Grant’s vision blurred from the blow, and he barely heard Mario warn, “He said not to hurt him!” Before he knew it, he’d been shoved into the backseat of a black Lincoln town car, sandwiched between Tank and Mario.
“Go!” Tank shouted, and the driver obediently sped away.
Feeling woozy, his ears ringing, Grant was terrified to see the car carrying Sophie turn off onto a side street, widening the distance between them.
Where were they taking Sophie?
He felt another blow to the side of his head and heard Tank bellow, “Eyes forward, damn it! Mario, get the plastic tie!”
“Got it,” Mario huffed, and Grant felt himself hefted sideways to face the incensed Tank as Mario wrenched his arms behind his back. Despite his struggles, he felt his wrists instantly restrained, the hard plastic tie already cutting into his skin.
Tank manhandled him back in his seat so he faced forward. “Don’t fucking move,” he growled.
Grant’s temple throbbed and his heart rate soared. His hands were already starting to feel numb. As the driver guided the car onto the Dan Ryan, Grant said nothing. Finally, once his breathing had slowed, he asked, “Where’re you taking me?”
Mario eyed him carefully, watching for any sudden movement. “Enzo wants a chat.”
Grant’s heart skipped a beat. Had they already uncovered his attempt to thwart his father’s plan? His mind whirred as a sickening dread overtook him. Eventually he asked, “And Sophie? Where’re you taking her?”
Tank smiled smugly. “Well, that depends entirely on you, Madsen.”
“What does that mean?”
“Shut up,” Tank said. “No more questions. It’ll all make sense when you talk to your dad. He’s been
missing
you.”
Mario joined Tank’s low chuckle.
Grant slumped in the seat, ignoring the increasing ache radiating through his arms and hands. He was supposed to be handcuffed, but this scenario was all wrong. Jerry was supposed to be driving, not some Mafia goon. Sophie was supposed to be safe at her father’s house, not kidnapped.
Grant’s entire plan had been shot to hell, thanks to his family. White-hot anger coursed through him. It was a good thing he was restrained or he might have exploded, not caring one iota that the men guarding him had guns. They weren’t going to take everything from him again, he resolved quietly. They weren’t going to destroy everything he loved!
This time he was determined not to let his father win.
Damn, his arms hurt. He’d thought nothing could be worse than being handcuffed for the sixty-minute drive to Gurnee, but he’d been wrong—metal handcuffs would have been far superior to the plastic tie currently lacerating his wrists. Being sandwiched between two meatheads didn’t make the backseat any more comfortable, either. And thanks to Ben’s eavesdropping, Grant was acutely aware that Tank and Mario had been the men holding Logan when Carlo murdered him.
He looked down with despair.
Think.
Why were the bodyguards taking him to his father? Had they discovered his plan to thwart the early release? Would his father try to get him to confess the sting and then murder him and Sophie? Did they know he was wired?
He was wired!
Grant tucked his chin to peek at the button-shaped device on his collar, wondering if Detective Fox and Agent Bounter had heard him and Sophie being kidnapped. Was the device on? Had it survived the bodyguards’ assault as they shoved him into the vehicle? His scrambled worries overwhelmed him, and he drew in a panicked breath.
Leaning his bulk into the restrained passenger, Tank asked, “What’s wrong?”
Grant’s mind raced. “Where did you take Sophie?”
Silence greeted him. Undeterred, he asked, “Why are you taking me to Gurnee?”
Tank’s lips were in a tight line as he spoke. “I already told you, numb nuts, you’re talking to the boss.”
“Why does he want to see me?”
“That’s for you and him to sort out.”
“I’m on parole—they won’t allow me to visit him.”
Tank’s meaty hand seized the back of Grant’s neck and drilled his head into his lap, doubling him over and knocking the air out of him. “Don’t give me that shit,” Tank seethed into his ear. “You just visited Enzo.”
Grant strained to get oxygen into his compressed lungs, worried less about his own well-being than that of the recording device. Agent Bounter’s promise about the durability of the digital recorder would be seriously tested this time around.
Grant’s reply was muffled. “I had to get special permission from the DOC.”
Tank released his neck, and Grant slowly sat up again, coughing.
“If they let you see him once, they’ll let you see him again.”
“Maybe not,” Grant argued. “I had to give the guards a special letter. They might not let me in without one.”
“I’m sure you’ll find a way,” Tank said, “
if
you want the Taylor girl to live.”
Grant’s stomach knotted.
“Yeah,” Mario added, straining to seem relevant to the conversation. Somehow he didn’t appear as menacing as his partner.
After another five miles, Tank began rubbing the side of his knee. Grant knew better than to say anything, but Mario didn’t.
“This asshole kick you?” he asked, gesturing to Grant.
Tank grunted, and Grant stifled a smile over his small victory in the takedown.
Mario continued. “That the same knee that—”
“Shut the fuck up, idiot!” Tank roared, cutting him off. “Not with
him
here.”
Admonished, Mario slumped back in the seat.
Grant tried to make sense of that exchange, and the rest of the journey went way too quickly. His mind swam with potential directions for the conversation with his father.
