Wrong Girl…” the Mafia Boss Realized His Mistake—Then Refused to Let Her Go Part 1
Wrong Girl…” the Mafia Boss Realized His Mistake—Then Refused to Let Her Go
Part 1
What would you do if you were thrown into the back of a van only to realize your kidnapper was a ruthless mafia boss who grabbed the wrong girl?
Sloan Jenkins was supposed to be a hostage. Instead, he looked her up and down and said, “I’m keeping you anyway.”
The freezing November rain of Chicago was relentless, soaking straight through the cheap wool of her cardigan. Sloan was twenty-eight, a size-eighteen bookkeeper, and entirely ordinary. Her Friday-night plans consisted of picking up a deep-dish pizza from Lou Malnati’s, going back to her cramped apartment in Logan Square, and feeding her overweight tabby, Meatball. She was not the kind of woman who got kidnapped. Kidnappers wanted ransom, leverage, or political power. Her bank account currently boasted a fragile three hundred and forty-two dollars, and the only leverage anyone had on her was her Netflix password.
But as she hurried down the affluent sidewalks of Astor Street, cutting through the Gold Coast after dropping off tax files for a wealthy client, a matte-black Mercedes Sprinter van screeched to a halt beside her. Before she could register the heavy thud of the sliding door, a pair of massive leather-gloved hands clamped down on her shoulders.
Sloan didn’t scream. She couldn’t. The wind was knocked entirely out of her lungs as she was hoisted off the pavement. She was a heavy woman, not easily moved, but the man who grabbed her lifted her like she was nothing but a bag of feathers. A rough burlap sack was yanked over her head, plunging her into suffocating darkness. Thick plastic zip ties bit viciously into her wrists as they were wrenched behind her back.
“Got her!” a gruff voice grunted over the roar of the van’s engine.
“Jesus, Leo, she’s heavier than I thought,” another voice muttered.
The van door slammed shut like a gunshot.
“Shut up and drive. The boss wants her at the West Loop safe house in ten minutes. The O’Donnells are going to pay out the nose for their precious little princess.”
Princess.
Her heart hammered against her ribs. She tried to speak, but the words choked in her throat. They thought she was a princess. An O’Donnell. She didn’t even know any O’Donnells.
The ride was a blur of sharp turns, screeching tires, and the overwhelming scent of cheap cologne and gun oil. When the van finally halted, she was dragged out—less delicately this time—and hauled up a flight of echoing concrete stairs. She was thrown into a heavy wooden chair. The zip ties were cut only to be replaced by thick abrasive rope binding her to the armrests.
“Boss is here,” Leo announced.
A heavy steel door clicked open. The sound of expensive leather shoes on a hard floor sent a fresh wave of nausea through her. The footsteps were slow, deliberate, predatory.
“Take the hood off.”
It was a voice that demanded absolute obedience—deep, resonant, laced with chilling authority. It did not belong to a street thug. It belonged to a kingmaker.
The rough burlap was ripped from her head, taking a few strands of her wet, tangled brown hair with it. The harsh glare of fluorescent lights blinded her for a second. As her vision cleared, she found herself in the center of a massive, aggressively modern loft. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the glittering Chicago skyline, but all her attention was anchored on the man standing ten feet in front of her.
Vincent Moretti. She didn’t know his name then, but the aura radiating from him screamed money, power, and violence. He wore a perfectly tailored midnight-blue suit that clung to broad shoulders and a lean, muscular frame. His jaw was sharp, marred slightly by a faded white scar that only accentuated his devastating, ruthless good looks. Dark assessing eyes stared down at her.
He looked at her soaking-wet, frizzy hair. He looked at her flushed, tear-stained face. He let his gaze drag down to her thick thighs pressed against the chair, the cheap floral dress clinging to her curves, and the scuffed loafers on her feet.
Vincent’s dark eyebrows slowly knit together. The terrifying calm in his eyes fractured into cold, absolute fury.
He turned his head slightly, not taking his eyes off her.
“Leo.”
“Yeah, boss.” The hulking man stepped forward, looking entirely too proud of himself.
“Grabbed her right outside the O’Donnell brownstone on Astor Street, just like you said. Sloan O’Donnell.”
“Leo,” Vincent repeated, his voice dropping an octave, becoming a lethal, quiet hiss. “Does this woman look like a twenty-two-year-old ninety-pound socialite who spends her weekends doing lines of coke in Miami?”
Silence blanketed the room. It was so quiet she could hear the rain lashing against the glass.
