73

Allison
Every step feels like a thunderclap. Even barefoot, my heels discarded at the far end of the hall, it’s like each step is loud enough to wake the dead.
I’m shocked Paul can’t hear my heart racing. It’s pounding in my ear, painfully loud and fast.
I reach a staircase and listen. The sounds of the wedding party murmur up toward me, but they’re distant. I hear the clattering of dishes, a few shouts, a stressed conversation in Spanish.
With a deep breath, I take the stairs, going as fast as I dare.
It leads me into a back hallway. Straight ahead is a kitchen. Men and women dart around in black and white jackets, ferrying appetizer plates, cleaning glasses, ignoring everything but their tasks. To the left are a pair of doors, and beyond them is the party itself. I spot guests mingling nearby, older people I don’t recognize.
To my left is another hall.
I hurry away from the party and the kitchen. The sounds recede when I turn the corner. Ahead, there’s a heavy-looking door with a push-bar and a tinted window, dark enough that no light gets through. I run to it, a stab of excitement bursting into my chest.
This has to be an exit. I have no clue what I’m going to do once I’m outside, but at least I’ll be free of the house. I can run off to the woods, or maybe I can try to steal a car. There might even be a valet that takes pity on me, but that’s doubtful. I have to remember that these are all Debarcio employees, all of them members of the Bratva. They are loyal to the Lion, not to his pathetic future bride. I’m nothing to them, and if anyone spots me, I’m finished.
I shove the door open and stumble out into a bright late afternoon.
It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust. I’m in a side garden, in the shade of the building. The back yard stretches off to my left, and the front driveway is on my right. If I run straight for about fifty yards, I’ll reach the edge of the woods. I won’t get far barefoot, but I don’t have a better plan.
I get about two steps before someone grabs me.
“Where do you think you’re going?” The man’s voice is low, menacing. He smells like cigarettes. I struggle, try to yank free, but his grip is like iron as he drags me toward him. “Oh, shit, you’re the girl.”
I don’t recognize him. Dark hair, dark eyes, an uncertain scowl. He’s wearing a black tux with an earpiece in his left ear. If he radios, I’m toast. Forget about having babies-Paul will kill me this afternoon.
“Please,” I say, panicking. “You don’t have to do this. I was just going for a walk to clear my head-”
“Boss gave me strict orders,” the thug cuts me off. “Nobody out through this door. You gotta get back in there.” He looks uncomfortable, but he starts dragging me back.
“No, please,” I say, struggling against him. “You don’t understand. Paul said this was okay, he said I can clear my head before the wedding, it’s fine, please-”
“Sorry, orders are orders-”
“Please, you’re making a huge mistake-” I look around wildly for anything, anyone, any way to escape as the door looms up and the thug prepares to pull me back inside.
When another person comes walking fast toward us from the back garden.
“Hey, you,” he says, his voice like an ice pick, a sharpened command.
Paul’s goon even pauses, which is a shock in itself.
But what’s more surprising is the man himself.
He’s tall, athletic. Muscular in a lean and fit sort of way. He’s in a gray suit, the color matching his eyes. No tie, top button of his shirt undone. Sharp nose, sharp cheekbones, beautiful trimmed beard. A low, resonant voice.
Handsome. Stunning, actually. He puts Paul to shame. Hell, this guy puts everyone in this entire house to shame. He’s so attractive it should be a freaking crime.
I’m shocked Paul’s goon isn’t dropping down to his knees to worship this newcomer.
I certainly want to.
“You’re not allowed over here,” the goon says, evidently gathering himself. “Please, Mr. Callahan-”
Callahan? I know that name. It rings a gong somewhere deep in my awareness.
“Are you dragging the bride by her arm right now?” Callahan doesn’t stop coming. “Are you so stupid, so idiotic, so thickheaded that you’d actually manhandle your own boss’s future wife? You do realize she can make your life hell once this ceremony’s over, don’t you?”
That makes the thug pause. His grip slackens enough that I yank away, stumbling a few feet, before steadying myself against the wall.
