guarded for the better chunk of my teenage years?

I’ve been waiting for solid proof for so fucking long. I figured they would try and hide the evidence, but that fucker George did his job, for once, saving the police report that was supposed to disappear.

The Moores and the Andres have been at it long before I was around. I knew that if anyone had reason to do this, it was them.

And now, we finally have proof.

I pull out the knife and the silky material from my pocket. I cut it in half, enjoying the way the sharp blade rips through the silk.

Now, I can finally get my revenge.

two

LEIGHTON

I wake up covered in sweat. When did I pass out? I lift my hand and touch my throbbing temple, wincing in pain and squeezing my eyes shut, praying that the pounding in my head goes away.

“Shit,” I curse when I replay in my mind what happened. George hit me, and Devon kidnapped me. Do they have a death wish? My dad would castrate both of them for touching me.

Any man in my family would.

I take in my surroundings. The room I’m in is decorated in black, white and red. The bed I’m lying on is plush, the smooth sheets underneath me satin. It’s not much smaller than my own room. I'd almost like it, if I wasn't here against my will.

My eyes scan the rest of it, looking for any means of escape. They clearly kidnapped the wrong girl if they think I’m going down without a fight. The sole window is barricaded by iron bars on the outside, and there are two doors on one side of the wall, one of which I assume is a closet, and one more on the opposite which I know is the way out.

I get up, and the dizziness rushes to my head, making me slump back onto the bed. I try again, this time slower, waiting for it to hit again, but it doesn't. I walk to the door silently, and slowly turn the doorknob. Locked. As I had suspected.

I try the window next, finding it sealed shut. I rattle it in its frame, but it won’t budge. And even if it would, it won’t serve any purpose. A glance through the window confirms my fears; there are no other houses or busy roads in sight. Even if I attempted to scream for help, none would come.

I walk to the two doors. One of them is a small closet, completely empty, and I give up straight away on searching it for anything that can help me escape.

The other door leads to a bathroom, and contains only one small octagon-shaped window with frosted glass. I stand up on the edge of the bathtub and try to open it, even though it’s most likely too small for me to fit through. The only thing I’m able to do is move it slightly to let fresh air in, but I’m greeted by another set of iron bars preventing anyone from getting out or in, even if I could squeeze myself through it.

Giving up on the window as a means of escape, I look around for anything I could use as a weapon. I like to think I can be pretty resourceful when I need to be. However, my search comes up empty. Unless I want to make a shank out of a toothbrush, the way my cousin Dom showed me how to do it.

The sudden emotion at the thought of him is overwhelming. Dom is the closest thing I have to a brother. After my godfather, his dad, went to prison, my dad took him in as his own son. Dom always took care of me, ever since we were children. If he were here, he’d know what to do.

I will myself not to cry, because he’s not here, so what’s the point? I could waste time feeling sorry for myself, wishing someone were here to help, but I was taught differently.

I have to fight.

I make use of the bathroom, and can’t help but pause when I pass the large mirror. My black hair is disheveled and knotty, falling down to my hips. My blue eyes are slightly red, and wide in my face. My whole right cheek is puffy and bruised, where that bastard George hit me.