Fall For My Ex's Mafia Father novel Chapter 7

I’m in a daze, half in consciousness, half out of it –

I hear a moan – did that come?

I open my eyes, frowning. Where’s the car? I close my eyes against the warm yellow light of the room. I want to wake up, but I feel sleep pressing me back down –

A prick at my finger – I jump at it, pushing away the hands that hold my arm –

“It’s all right,” a woman’s soft voice says. “All done now…”

Then, a man’s voice – I swim out of the darkness, propelled by fear. I know that voice.

“…to the lab, I want fast processing. I want it compared to the bloodline…”

I shake my head, groaning. I blink, looking around the finely-furnished room. I don’t know this place.

I push myself up until I’m seated with my feel curled beneath me on a chaise lounge. I notice that I’m still wearing my club outfit, but someone has buttoned a man’s white shirt over top of it. As I put my weight on my hands, I feel pain in my finger. I look down to see a Band-Aid on it. What –

Suddenly, a hazy memory comes back to me – a woman taking my blood, Lippert telling them to take it to some lab –

Panic seizes me - I must be somewhere on Lippert’s property. I grip the fabric of the couch, looking around for some kind of escape. There are windows, but they look out on tree tops – we’re certainly on the second floor or above –

Horrible images flood my mind – what the hell does Lippert want with my blood? Is he selling it? Does he want the sample so that he can let his cronies on the black market know my blood type so they can better bid on my organs!?

My hands anxiously fly to my hair, tangling in it. I stare at the door. Maybe if I just run –

The door swings open and I hold my breath.

Kent Lippert stands in the doorway, studying me as I stare at him. I know what he sees – a feral, frightened creature, ready to spring.

But he doesn’t laugh at me, or scare me any further. After a long moment, he just closes the door behind him and walks forward.

My breath comes faster as he approaches, as he reaches in his pocket, brings forward – oh my god – a knife –

I flinch back away from it and he sighs, continuing to hold out his hand.

“It’s your knife, Fay. I’m just returning your property.”

I go still, glancing between his face and the knife in his hand. My mother’s knife. I leap forward to snatch it out of his palm, but he yanks it away, putting out his other hand to halt my movement. His hand lands squarely on my chest and he gives a tiny shove, pushing me back onto the lounge.

“Easy, Fay,” he says, his voice all authority. “I’ll give it back. I just want you to answer some questions first.”

I stare up at him, totally freaked out.

“And if you don’t answer my questions, Fay Thompson,” he says, leaning forward to loom over me, his voice merely a whisper. “I’ll flush this knife down the drain, and you’ll never see it again.”

I clench my jaw and nod, my eyes on my mother’s knife, desperate to get it back.

“Where did you get that knife, Fay Thompson?” he asks, straightening up and putting the hand with the knife in his pocket.

“My mother,” I say softly, twirling a stray strand of my hair around my index finger. Why does he keep saying my last name like that? “She gave it to me.”

He nods slowly, thinking. “When did she give it to you?”

“In her will,” I say. “My dad told me to carry it always, to remember her, and for protection.”

Lippert cocks his head to the side, curious. “And who, precisely, is your father?”

I snap my eyes up at him, frowning. Why does he care who my father is, but not my mother? “None of your business,” I snip. “He’s a good person – you can’t hurt him –“

“Fay,” he says, smiling down at me, a little cruel. “In this town, I can hurt whoever I want. You think you are trying to delay me by holding back his name, but with every minute you hesitate, that’s one more minute of pain. For you. Or him. Or your sister.”

My eyes widen in horror at the threat.

He smirks at me, a smug cat that has trapped its supper. “Their names, Fay.”

“David and Janeen Thompson,” I murmur, not knowing what else to do. “Please,” I say, begging now. “Please don’t hurt them. They’re good people – they’re not involved in…“