I Hid Under a Cold-Hearted Mafia Boss's Table to Escape My Abusive Ex—Then He Stood Up, Broke His Bones, and Made Me His Fake Bride with a Million-Dollar Bounty on My Head

Khloe woke to the freezing, damp smell of rotting wood, rust, and industrial grease.

She was strapped tightly to a heavy wooden chair in the center of an abandoned fish-canning warehouse on the Tacoma waterfront. Overhead, a single flickering fluorescent tube cast harsh, yellow light over the concrete floor.

Standing five feet away, leaning on a single aluminum crutch, was Jared.

His right leg was in a heavy fiberglass cast, his face was swollen, and a crazed, vindictive sneer distorted his features.

“Look who’s awake,” Jared laughed, tapping his crutch against the concrete. “Welcome home, baby.”

Khloe took a slow, steady breath, testing the zip-ties binding her wrists behind the wooden chair. Her head throbbed from the chloroform, but her mind was crystal clear.

Inhale for four. Hold for four. Exhale for four.

She wasn't the terrified girl from three months ago. Dante had taught her what real strength looked like.

“You’re pathetic, Jared,” Khloe said, her voice completely calm, devoid of fear. “You’re just a crippled errand boy for an old man who is about to lose everything.”

Jared’s face twisted in violent rage. He hobbled forward and raised his hand to strike her across the face.

Khloe didn't flinch. She stared directly into his bloodshot eyes with cold, unyielding contempt.

Jared’s hand froze mid-air. For the first time in his miserable life, he saw that his violence had no power over her. The realization terrified him more than any weapon could.

“You think Varga is coming for you?” Jared spat, lowering his hand with a nervous scoff. “Falcone collapsed the sea cave on top of him! He’s fish food at the bottom of the Sound!”

“Dante is not dead,” Khloe replied, a cold, confident smile touching her lips. “And when he walks through those doors, Jared, there won't be enough left of you to put in a grave.”

From the shadows near the loading dock, Marco Falcone stepped into the light, accompanied by eight heavily armed mercenaries.

“The girl has spirit,” Falcone mocked, checking his gold Rolex. “Too bad it won't save her. My transport plane to South America departs in twenty minutes. Once we board, Jared, you can have your fun with her in the cargo hold.”

Suddenly, the warehouse’s power grid died completely.

The humming fluorescent light flickered and extinguished, plunging the massive building into pitch-black darkness.

Outside, the distant, rhythmic wail of approaching police sirens was instantly drowned out by the thunderous roar of three heavy armored vehicles smashing through the steel security gates of the compound.

Falcone’s mercenaries raised their weapons, their laser sights cutting through the dark. “What was that? Who cut the power?”

Then, the massive corrugated-iron wall of the warehouse was obliterated in a catastrophic fireball as a modified armored semi-truck rammed straight through the structure, showering the interior in twisted metal and concrete debris.