Captive Of The Ruthless Underground Boss

The rough fibers of the thick rope bit into June's wrists. She twisted her hands behind her back, scraping her skin against the bindings until warm blood slicked her palms. The cold concrete floor of the abandoned Brooklyn warehouse pressed against her cheek, smelling of motor oil and decay.

Rocco's massive hand clamped down on the back of her head. He twisted his fingers into her hair and yanked her head back. A sharp cry tore from June's throat as her scalp burned.

Directly in her line of sight, a pair of custom leather oxfords stepped into a puddle of dirty water. Drops of muddy liquid splashed against June's pale cheek.

She forced her eyes up, her chest heaving as she struggled to pull air into her seized lungs. The tall man stood cloaked in the shadows of the warehouse. His presence sucked the oxygen from the room. Her breathing stopped completely.

Gage lifted his hand. The cigar between his fingers glowed amber in the dim light. He gave a slight flick of his wrist. It was a silent command to Rocco.

Rocco reached for the tripod. He adjusted the high-definition camera, pointing the lens directly at June's face. A small red indicator light blinked to life.

June stared at that blinking red dot. Her stomach dropped. Bile rose in the back of her throat as the reality of what was about to happen crashed into her. She shook her head frantically, her voice a broken whisper begging them to stop.

Gage exhaled a thick cloud of smoke. It drifted down toward her. His voice was a low, hollow rumble that bounced off the metal walls. He told her this was the price for her mother's sins.

June opened her mouth. She tried to tell him that her mother did not care about her, that they had not spoken in months. The words crumbled on her tongue, her jaw trembling so violently she could not form a complete sentence.

Gage did not even blink. He gave another dismissive wave of his hand.

Rocco grabbed the collar of June's coat. He pulled his fist back and ripped the fabric downward.

The sound of tearing cloth echoed in the empty space. The freezing night air hit June's exposed collarbone. A raw, desperate scream ripped from her lungs.

Before she could take another breath, Rocco's fist slammed into her stomach. The impact drove all the air from her body. Her scream died instantly. She curled into a tight ball on the wet concrete, her vision spotting with black dots.

Gage watched the scene unfold on the tablet in his hand, the high-definition feed capturing every flicker of terror on her face. A muscle ticked in his jaw. His fingers tightened around his cigar for a fraction of a second, but his face quickly settled back into a mask of pure ice.

He pulled his phone from his pocket. He dialed a video call to Jessica Cole, turning his screen so the camera faced June's crumpled body on the floor.

The call connected. The background noise of a luxury Manhattan hotel suite filtered through the speaker. Jessica Cole answered, her voice dripping with irritation.

Gage did not waste a single breath on a greeting. He told Jessica Cole to cancel her upcoming high-society wedding immediately. If she refused, he would let his men finish what they started with her daughter on camera.

June forced her heavy eyelids open. She looked at the small screen. She called out for her mother. Tears mixed with the dirt on her face, sliding into her mouth. She wanted to live.

Jessica Cole looked at the screen. Her expression shifted for a brief second. Then, her eyes darted away, inspecting her freshly manicured nails.

Jessica Cole's voice was flat and perfectly calm. She stated she would never throw away a billion-dollar marriage for a useless daughter.

The line went dead.

The dial tone echoed loudly in the warehouse. June stared at the black screen. The final shred of hope in her chest snapped. Her eyes went completely blank, staring at the concrete without seeing it.

Gage's knuckles turned white around his phone. His jaw locked. The absolute coldness of the mother's rejection hit him, sending a spike of raw anger through his veins. But a man like him always had contingencies. He looked at Rocco, his voice dropping to a lethal octave. "I knew she was cold, but not that cold. Fine. Plan B. Send the edited clip to her fiancé's father. He's a man who values family reputation."

Rocco looked up at Gage. His heavy hand still pressed down on June's shoulder. He waited for the next order.

Gage threw his cigar onto the wet concrete. He crushed it under his leather heel. He barked an order to just beat her and get it on tape.

June's brain could no longer process the terror. The physical pain and her mother's ultimate betrayal triggered a hard reset in her mind. The edges of the room began to blur.

Rocco raised his fist. The air shifted as his arm swung down toward June's face.

A pathetic whimper escaped June's lips. Her eyes rolled back into her head. Her body went entirely limp against the freezing floor.

Rocco stopped his fist an inch from her nose. He looked back at Gage, his brow furrowed in confusion.

Gage closed the distance between them. He kicked June's leg with the toe of his shoe. She did not move. Her breathing was shallow.