The thug looks from me to Callahan, his mouth hanging open. “Uh, I wasn’t, I mean, I’ve got orders, nobody leaves through this door, nobody comes in through this door, and if anyone spots the bride, we’re supposed to take her back-”
I stifle a groan. Freaking Paul had orders in case I tried to run already. That fucking bastard.
“Why don’t you let me escort Ms. Rostova back to the party,” Callahan says, putting a hand on my arm, but he doesn’t grab on. “You can stay here.”
The thug looks uncomfortable. “I really shouldn’t-”
“Tell Paul that Gregory said it was fine.”
It hits me like a truck.
Gregory Callahan. Youngest son of the Callahan dynasty, the most powerful crime organization on the East Coast. I’d heard he was in Portland, but nobody was saying why. Even Papa seemed a little wary of the guy.
Now I can see why. Gregory’s got a presence, like he’s a weight standing on my chest. Paul’s goon clearly isn’t up to the challenge of defying him. Before the thug can say anything, Gregory steers me away toward the back yard.
“Right inside!” the thug calls out.
Gregory ignores him. I say nothing, only let him guide me away, toward the shrubs blocking the expansive yard from the side of the house. We slip down into a gap, but before we step out from between the greenery, he stops exactly where we can’t be seen by anyone and faces me.
“You’re trying to run away,” he says, leaning down to stare into my eyes.
Now he’s holding onto me tightly.
I don’t know what to say. He’s so damn handsome it’s distracting, and he smells like a mixture of whiskey and cinnamon. My throat bobs, I lick my lips, and try to get a hold of myself. This is a life-or-death situation, not a freaking frat party. I shouldn’t be thinking about how close Gregory’s standing, how good he looks, and how nice it might be to sink my face into his chest and breath him deep.
“Why the hell does everyone know that?” I ask him.
And he grins, like the lights turning on. His exceedingly intense expression shifts, one moment terrifying, the next blinding and charming. I try to step back, but I’m penned in by the hedges, and he’s holding on tightly.
“You won’t make it out alone,” he says, speaking quickly and quietly. “Paul’s got guards crawling all over this place. The second you step a toe out of line-” He glances down at my bare feet. “Is the second they drag you back.”
“What are you-I don’t mean-” I’m stuttering, trying to find something to say. “I’m not trying to, uh-”
“Don’t play dumb,” he says, his smile disappearing again, shifting back into that intense mask. “I can help you escape.”
My mouth drops open.
Gregory Callahan is offering to save me.
I don’t know this guy. I’ve never met him before-I only know of him by reputation.
And it’s not a good one.
Gregory’s supposed to be dangerous. Unpredictable, ruthless, clever but quick to violence. Papa spoke of him in hushed whispers, like saying his name out loud might draw his attention.
All I see is a beautiful man. Scary, intense, but beautiful, and still only a man.
He’s offering to help me, and I have a feeling he’s the only person in this entire house that might really do it.
Everyone else would gladly sell me out to Paul to gain his favor.
But not Gregory. The Callahan family can match the Debarcio Bratva in strength and influence, maybe even outmuscle them, but the Callahans’ base of operations are all on the East Coast, far from Portland.
I can’t imagine what he expects to get out of this.
“What do you want?” I whisper, heart racing into my throat. I look around, expecting a call to go out any second and for a dozen Debarcio enforces to rush our position.
“Don’t worry about that just yet,” he says, head tilted, making very unnerving eye contact. “I’ll help you get away. Then you’ll listen to a proposal.”
“That’s it?” I ask, barely able to conceal my impatience. “You just want to pitch me on a business idea?”
“Exactly,” he says, not smiling.
The crazy guy isn’t kidding.
“Fine,” I say, desperation taking me over. “Sure, whatever, I’ll listen to your proposal. Just get me out of here.”
He nods, holding my gaze for another second. “Do exactly what I say. Do you understand?”
“But-”
“Come on.” He yanks me from the bushes, and we’re out into the back garden.