Once they neared the prison parking lot, Tank instructed, “Cut ’em.”
Grant felt Mario’s beefy paws swivel him toward Tank, who leered at him, threatening, “You make one wrong move, and we stick the Taylor chick.”
Mercifully Grant heard a snap, and the pressure on his wrists instantly abated. Turning his body back to face the windshield, he drew his tingling arms forward, massaging his bloody wrists.
“Fuck,” Tank spat. “You tied it too tight, Meat. The guards are gonna see the blood.”
“It’ll be fine,” Mario replied defensively, yanking out Grant’s shirttails. Grant held his breath, but began to breathe easier when the bodyguard simply patted the sore cuts on his wrists with the shirttails before instructing him to tuck them back into his jeans.
“Why ain’t you wearing a coat?” Mario asked, as Grant shivered slightly. “It’s almost November.”
Because I only stepped out for a second to say goodbye to Sophie before I tried to take down the entire family.
“I, um…I’m not cold.”
Grant
had
to get out of this car soon.
As they rolled up to the guard station, Tank ordered, “Not one word.”
A corrections officer peered into the vehicle. “State your business.”
“We’re visiting an inmate,” the driver explained.
“Which one?”
“Vicenzo Barberi.”
The CO quirked his eyebrow and radioed the inmate’s name to the visitation area. He looked curiously to the backseat, poking his head partly into the vehicle. “Y’all cozy back there?”
Grant didn’t move, feeling Tank’s elbow jab into his ribcage. Mario gave a sweet smile, jiggling his double chin. “Yes, Officer.”
After a moment of deliberation, the CO gruffly commanded, “Proceed to the parking lot.”
Shortly, the black Lincoln town car came to a stop in the crowded parking area. Mario glanced at his watch. “We’re cutting it close—there’s only about thirty minutes left of visitation.”
“Here’s the deal, Madsen,” Tank said.
Grant’s military training took hold, and he looked straight ahead, sitting erect.
“You go in there and talk to your dad, and then you come straight back to the car.”
Grant couldn’t help but turn and look at Tank with surprise. “You’re not coming with me?”
“Enzo don’t want us in there for some strange reason. But you know what’ll happen if you try to get cute?”
Grant swallowed hard. “You’ll hurt Sophie.”
Tank gave a tight smile. “I’m glad we have an understanding.”
“What if I can’t see my dad because of the parole thing?”
“What did I just say?” Tank countered, opening the car door and scooting out. “Make it work, Madsen, or your little cupcake gets squashed.”
Mario chuckled. “I wouldn’t mind licking
her
icing.”
Disgusted, Grant hopped out of the car and took quick strides toward the prison, eager to put ground between him and his father’s goons. If only he could also walk away from his father, instead of heading toward him…but there was no choice. Not when Sophie’s life was in danger, which was once again his fault.
Stepping into the entrance, he glanced warily at the two COs checking in visitors.
“Hey, you’re back! Your dad didn’t scream at you enough the first time?”
Immediately recognizing the chatty CO from his last visit, Grant’s chest collapsed with relief. He offered a wry smile. “I can never get enough of my dad’s love and affection.”
The CO grinned and peered at Grant’s proffered driver’s license. “Let me guess—your shrink wants you to gain closure on some unresolved childhood issues?”
Lifting his arms parallel to the ground to assist the officer’s search, Grant held his breath as the CO examined his arms but didn’t seem to notice the blood stains at the cuffs of his shirt. He heard himself respond, “How’d you know, sir?”
After administering a perfunctory pat-down, the CO guided Grant to the visitation area. As they stood by the cage, he leaned in to confess quietly, “My wife’s a therapist.”
Despite the tension of the situation, Grant actually smiled. “Really? I know what that’s like—my girlfriend’s a psychologist.”
The CO looked shocked at the coincidence. “Run, Madsen. Get out while you can, before she shrinks your brain to the size of a walnut.”
When the officer laughed and affectionately patted his shoulder, something about the gesture seemed familiar to Grant.
“Um, did we interact much when I was an inmate here, sir?”
The officer paused. “I guess you don’t remember. I worked in the, um, psych ward.”
Grant’s face fell.
“But I work primarily in visitation now.”
“W-W-What made you change?”
“I thought I’d like the whack shack, you know, with my wife being a therapist and all. I thought it’d give us something in common.” He sighed. “But it was, um, too hard. It was too hard to see grown men…” His voice faded off, and his smile was one of embarrassment. “Well, I like visitation better—it’s happier. People are mostly happy to see their loved ones.” He took in Grant’s look of dread. “Except for you. You don’t seem too happy to be here.”
The understatement of the year. “No, sir.”
Noticing the prisoner being led into the room, the CO softly told him, “He’s in chains—you’ll be fine. It’s good you’re on
this
side of the cage now. I knew you could make it.” Then he turned and headed back to the visitor check-in area.
Grant’s wistful look abruptly faded as he faced Enzo Barberi in the cage. His father appeared somewhat triumphant this time around, and as the officers guided him to a seated position, chains jangling, a smug expression crossed his hardened face.
