The car smells like cigarettes and stale sweat. I’m bound and gagged … but not blindfolded. My captors don’t care if I see their faces.

I’m trying not to think about what that means.

Elina and I rode down to Callahan’s together. I was unlocking the back door when they jumped us. Elina … I don’t know they did to her. It all happened so fast.

At least I didn’t hear a gunshot. But I’m blinking back tears, worrying about her, blaming myself for everything.

Stupid, Quinn. So stupid. Even after seeing that man yesterday, I didn’t think Santiago’s thugs would show up outside the bakery at 3 am.

My sisters should be at Callahan’s by now, so Carlo will know I’ve been taken. He’s an ex-military commando type with his own security firm. He’ll be searching for me, and Elina will have help.

I just have to hang on.

There are two men in the front seat, and one in the back with me. I’m down on the floorboards. He keeps leering at me and I keep avoiding his gaze.

If I stay still and calm and quiet, I’ll be better prepared for whatever’s coming. Santiago’s insane; I know that much. I can’t expect any kind of mercy or compassion from him.

The man back here with me is tired of waiting. He nudges my leg with his foot, not gently. “Bitch, look at me.”

I turn on my ice-queen reserve and meet his eyes, giving him nothing. When he doesn’t speak, I look away again. He wanted my fear; now he’ll want to make me pay for not giving it to him.

Carlo needs to find me. Fast. I don’t have it in me to withstand the kind of treatment Santiago will want to dish out.

We drive for what feels like a long time. Finally the car stops and they haul me out. That’s when it hits me that my purse is nowhere to be seen.

Which means there’s no cell phone for Carlo to track.

For the first time, dread congeals in my stomach. I was counting on the Adamos riding to my rescue, like they have so many times before. The realization that I’m on my own is terrifying.

It’s still dark outside. I can’t see where we are. One of the men takes my arm, his fingers biting into me even through my jacket, and leads me inside a building. Lights come on; my heart sinks.

The room we’re in has been set up as a small film studio. The enormous bed against one wall leaves no doubt as to what kind of film they intend to make.

The man holding me lets me go. I refuse to rub my arm, though I know he’s left bruises. One of the men stays near the door. Standing guard.

The other two ignore me. No one else is here, and a tiny sliver of hope threads through the bleakness filling me. I really hope they’re not waiting for Santiago himself – but any delay at all is good.

Only minutes pass before the men start to mutter impatiently. “Where the fuck are they?” says the one who’s lounging on the bed.

“You know how to work the camera?” answers the man who brought me inside.

“Sure.”

“Start setting up. If they’re not here soon, we’ll go ahead without them.”

“More fun for us.” He gives me a smile that makes me want to hurl. Rolling lazily off the bed, he strolls to the camera.

The man who grabbed me seems to be in charge. “Go check outside,” he tells the man at the door. “See if there’s any sign of them.”

A sullen grunt is the only reply, but the man goes. Boss man turns to me and I take an immediate step back, putting more space between us. “Go ahead,” he says. “Fight me. I want you to.”

He’s going to get what he wants. I’m not a fighter, but every fiber of my being is screaming no to this. I can’t submit.

I keep backing away. The cameraman’s phone rings. From the corner of my eye, I see him pull it out, shake his head, and start for the door.

Only one man left. He lunges at me. I dodge aside, adrenaline quickening my reflexes. He comes at me again and I run, straight for the door, like the track star I never was.

His feet pound on the floor behind me. I’m going as fast as I can, but he’s getting closer. With a final, desperate burst of speed, I crash into the door, which isn’t fully closed since the last guy went out. It flies open and I race outside.

The faintest hint of dawn lightens the sky. Behind me, there’s a sickening thud. Whirling, I see the man who was chasing me laid out flat on the ground.

I can make out my surroundings just enough, now, to see that we’re outside a house and the yard is littered with bodies. But I don’t have time to process it before a dark form looms over me. I shrink away in terror – and then his scent hits me.

Without a word, Matteo hauls me up and over his shoulder and strides away, his long legs carrying us far faster than I could walk on my own. I’m too stunned to speak.

We round the corner of the house. There’s a Harley parked on the street there. He sets me down and hands me a helmet.

“Climb on,” he orders. “Hold on tight.”

I obey, still running on autopilot. “How …” I whisper.

“Later.”

I cling to him as he accelerates away. Seconds later, three things happen at once: he curses, his body jerks, and the sound of a gunshot cracks through the air.

“Hang on!” he yells. The bike leaps forward and we pass the vehicle coming toward us, a dark SUV, in a blur. I hear brakes squealing behind us, but Matteo’s racing through this quiet residential neighborhood like he’s in the Indy 500.

I keep expecting to hear more shots, to feel them, even. But it doesn’t happen. Matteo slows down enough that we’re not so obvious, winding through one street after another, ignoring all the stop signs.

We leave the residential area and go into the business district, sticking mostly to side streets but driving very carefully now. Eventually he pulls into one of those storage places and stops outside one of the units.

When he climbs off the bike, I see he’s sweating and his right arm isn’t moving right. Grimacing, he hands me a key and motions to the padlock. I get it up and raise the door.

Inside is a black SUV. I help him move the Harley in next to it. “You’ll have to drive,” he says, and hands me the keys.

We climb into the SUV and I back it out, then lock up the storage unit again. “You need a hospital,” I say when I’m back in the driver’s seat.

“Not an option. There’s a first aid kit in the back; we’ll have to make do with that.”

“Where are we going, then?” I pull out onto the street. My heart is pounding.

“Get on the freeway going east.” I do, and he takes out a phone and dials a number. Someone answers, and all he says is, “I’m blown. Going under. You too.”

He ends the call and dials again. “I’ve got her. She’s okay. Yeah. I’ll tell her.”

Clicking off, he says, “Lando sends love from your sisters.” Lando. That must be how he knew I’d been taken, though I still can’t figure out how he found me.

For the next two hours, he doesn’t speak except to tell me where to turn next. I don’t bother pointing out that phones have GPS these days; I’m sure he’s trying to keep himself conscious.

Finally, we end up in a campground deep in the forest. It’s closed for the winter, but he knows a back way in, an access road that only the staff use. Surrounded by trees, I feel chilled, but also safe. I can’t imagine Santiago looking for us here.

Matteo staggers when he climbs down from the SUV. “Let me see,” I demand. Folding back his leather jacket, I suck in a breath.

The right side of his shirt is soaked in blood.