Chapter 32 Ghosts in the Produce Aisle
Valentina’s POV
After relaying everything to Blaise, Giuliana and I decide the best distraction is to cook for the club- something big and comforting, a full Italian feast. But the kitchen’s shelves are nearly bare, and we’re missing most of what we need. With Blaise, Killian, Slate, and Medic locked away in a meeting, neither of us wants to risk another run-in with those ghosts from our past. No way are we going to the store alone, not after this morning.
So we do what we have to: beg Raptor and Riff to play bodyguards and drive us to the store in one of the big black SUVs.
As we wander the aisles, I toss a question over my shoulder. “Do you want sourdough or French bread for the garlic bread?”
“Both,” Raptor says, voice dead serious, already eyeing the shelves.
I roll my eyes, but I don’t argue. I pile six loaves into the cart-three sourdough, three French, because if there’s one thing the club loves, it’s carbs.
“Don’t forget cheese for the French bread,” Riff calls, scanning the dairy section.
I laugh. “Are you offering to cook tonight?”
He raises his hands in mock surrender, grinning sheepishly. I snag a stack of mozzarella.
Wanting something sweet, I break off to grab ingredients for tiramisu, leaving the others to wander. I’m standing in the baking aisle, weighing the merits of mascarpone brands, when my phone vibrates-a message from Killian, image attached. I barely have time to glance at it before Giuliana clamps down on my arm, her grip urgent.
“Don’t make it obvious. Look by the apples. Is that one of the guys from the supply shop earlier?”
My pulse skips. I pretend to study a head of garlic, scanning the produce section with a sidelong glance. By the apples, a man is staring, his features burned into my memory-slicked hair, too-pale
eyes.
“Shit. I think it is,” I murmur.
“What’s wrong, girls? Why’d you go all tense?” Raptor asks, suddenly on alert.
I lower my voice. “Giuliana and I had a run-in this morning at the supply store. Someone recognized her-from before. He didn’t remember exactly who she was, but you could see the wheels turning.”
Giuliana nods, her voice trembling. “He’s not alone. The other two from this morning-they’re by the front, by the magazines.”
I look up, heart pounding. The man with the scar, flanked by his friend, stands at the front, arms folded, staring straight at us.
“Don’t panic. Let’s finish the shopping. Riff, go get the SUV and park it right out front. We’ll handle the checkout,” Raptor says, tone calm but loaded with command. We move through the aisles quickly, gathering the last items, the cart suddenly much heavier as tension thickens the air.
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As we approach the exit, the scarred man steps into our path, his mouth twisted in a smug sneer.
“Hello, Rosalinda,” he says, looking directly at Giuliana.
Raptor moves in, stance wide, one hand already reaching for his piece under his vest. “Back away from the cart. Her name isn’t Rosalinda.”
“Oh, I know who she is,” the man says, his voice low and oily. “Pretty face, unforgettable. I was your first, wasn’t I? Haven’t forgotten that sweet pussy.”
Giuliana freezes-face ghost-white, eyes wide with terror. All the years, all the trauma, collapse into this moment. I feel rage, old and hot, surge through me. The memory of that night-her screams, my mother’s tears, this man’s leering smile-ignites something feral inside.
I snap.
A scream rips from my throat, drawing every eye in the store. In an instant, I launch myself at him. My fists fly, my feet kick, I bring him to the floor in a storm of violence. I barely feel his arms trying to block me. I punch until my knuckles sting, scream every curse word I know-in Italian, English, French. Raptor is barking orders, drawing his weapon, crowd control in the background.
Arms close around me, strong and unyielding. I’m hauled away from the man, still cursing, still spitting. Somehow, Raptor and Riff hustle us and our groceries out the door, shoving me into the back of the SUV, groceries tumbling around my knees. Giuliana collapses next to me, trembling, tears streaming down her face. The men pile in, slam the doors, and we speed away.
“Holy shit,” Raptor mutters, checking the rearview. Riff has his gun drawn, just in case.
Giuliana’s crying, rocking, whispering the same phrase over and over. “He was the one… he was the on
e…”
I grab her hand and squeeze. “It’s over. He can’t hurt you. We’re getting back to the club.”
Raptor pulls out his phone, rapid-fire texting. Twenty minutes later, we screech into the clubhouse driveway. Slate runs out the front door before the SUV even stops, yanking Giuliana into his arms, cradling her, carrying her inside. I scan the yard, searching for Killian-my heart hammering.
Raptor and Riff lug the groceries inside with me trailing behind. Only then do I remember Killian’s message. I dig out my phone, swipe it open, and freeze. My vision tunnels. I can’t breathe. There on the screen is a photo-Killian, naked, bound, humiliated. The caption: Check mate, bitch.
My legs go weak. I barely notice Raptor next to me until he grabs the phone, eyes widening with rage. “What the fuck!” he shouts. He hands it back, and I instantly forward the image to my email-evidence,
a lifeline.