Grant sat down as well, watching his father with trepidation.
“What, no letter?” Enzo asked with a sneer, eyeing his son’s empty hands.
Grant took several deep breaths before responding. “You’re the one who dragged me here. What do you want from me?”
Enzo tilted his head to one side, studying his son—who didn’t seem quite as terrified as the last time they’d met. Sighing dramatically, Enzo said, “My brother is dying.”
Grant creased his eyebrows, puzzled. “Yes?”
“Nobody fucking told me my brother was dying!”
Grant leaned away from the cage. “You didn’t know?”
“When you visited me, you said something about Angelo not being around much longer, and I didn’t know what the hell you were talking about. Then I had Meat hauled in here, and he confessed Angelo ordered him not to tell me about his lung cancer.”
“Why didn’t he tell you?”
“Who the fuck knows? Meat told me some bullshit about Ange not wanting to burden me—about Ange not going to the doctor till it was way too late or something, the dumbass. It doesn’t change the fact that Angelo was supposed to do something for me, and now he’s too goddamned sick.” Black eyes bore into Grant. “He’s supposed to do an errand for me, but he’s too fucking weak to walk five steps. That’s why I need you.”
Grant looked aghast—running an “errand” for the family was what had gotten him incarcerated in the first place. “But you have Tank and Mario.”
“I can’t trust
them
.”
“Why not?”
Enzo paused. “They’re not family.”
With a slight upturn of the side of his mouth, Grant countered, “There’s more to it than that, though, isn’t there?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean. Tank and Mario helped kill Logan.”
Enzo’s expression didn’t change, confirming that he already knew of the bodyguards’ betrayal. “Well, well. How’d you find out?”
Refusing to implicate Ben, Grant forcefully challenged, “You
knew
they held Logan down, yet you let them live? What kind of mob boss are you?”
Enzo’s jaw clenched. “They’ll be dealt with when the time is right.”
“What time is that? After you’re out?”
Enzo sat back in his chair, again staring curiously at his son. “Who said I’m getting out?”
“
You
did!”
Obsidian eyes tapered into slits. “I’m in a maximum security prison, Grant. How the fuck would I get out? Clearly I was joking. I’d give anything to be free, but it’s exactly like you said, ‘Wishing doesn’t make it so.’”
Grant ignored his father’s mocking tone and leaned in closer. “No, you weren’t joking. You wouldn’t joke about that. Getting out of here’s way too important to you.”
Enzo remained quiet for a moment. “So what if I
was
getting out? Hypothetically. What business is that of yours?”
The icy look from his father sliced through him, and Grant found it difficult to breathe. “None,” he managed. “It’s none of my business.”
“Good.” Enzo lowered his voice. “Now, back to what you’ll do for me. Tomorrow night you’re going to deliver a package. Angelo will give you a briefcase, you’ll personally hand it over to a guy, and then you’ll leave. It’s that simple.”
Grant’s mind whirred. “What’s in the briefcase?”
“Only Angelo will know. It’ll be locked, and you keep Meat and Tank’s grimy paws off the merchandise. Make sure Fuckledee and Fuckledumb don’t fuck up the drop.”
“And they’ll let Sophie go if I do it?”
Enzo leaned back in a placating gesture, smiling. “You’ll both walk scot-free.”
Grant pondered his circumstances. “Why the hell should I believe you,
Dad?”
“Because you have no choice. Do what Tank and Meat tell you to do or your girlfriend dies.”
At last his father was speaking the truth. There was indeed no choice. Yet despite the bleak circumstances, Grant felt a spark of hope within—the seed of a new plan forming and taking root. His family had destroyed his initial plan, but if he was correct about the nature of the errand his father was forcing him to undertake, this might be even better. Squaring his jaw, Grant pledged, “Okay, I’ll do it.”
He felt his father’s emanating intensity as he leaned toward the bars. “And this time, don’t fucking get caught. I don’t want to see your sorry ass back in here.”
Grant suppressed a smirk. That last comment confirmed his suspicions. The hardened criminal across from him was simply trying to protect his exit strategy. Grant was determined to blow that strategy to pieces.
Aiming earnest sky-blue eyes at his father, Grant held his gaze for several moments. It could have been different between them. Instead of mistrust, fear, and hate, there could have been love. But wishing didn’t make it so. “Am I free to go, Dad?”
A surprising flash of tenderness crossed Enzo’s face. “Be careful, son.”
Grant stood up and backed away a few steps, his eyes never leaving the prisoner. His throat tightened with worry, wondering if Sophie would survive this drop or if he would soon be joining his father on the inside. Committing Enzo’s face to memory, Grant prayed this would be the last time he’d ever see his father.
His perplexed mind went into overdrive as he stepped onto the sidewalk outside the visitation area, a brisk breeze scattering a few leaves across the concrete. The drop was supposed to happen tomorrow night, meaning Sophie would be held at least until then. A sliver of fear crept up his spine as he thought of his Bonnie tied up and hidden somewhere, her life depending on his actions.