Raven's POV
The first thing I felt was the softness beneath me. Not grass. But silk. Cushion. Something like a bed or a sofa. My eyes snapped open instantly, opening up to the massive room.
I looked down at myself to find I was on a sofa. Why do the bastards keep propping me up on sofas? I grunted, grinding my teeth along with my jaw. I stirred on the sofa, rubbing the throbbing at the base of my neck where I had been hit.
The room was huge with dark marble floors and curtains thick enough to smother the sun. And by the wall, a fireplace crackled low.
I strained up on the sofa, peering forward at the door. It was slightly opened. A pair of guards stood outside, their shadows sneaking into the room.
Whoever this blue-eyed man was, he sure was powerful and mind-blowingly rich. I steered my gaze back to the room, then I saw it.
My body jerked upright on instinct. Jake's murder weapon. The hunting knife lay across my lap, its handle wrapped neatly in my fingers, my gloves already taken off. Jake's blood still stained the blade, dried to a dark red.
A spike of cold shot through my chest. "No…" I dropped the knife like it burned me, flinging my hand back as if that could undo the prints already on it. But how could the knife have gotten back to my hands? I had left it… My eyes darkened with murder when realization hit. "That fucker…" I growled.
I reached fast to pick the knife up, and clean off my new fingerprints. A heavy masculine foot stepped out of nowhere, and the knife was kicked across the room.
I followed the knife, raising my head slowly to him again as he went for it. He had a towel around his neck, shirt undone halfway. I glimpsed the ridges of hard-defined muscles that made his torso. His abs were chiseled, defined in carefully outlined squares.
His hair was damp, slicked back like he'd just washed. Because of course, he just washed. His rugged handsomeness highlighted under the bright lights.
I swallowed, staring hard at him for a moment. I quickly shook my head from the virus, and I raised my eyes back to him, to the bastard I know he was.
A slow smirk spread across his lips. "Good, Miss Raven," he murmured, voice low and amused. "You're awake."
"Why did you put the knife in my hand?" I snapped, heat burning beneath my skin. I glared with the whole of my soul at him. "I told you I didn't kill Jake."
He picked up the knife with the corner of the towel, careful so he wouldn't have his prints on it too. "This is Insurance," he said.
"Insurance?" My voice cracked, sharp. "You want to frame me for a murder I didn't commit—"
He cut me off with a single raised brow. "I didn't have to frame you. You framed yourself by being in his house."
"You were also in the house too. Who says you aren't the killer?" I retorted. For all I know, he might have been the one who attacked me and doused me in Jake's blood.
He grinned, making a trail over his lower lip, his upper lip lifted in a dark smirk. "I have tons of alibi in my support. I can't say the same for you. Also, you are forgetting… this." He carried my eyes to the knife as he tucked it into a sleek black case sitting on the table.
Two of his men bounced in, their steps purposeful, their demeanor stiff and mechanical like robots. They took the knife and left silently.
He wasn't wrong. With the knife and no alibi, I was sunk. The Detective on the case would fall over himself in a fit of excitement should he get his hand on the knife.
I wished the daggers in my gaze could rip him apart. "Who are you, and what do you want from me?" I yelled at him, and I forced some steel into my voice.
He dropped onto the sofa just opposite mine. "For your first question, I am Cassian Valtar." He paused, tracing his thumb over his lips again. It seemed like a habit. "And that's introduction enough."
"And why should I even…" I was yelling, then gradually, stopped. "I ruminated on the name… Cassian Valtar. As soon as it hit me, a shiver slithering up my spine. I had to force some calm into my demeanor. He was the rumored devil of the underworld, the Mafia boss who had all of New York's underworld under his grip—the ruthless don of the Valtar family.
His smirk darkened as he read my reaction. Stop staring I rebuked myself.
I relaxed onto the sofa, heaving my shoulders lightly. "The name still doesn't ring a bell. Are you sure you are as important as you claim?" I mocked deliberately.
He could have proved and demonstrated his power. Instead, he relaxed onto his sofa, an armchair, eyes bright with a dark spark befitting a devil like him.