He stared down at the blood dripping from her wrists and the deathly pallor of her face. A strange, heavy knot formed in his chest. He reached up and yanked his tie loose.

He ordered Rocco to turn off the camera. He told him to throw the woman into his private hospital.

Rocco bent down and hoisted June over his shoulder like a sack of garbage. Gage took one last look at the blood smeared on the concrete. He turned and walked out of the warehouse toward the waiting black SUV.

Rocco carried June out into the freezing wind. He walked toward the vehicle, Gage pulling the heavy door open to the darkness inside.

The black SUV tore through the freezing New York night. Rocco tossed June roughly onto the leather backseat.

The vehicle hit a pothole. June's head slammed against the door panel. She did not stir. The darkness of her unconscious state held her in a tight grip.

The smell of harsh bleach and rubbing alcohol flooded her nose. June's eyes snapped open. The blinding white lights of a private hospital room burned her retinas.

She gasped for air. Her hands shot up, her fingers digging into the thin hospital blanket over her chest until her knuckles turned white.

A dull, throbbing ache radiated through her entire body. Her stomach cramped violently. The raw skin on her wrists burned. Her mind instantly linked the torn clothes, the camera, and the physical agony. A wave of nausea hit her. She believed the absolute worst had happened.

The door handle clicked. Aisha, a nurse in dark blue scrubs, pushed the door open. She carried a metal tray holding a syringe of sedative.

June saw the uniform. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. She scrambled backward, pressing her spine against the headboard. A shrill scream tore from her throat.

Aisha stopped immediately. She set the tray down and raised both hands in the air, speaking in a soft, steady voice to calm her down.

June shook her head. Her whole body vibrated with terror. Her eyes darted around the sterile room, searching for anything to protect herself.

She lunged toward the nightstand. Her hand closed around a glass water pitcher. She hurled it onto the linoleum floor. The glass shattered into jagged pieces.

June dropped to her knees. She grabbed a sharp, triangular shard of glass. She pressed the pointed edge directly against the skin of her own neck, screaming at Aisha to stay back.

Aisha let out a heavy sigh. She reached over and pressed the call button on the wall. She told June, "Mr. Becker arranged everything before he left hours ago. Your expenses are completely covered by the family account."

The words registered slowly. They were gone. The tension in June's arms broke. The glass shard slipped from her numb fingers, slicing a deep cut across her index finger as it fell.

She collapsed against the side of the bed. Hot tears spilled over her eyelashes. A suffocating blanket of shame wrapped around her throat, choking her.

Aisha stepped forward slowly. She took June's bleeding hand. June did not pull away. She sat there like a hollow shell while the nurse wrapped white gauze around her cut finger.

When the bleeding stopped, June looked up. Her voice was a raspy croak. She asked to borrow a phone.

Aisha pulled a smartphone from her pocket and handed it over. June's fingers shook as she dialed Jessica Cole's private number from memory. Her heart lodged in her throat.

The line clicked open. It was not her mother. The cold, professional voice of Jessica Cole's assistant informed June that the madam was currently preparing to leave for the airport for her honeymoon flight to Paris.

June opened her mouth. No sound came out. The blood in her veins turned to ice.

She handed the phone back to Aisha. Without a word, June reached over and ripped the IV needle out of the back of her hand. Blood instantly welled up and dripped onto the white sheets.

Aisha gasped and reached out to stop her. June shoved the nurse's hands away. She swung her bare feet over the edge of the bed and stepped onto the freezing floor.

She opened the small closet. Her clothes hung there, washed but still torn at the collar. The sight of the ripped fabric made her stomach heave again.

She pulled the clothes on. She walked out of the room. At the end of the hallway, a massive silver crest hung on the wall. The Becker family logo. Her lungs seized. Going to the NYPD would do nothing. The Becker empire owned the city. If she fought back, that video would destroy her life.

June pushed through the hospital's revolving doors. The early morning wind slapped her face. She pulled her thin coat tighter around her chest.

She walked down into the subway station. She rode the rattling train all the way back to her cramped Brooklyn apartment. She unlocked the door, walked straight into the bathroom, and turned the shower handle all the way to cold.

She stepped under the freezing spray fully clothed. She grabbed a stiff bristle brush from the shelf. She scrubbed at her arms, her chest, her stomach. She scrubbed until the skin turned raw and red, trying to wash away dirt that was not there.

Blood began to bead on her collarbone. Her legs gave out. She slid down the wet tile wall and hit the floor of the tub. She pulled her knees to her chest and sobbed until her throat bled.