Panic surging, I run straight to Blaise’s office and burst in without knocking. He jumps up, startled, as I stagger to his desk, sobbing.
“Valentina, what happened?”
“Killian’s been kidnapped,” I gasp, thrusting my phone into his hands. He takes one look at the image, his face darkening.
Villion’s phone We can track
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My head snaps up-hope, sharp and sudden. “I can hack his phone. I’ll find his location.”
And just like that, the panic inside me crystallizes into resolve. Whoever took him will regret it. I promise myself that.
I throw myself into Blaise’s office and don’t bother with explanations-I dive straight for his computer, hands flying over the keys. My heart pounds in my throat as I hack into the cell phone company’s database, overriding firewalls, searching Killian’s number, tracing every ping. The minutes feel like a lifetime; my nerves are frayed to shreds.
Finally, after what seems an eternity, I find it-the signal, static but solid, coming from Connecticut.
“He’s in Connecticut?” Blaise leans over my shoulder, scanning the address.
“That’s where his phone is, at least,” I say, voice thin and brittle. “He’s been gone for hours. God, what has she done to him? He was naked and tied up, Blaise! Who the fuck did this?”
Blaise doesn’t hesitate. “Let’s go.” He bellows for Raptor to follow in his truck, already sending the address so they can punch it into their GPS. He grabs my hand, hauls me out to his bike.
We fly down the highway, hours melting away under the roar of the engine and my frantic thoughts. We only stop for gas, for bathroom breaks we rush through. Neither of us cares about food or comfort -nothing matters except getting to Killian.
The sky. It’s close to 70
0 10 p.m. when we finally pull up y mood is jarring. I tumble off the
By the time we reach Branford, night has claimed in front of a cozy-looking bed and breakfast. The contrast with bike and rush inside.
A young man dozes behind the reception desk. I shout, startling him awake. “Hey! Have you seen a tall guy with reddish hair, biker vest-like these men-come in here?”
He blinks hard, eyes struggling to focus on me, then on Blaise and Raptor flanking me like silent threats. “Yeah, I helped his wife take him up to their room. Said they’d gotten married and he’d celebrated too hard.”
“Wife? What room?” Blaise cuts in, his tone leaving no room for refusal.
The kid hesitates until Blaise slaps three crisp hundred-dollar bills on the counter. The kid doesn’t blink. “Room 303. Here’s an extra key.” He slides it across and pockets the cash.
We thunder up the stairs, my legs shaky with rage and anticipation. At the door, my hands fumble with the key. The lock clicks and I shove the door open.
The smell hits first-sex, sweat, betrayal. The scene makes my stomach lurch: Killian’s tied, splayed on the bed, just as in that photo. Ramsey is sprawled over him, one arm draped possessively across his chest, her leg thrown over his hips, hair wild against his shoulder. She sleeps, but Killian is wide awake-haunted, hollow, his eyes leaking dried tears, his mouth still gagged.
Something snaps inside me.
“You fucking whore!” I shriek, launching myself across the bed. I rip Ramseyoff him by the hair, both of us tumbling to the floor. She screeches, flailing, but her weak blows mean nothing to me. Rage pours through me-raw, hot, unstoppable. I slam her head into the floor, again and again, until she’s dazed. I punch her, my fists landing with brutal satisfaction, then wrap my hands around her throat and squeeze. I see nothing but red, nothing but Killian’s humiliation, her violation.
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Footsteps pound behind me. Suddenly I’m yanked away, slammed to the ground. Metal cuffs snap around my wrists. Someone-maybe a guest, maybe staff-has called the cops. Lights flash outside. Voices bark orders. I’m dragged down the hallway, wild and sobbing, as Blaise and Raptor try to explain to the responding officers.
Through the windows of the cop car, I watch as paramedics carry Killian out on a stretcher. My scream tears at my throat: “Killian!” Another stretcher follows-Ramsey, limp but alive, and my hatred deepens.
A cop approaches, his face grim but gentle. “Your friends explained what happened,” he murmurs, and I catch sight of an envelope sticking out of his vest pocket. I don’t care. He uncuffs me and helps me
out.
I run, heart pounding, to the ambulance. “I’m his fiancée-I’m coming with you!” The paramedic nods, sliding the door shut as I scramble in beside Killian.
His hand feels cold in mine. I press it to my lips, kissing every bruised knuckle, every scar.
“I’m sorry,” he rasps, voice raw and broken, each word laced with shame.
“Shhh, you have nothing to be sorry for,” I whisper, tears streaming unchecked down my face.
“I cheated,” he gasps, agony twisting his features.
“No. No, you didn’t. You fought. You survived.” I see his heart rate spike, panic in his eyes.
“Please, don’t leave me,” he begs, voice strangled with fear.
I clutch his hand, desperate, promising, “Never. Never.” His eyes flutter shut, the paramedic pushing something soothing into the IV. His body relaxes, at last.
I break down beside him, crying for everything lost, everything that nearly was.
Tonight, I am a storm. And tomorrow, I will become vengeance.
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