The atmosphere on the airfield was tense; Serena Kingston was out of the car, ignoring the rain as she got into position, her army training kicking into place as she tried to figure out how to shoot the man without harming the girl. Louis Delano was beside her, cocking his gun, a feeling of desperation rising in him. Any false movement might trigger off the frantic man who had his gun on the unfortunate child. Anna was sagging, unable to stand, her head lolling back. Drugged, thought Van Dyke.
For Joe Cahill, the rain streaming down, over his head, down his long black raincoat, had hauled the poor child up and was using her as a shield, his gun to her temple.
The large Jeep had pulled to an abrupt stop and men tumbled out. The blonde, lean St Just, his gun in his hand was running forward as he shouted, his voice faint over the sound of the rain.
“Cahill, Joe! Man, don’t do this!”
And then as Cahill shook his head and yelled,
“Stop right there, St Just, or I shall shoot this little c*nt,” and he shook the girl threateningly.
O’Grady had also emerged, holding his forty-calibre Smith and Weston ready.
He was furious, white-hot rage flowing through him as he took in the scene; the young girl, thirteen years? Was being used by the coward as a shield?
But for once, his boxing skills surfaced and he handled his anger. With a superhuman effort, he controlled his rage
Stay calm, said a vice within him, stay calm and don’t let the bas*ard get to you. The other big man, Van Dyke, his white-blond hair plastered to his skull, had taken up position too, his hands holding a gun as well. He gestured and this mane flanked out in a neat circle. The Delano men were also fanning out. No way that Cahill was going anywhere except up, to his Maker, thought O’Grady wryly.
Far away in the Delano mansion, Bianca sat rigid and unmoving.
Her eyes were dry and she was staring out of the window at the unceasing rain.
Please, she prayed fervently, please God, let her be safe… bring Anna back safely, to us…
Cahill seemed to realize that he was trapped.
But he was not going down without a fight.
He gave a maniacal laugh, wild and with absolutely no bluff, he shouted, his voice shaking,
“If I get hurt, I’ll kill this bi*ch, I’ll take her with me, cowboy!”
In their luxurious bedroom, the Mafia Don’s Woman sat, watching her husband as he lay on the bed, checking his phones, frowning slightly. Her hand was on his chest, and she rested her cheek on his chest.
She loved this hard, ruthless Don, she thought and trailed her small hand over the wiry hairs on his chest, leaning forward and licking his flat nipples daringly. He looked at her immediately, shifting on the bed and grabbing her nape, bringing his face down for a hard, possessive kiss.
She pushed away from him after a while, breathless her lips swollen. He had managed to tug her night shirt open and she lay, her breasts heaving, the thick nipples stiff.
There was a satisfied look in the Mafia Don’s eyes as he surveyed her, the heaving breasts, the eyes heavy with desire.
Tugging her onto his body, he grunted,
“I want to stick my c*ck up your wet c*nt, wh*re.”
She sighed and placed her palm over his mouth.
“Lucien, Lucien. When will you talk sweet nothings to me?” she whispered, taking off her nightshirt and straddling him, buck naked.
The Mafia Don’s eyes glittered as she settled on top of him, obedient as ever.
“You know how I feel about you, Woman,” he growled, a note of tenderness in his voice as he kissed her hard,” You know your pus*y has gotten me prisoner…”
Suddenly, he moved so that he was sitting upright and with one motion, he had plunged his rock-hard member into her dripping wet core. Deep. Hard.
Proserpina gasped.
All these years of being in bed with him, of surrendering to him…and he still made her feel like a woman on her first night with her lover.
The Boss grabbed a breast and sucked at her thick, firm teat, brutal in his actions and she whimpered, her hips bucking in arousal.
Her soft moan only made him more savage in his assault on her curvaceous body. Then, his eyes gleaming hot, he thrust into her in earnest and she screamed as she came. He followed soon after, his thick hands digging into her waist and hips, holding her in position as he emptied his seed into her womb.
Hours later, she lay against him, having spent time in the large tub being pampered.
Gazing into his steel grey-blue eyes, she traced his stubbled jaw and said sadly,
“Do you think…the child will be saved?”
The Don grunted, biting hard on her roving finger and she yelped.
“Yes,” he growled,” They want to bring the girl back badly. They’ll succeed or die trying.”
And with that rather cold declaration, Proserpina had to be satisfied.
Standing in the rain that was pelting down, O’Grady and St Just looked at each other and in that split second, a message was transmitted.
St Just flung his gun down on to the tarmac and began to walk forward slowly, hands raised in a gesture of surrender.
“Cahill, buddy, you know me, right? I’ve come to the Kinksters a million times. You can believe me,” his eyes took in the deathly white pallor of the little blonde girl who leaned helplessly against Cahill, her eyes blank as she watched him. Was she drugged?
Joe Cahill waved his gun in alarm, signalling that St Just should stop approaching.
“I don’t have a gun, man. I’m unarmed, see?”
And St Just, who had been walking forward, step by step, slowly, took off his jacket and threw it on the ground, in the mud.
Cahill tensed, blinking furiously.
He knew he was cornered. But he frowned, trying to understand what St Just was trying to do.
“Just leave the girl, man, just give her to me now,” said St Just, a note of pleading in his voice.
Suddenly, Cahill understood what was happening, and his wild eyes shot to O’Grady who had stepped forward, his expression flat. With deadly precision, he fired, hitting Cahill straight in the head.
Blood flew in every direction, the man’s arms wheeled and his gun went off harmlessly as he jerked like a marionette and fell to the ground like a stone.