Stolen: Dante’s Vow

  Stolen

  Dante’s Vow

  Natasha Knight

  Copyright © 2021 by Natasha Knight

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover by CoverLuv

  Photo by Rafa Catalana

  Click here to sign up for my newsletter to receive new release news and updates!

  Contents

  Note from Natasha

  Prologue 1

  Prologue 2

  1. Dante

  2. Mara

  3. Dante

  4. Mara

  5. Dante

  6. Mara

  7. Dante

  8. Mara

  9. Dante

  10. Mara

  11. Dante

  12. Dante

  13. Mara

  14. Dante

  15. Dante

  16. Mara

  17. Dante

  18. Dante

  19. Mara

  20. Dante

  21. Dante

  22. Mara

  23. Dante

  24. Dante

  25. Mara

  26. Dante

  27. Mara

  28. Dante

  29. Dante

  30. Dante

  31. Mara

  32. Dante

  33. Mara

  34. Dante

  35. Dante

  36. Mara

  37. Dante

  38. Dante

  39. Dante

  40. Mara

  41. Dante

  42. Mara

  43. Dante

  44. Mara

  45. Dante

  46. Mara

  47. Dante

  48. Mara

  49. Dante

  50. Mara

  51. Dante

  52. Mara

  53. Mara

  Epilogue 1

  Epilogue 2

  What To Read Next

  Also by Natasha Knight

  Thank you!

  About the Author

  Note from Natasha

  Dear Reader,

  Stolen: Dante’s Vow is a spin-off of the To Have and To Hold Duet. Although it does stand alone, I recommend you first read With This Ring and I Thee Take as many of the characters and some backstory have already been established.

  You can find With This Ring here and I Thee Take here.

  Thank you and enjoy!

  Natasha

  Prologue 1

  Dante

  Five years.

  Five fucking years. That’s how long it has taken me to find her. And the only reason I did was word circulating about Petrov having been duped.

  Felix Pérez going into hiding.

  Bastard.

  I climb out of the car at the entrance of The Hudson Hotel. An icy drizzle pelts me as I adjust the collar of my coat before looking up at the penthouse windows more than twenty floors up.

  She’s here.

  It’s her.

  It has to be.

  The second SUV comes to a stop behind ours and as Matthaeus flanks me, three more men fall in line behind him. I push my hands into my pockets and walk toward the entrance. A bellman opens the door. I don’t miss the widening of his eyes when the light from a passing car dances across my face. Maybe it’s not my appearance that’s got him freaked. Maybe it’s my entourage. Because we look like trouble.

  And we are.

  I make my way to the concierge desk and give the attendant my name. Well, not my real name. The name of the asshole who paid extra to get his turn early in the night. Before she’s used up. He’s dead now.

  The attendant can’t quite keep eye contact. I blink, watching him as his eyes move over the eyepatch, the deep, still angry X-shaped scar across my cheek. I let him look. Let him clear his throat in embarrassment as he makes a point of rearranging his desk while asking for identification.

  I pat my pockets. “Guess I forgot it.”

  He finally forces himself to meet my gaze, his neck and face flushed.

  “Envelope,” I say, holding out my hand. I don’t have time for this buffoon.

  “Yes, sir.” His hand trembles as he hands the envelope over. He wants me gone and I can’t blame him.

  I check my watch. We have to time this exactly right. I walk toward the elevators followed by my men. As if to oblige us, the doors slide open just as we get to them, and we step inside. I rip the envelope open, press the key into the slot marked Penthouse and let the doors slide closed. Matthaeus sets the black duffel bag on the floor, unzips it and hands each of the men an automatic rifle. They have suppressors in place, although there’s really no way to muffle that sound. But if all goes to plan, it won’t matter.

  An upbeat tune plays in the background as I stare at my own face in the mirrored doors. I make myself look. Make myself see. I wonder if she’ll be scared when she sees me.

  My phone buzzes. I reach into my pocket, take it out, scan the text. Cristiano telling me the soldiers are in place, both inside and outside the property. Chopper is on its way, and they’ve secured our exit.

  If I can get out.

  If.

  Because he thinks this is a shit idea.

  But no, it’s not if I get out. I have no intention of dying tonight. Not until I’ve killed that fat fuck Petrov. Not until I’ve buried my knife in Felix Pérez’s gut. Not until I have their blood and the blood of anyone else who touched her on my hands.

  Then, I can die.

  Only then.

  He reminds me again of Petrov’s soldiers nearby, the distraction we arranged only giving us minutes inside the suite. He asks one more time if I know what the fuck I’m doing.

  I text him a pirate emoji, along with the middle finger, then silence my phone. He’ll be pissed but this is mine. What happened to her happened because of me. What happened to all of them happened because of me. All while I simply walked away.