The water eventually ran out. June stood up. She looked at her pale, bruised face in the foggy mirror. She bit her lower lip until she tasted copper. A dead, numb resolve settled in her eyes.

She dried off. She put on a clean, cheap pencil skirt and a blouse. She grabbed the cardboard tube holding her architectural blueprints from the table. She opened her front door and walked out into the world that demanded she pay rent.

June walked down the street toward the subway station, clutching the blueprints to her chest.

June sat at her tiny desk in the crowded architecture firm. Her hands shook so badly she could barely hold her pen. Cold sweat glued her blouse to her spine. She stared at the lines on the blueprint, but they blurred together.

The door to the manager's office slammed open. Martin Pryce marched across the floor. He slammed a sealed black blueprint tube onto June's desk.

Martin leaned over her. He spoke fast, spitting slightly. He ordered her to take the master designs to the Apex Club in Manhattan immediately. He told her the client was waiting and mistakes were not an option.

The word Manhattan made June flinch. She pressed her back into her chair. She told Martin her stomach was sick, begging him to send someone else.

Martin slammed his fist on her desk. He leaned closer, his face turning red. He told her if she lost this account, she could pack her desk and never come back.

June swallowed the bile rising in her throat. She needed this paycheck to survive. She grabbed the black tube, pushed her chair back, and ran out of the office.

The subway car was packed. Every time a man brushed against her shoulder, June's heart hammered against her ribs. She pressed herself into the corner by the door, wrapping both arms tightly around the tube.

The train stopped at Manhattan. June walked up the stairs to the street. She stood on the sidewalk, looking up at the massive, black marble facade of the Apex Club. It looked like a tomb.

She walked up to the entrance. Two men built like brick walls stepped in front of the heavy brass doors. They looked down at her cheap skirt and scuffed heels.

June gave them Martin's name. One of the men checked an iPad. He nodded once and pulled the brass door open.

June stepped inside. The heavy scent of expensive cigars and aged whiskey hit her face. Soft jazz music played from hidden speakers. The luxury made her skin crawl.

A waiter in a crisp white shirt motioned for her to follow. He led her down a dimly lit hallway lined with velvet wallpaper toward the VIP rooms.

June looked down at her phone to check the room number. She turned the corner without looking up.

A heavy oak door swung open right in front of her. A group of men in tailored Wall Street suits spilled out into the hallway. They surrounded a taller man in the center.

June looked up. Her eyes locked onto a pair of dead, black eyes. Gage Becker.

The blood stopped moving in June's veins. Her fingers went entirely numb. The black blueprint tube slipped from her hands. It hit the thick carpet with a dull thud.

Gage stopped walking. The men around him stopped. The hallway went completely silent.

Gage narrowed his eyes. He looked at her like she was a rat that had crawled out of the sewer into his dining room. Slowly, the corner of his mouth pulled up into a cruel sneer.

June's knees buckled. She spun around to run. Her heel caught on the edge of the carpet. She stumbled, her shoulder slamming hard into the velvet wall.

Gage lifted his chin. Two of his bodyguards stepped forward instantly. They blocked the hallway, cutting off her only exit.

Gage put his hands in the pockets of his custom trousers. He took a slow step forward. Then another. He stalked toward her, trapping her in the corner.

With every step he took, June smelled the motor oil and decay of the warehouse. Her chest he heave. Her breathing broke into ragged gasps.

Gage stopped right in front of her. His massive frame blocked out the light from the ceiling fixtures. He cast a dark shadow over her entire body.

The men in the hallway started whispering. They stared at the poor girl, wondering how she had managed to offend the head of the Becker empire.

Gage leaned down. He reached out and pinched June's trembling chin between his thumb and index finger. He forced her head up so she had to look at him.

June stared into his eyes. Tears burned the back of her throat. She dug her teeth into her lower lip, refusing to let the tears fall.

Gage leaned his face an inch from hers. His voice was a deadly whisper. He asked her how she had the nerve to show her face in his building.

June raised her hands. She grabbed his wrist, trying to pull his fingers off her jaw. Her voice was raw and broken. She begged him to let her go, telling him she was only here to deliver papers.

Gage glanced down at the tube on the floor. He let out a dark laugh. He did not let go. His fingers dug harder into her jawbone, bruising her skin.

He looked over his shoulder at his assistant. He snapped his fingers. He ordered the man to call Martin Pryce down here right now. He was going to break her in front of everyone.

Gage held June against the wall. The bodyguards stood like statues. They waited for Martin to arrive.