  So, as the elevator approaches the penthouse, I crack my neck and pull my pistol out of its shoulder holster. Then twist the silencer into place and hold the weapon at my side.

  Because tonight is the beginning of their end.

  Tonight, I take back what they stole.

  Prologue 2

  Mara

  “Nothing personal, my dear.”

  I jerk out of his grasp. Nothing personal. Should that mean something to me? Does he really think it can?

  He grips my jaw, forcing me to look at him. His calloused fingers are rough. Bruising.

  I grit my teeth, fist my hands. I want to fight him, but I don’t. I’m still scared. Even when that little voice in my head tells me maybe it would be better if I fought.

  If he lost his temper.

  If he just killed me.

  Because what’s coming will be worse.

  My eyes burn with tears and the moment he sees them, his expression changes. His head tilting to the side, one knuckle of his free hand wiping away the drop making its way down my cheek.

  “Sweet girl.” His thumb presses against my lower lip. “Pretty girl. It’s too bad it had to be this way.”

  He releases me and I step backward.

  “Just let me go,” I try even though I know it’s no use. It’s not my fault, I want to tell him. But that doesn’t matter, not to him. And besides, in a way, it is my fault. I told. I was warned not to. Hell, it was beaten into me not to tell. To forget. But I didn’t. I never could, no matter how much I tried.

  He moves his mouth into a smile that if I was naïve, I’d think may be meant to comfort. But I’m not naïve. Any innocence I had, he
stole. Or maybe it was Felix before him who stole it.

  “If I do that, then there’s no lesson for that snake, is there? No, Mara,” he tries out my name. It sounds strange on his tongue, his accent too thick, the disgust he feels too palpable. “But Leonard will stay with you,” he says, gesturing over his shoulder to the soldier. “He’ll make sure you’re not hurt. Not too badly at least,” he adds as if an afterthought. As if I’m a fucking afterthought.

  I catch Leonard’s eye. One corner of his mouth curves upward into a sneer. What I’d give to dig my nails into his eye sockets and scratch his eyes out of his head. What I’d give to hurt him just once. Because I have no doubt he’s going to enjoy the next few hours.

  Petrov turns, walks toward the soldier and gives him instructions in Russian. I try to understand what he’s saying but in the last five years he’s only ever spoken English with me and instructed anyone who encountered me to do the same, so the few words I’ve managed to pick up don’t help. Not that I need to understand what they’re saying to know what’s coming. He explained that part in great detail. Relished it, I think.

  I put my hand to my hip. I swear I still feel the burn of his punishment. But it was my own fault. I should have kept my mouth shut.

  And then what?

  How much longer did I really expect him to keep me alive when he was already growing tired of me. I’m not as young as I used to be, and he likes young.

  My stomach turns at the thought, and I channel all my hate into his back, his thick shoulders, wide middle. Into the roll of fat around his neck and his small head with its military style close-cropped hair. His hair is receding and the bald spot at the crown is widening. He sprays something on his scalp that he thinks hides it, but everyone laughs behind his back. The problem is no one dares do it to his face.

  I walk to the window and draw the heavy, burgundy drapes back. He spared no expense renting the presidential suite for the event. My farewell.

  It’s raining. I look out at the street below, the people like ants twenty floors down. I’d jump if I could open it, but the windows don’t open. I guess the hotel isn’t taking any chances. And besides, I know myself. I’m too much of a coward to do that.

  Dropping the curtain, I go into the bathroom again desperate to get away from them even if it’s just for a moment. It’s beautiful. The lap of luxury with its claw-footed antique bath, the marble floors. The fresco of fields and fields of wild red poppies blowing in tall green grass on all four walls, the bluest sky I’ve ever seen on the ceiling. I wish I could run into those fields. Feel the delicate petals against my legs, the grass soft under my bare feet.

  But then he calls my name.

  It’s time.

  I wish I could be sick, but I haven’t eaten all day. He hasn’t fed me. It wouldn’t do for me to puke all over his friends.

  I walk back into the bedroom and see the third man who has just entered. The doctor. Seeing him here makes me shudder.

  “Take off your clothes,” Petrov tells me.

  I drag my gaze from the doctor to Petrov, feeling the blood drain from my face as my knees begin to wobble. “Please just let me go,” I try one final time.

  “Do you need an injection?”

  I glance to the doctor who takes the ready syringe out of his pocket. I know those injections. They make my arms and legs useless, my body no longer under my control. But they leave my mind untouched and alert. I’ll know everything, feel everything, but I won’t be able to fight. Won’t be able to do anything but lie there and take it and know every second what is happening to me.

  I shake my head. I don’t want an injection. Not yet. I’ll try to get one hit in so at least I’ll know I did something. I didn’t just roll over and play victim.

  I begin to undo the buttons of my dress.

  Petrov nods, watches as I disrobe. I’m naked underneath so it doesn’t take long. He walks around me, and I know he’s looking at his mark. He chose the spot so anyone who touched me would know I’d been his. His discarded property. Used goods. Felix will be pissed when he sees it. He won’t be able to sell me. Not for a good price anyway. That’s a blessing, right? In a way?

  At least he won’t touch me tonight. Hasn’t since he found out the truth.

  Petrov stands facing me again. He lifts my hair off my shoulder.

  “After the good doctor has his turn, he will be in the next room. If you cause any trouble, he will administer the injection. No questions asked. Understood?”

  “You’re going to let him—” I try to instill steel into my words but my voice breaks.

  He mutters a curse in Russian then asks again if I understand.

  I nod. Because it’s not just my voice that’s breaking. It’s me. And I’m still scared.

  “Sir.” A soldier peers his head through the door. “Service elevator is here.”

  “What’s wrong with the normal elevator?”

  “Out of order,” the soldier says.

  “Fine,” Petrov answers, irritated. He appreciates appearances and taking the service elevator is beneath him. He looks back at me for what I guess is the last time. “So pretty still. It really is too bad,” he says. He turns and walks out the door and for one brief, stupid moment, I entertain the idea that he means it. That he’s sorry I’m not who he thought I was. That he’s sorry to have to do what he’s about to do. Because that’s the strange thing when you’re kidnapped. When there is a single person in your life who controls every aspect of it. Who decides whether you eat or go hungry. Whether you live or die. In a way, you want to please them. You feel safer with them. It’s utterly idiotic, I know this. Stockholm Syndrome. Maybe it’s because this monster you at least know.

  I shake my head, snap myself out of it. Because he’s gone and the lights are dimmed, and I watch in disgust as the doctor steps toward me.

  1

  Dante

  Energy crackles around me. I’m ready. We all are. Ready for the kill.

  The elevator doors slide open, and I look up at the camera, smiling wide. I flip my middle finger up. I want to be sure Petrov knows it was me who took her. I want him to have no doubt. And I want him to know I’ll be coming for him next.

  Classical music comes from inside the penthouse. I wonder if that’s to make what’s going on inside seem civilized. Elegant even. I’m sure what’s happening to her is anything but. I hear laughter, glasses clinking together. Sounds like a fucking party. But I guess for them, it is.

  It takes the two men standing just inside the suite a moment to stop staring at me and realize we’re not invited guests. It takes them another to register the weapons we’re carrying as my men fan out and the sound of silenced automatic rifles disrupts the classical music. Guns are drawn, bullets flying.

  I shift my gaze to two of the guests standing by the window, drinks in hand just waiting their turn at her. Something about them, in particular, pisses me off. Maybe it’s their casual stance, their relaxed manner. Maybe it’s their pleased, smiling faces. Whatever it is, I veer off plan. I’m supposed to go straight to the bedroom. Grab her. Get out.

  But I can’t.

  Maybe it’s that I want their blood on my hands. Maybe it’s just that I like the kill.

  Either way, tonight, they die.

  For a moment I wonder if the sick fucks are father and son. They share that same weak chin. When the younger one sees me coming, his smile morphs into an expression of terror. Dad’s faster. His gun is in his hand, but not before I’ve taken aim between his eyes and pulled the trigger. His body jerks, the tumbler of whiskey slipping from his hand. Shattering against the polished hardwood floor.

  The younger one looks in shock from me, to him, and back. He takes a step backward. I take one forward. Lowering my gun, I reach for the dagger at my hip. He opens his mouth to scream like a little girl when I push it into his gut and draw up with one swift tug of my hand.

  The scream turns into a grunt or gurgle or some combination of both. His hands close around mine, bod
y hunching forward as I give one more tug before shoving him backward and pulling my knife from his stomach. He’s down, bleeding out next to dear ole dad. I wipe the blade on his pant leg before replacing it in its holster. I should wash my hands.

  But then I hear it. The muffled scream. Her scream.

  And something pulls at me like I’m tuned into it. Into the girl who has become my obsession.

  I turn toward the sound coming from behind a closed door, and for one moment, I can’t move. Just for a moment. Then I’m stalking toward what must be a bedroom.

  She screams again, louder this time as I kick the door down surprising the soldier with the hard on. He’s watching the man looming over the slight woman on the bed. That man has got his pants down around his knees. I don’t waste time on the soldier. I just put a bullet between his eyes, and he drops instantly.

  The man stumbles off the bed in a panic and I see her. For the first time in fifteen years, I see her.

  It’s dark in here. Lights dimmed. Heavy curtains drawn shut.