"Since we have cleared who I am. Now, let's go into what I want with you."
"To enslave me," I spat.
"If you like dramatic words, sure." He leaned forward now, elbows on his knees. "But I prefer… employ."
"You're delusional if you think I'm working for you." I said, tone scathing.
"Oh, you will," he said softly. "Because the moment you step outside this house without my protection, if the police don't get you quick enough, the Brotherhood will. They will slit your throat for killing Flanagan."
The brotherhood is a group of dangerous bastards like him, devils, all ruling different states the way he rules New York.
"But I didn't kill Jake!" I fired back at him.
He shrugged. "Doesn't matter. They believe you did. And I have the only proof that clears you—or damns you." His eyes flicked to the door where his men had taken the knife. "Depending on how cooperative you are."
I gritted my teeth so hard it hurt. My gaze was murderous as they squared on him. But I might as well not have existed. He waited for my rage to settle, then continued, his tone shifting—cool, businesslike.
"There's a game you're going to enter," he said. "A race, technically. A… death race."
"What the hell is a death race?"
"It means," he said, "that you're going to drive for me in an underground event known as The Devil's Tracks."
"It's a tournament, a separate league from the one you are used to. It is organized by the brotherhood to show the strength of each Mafia family through the race," he went on. "Thirty-two racers. All criminals, debtors, fugitives, or people who owe their souls to the brotherhood, just like you are to me now…"
"And you expect me to drive for you?"
"Yes. Because if you win, you walk away with enough leverage and protection to buy your freedom from the Brotherhood and me."
I could tell he was hiding something. A man like him could get any racer he wants, without the need to frame me up for murder.
"And if I lose?" I asked.
He lifted one shoulder, feigning indifference. "You die. Horribly, most likely."
I was still trying to process his words when he stood slowly and walked to the window. His slow, deliberate walk told me he wanted me to follow him. I was reluctant, but finally, I sighed hard and crossed over to him.
He pulled one of the heavy curtains aside, revealing a massive walled compound far below. There were sleek cars, most race-worthy, the others just for luxury. There was also a small racetrack, oil-scented air, and men with guns hanging around.
"This would be your training field, just to give you a little glimpse of what the race looks like. The racers don't just compete against each other," he said, watching the training grounds. "They compete against the track."
"What does that even mean?" I asked.
"There are traps," he said simply. "Obstacles designed for fatality. One corner has pressure plates that trigger gunfire if you cross the wrong line. Another has steel spikes that shoot up if your wheels slip. One wrong move on the racetrack, and you are dead meat."
I stared at him, horrified, my insides tightening as I took in all he said. "That's not a race, bastard. That's a slaughterhouse."
He grinned. "That's the point." He turned back to me, eyes hard as carved ice. "Each round must have a death. If the obstacles don't take anyone out… the last racer of that round is executed."
My breath froze in my lungs. He wasn't just planning to make me his slave. He was planning to kill me. No racer can reliably say he could drive through all that unscathed, not even the most experienced racers.
"You can quit, if you want," he added lightly. "Tell me no." His lips curved, dark. "And I'll simply send that knife to the police instead. Then it would be a matter of who gets you first, the police or the brotherhood. And for your sake, I would vote for the police."
I shot him a murderous stare. Rage flared so hot in me I almost lunged for him. It took great effort to keep myself back.
"When's the next race?" My voice came out cracked but steady.
Cassian gave me a slow, satisfied smile. "In two days. You will be representing the Valtar family as its racer." He answered. "But tomorrow, you will have to train on my tracks so you can get a little glimpse of the hell that awaits you in the real game."
Two days. My blood iced.
"Rest up," he said as he moved toward the door. "You're going to need it."
I had just a one in a hundred chance of surviving such a game. Even Jace, who was more experienced than me, better than me, wouldn't stick his neck in such a game for all the money in the world, though he loved money more than his life.
Cassian continue for the door, his back to me. This was a chance for me to strike, an opportunity. If I can attack him and have him fall unconscious or die. Then I can jump down from the window. In the commotion that ensues, the guards would be busy trying to save him. Then I can get into one of the cars and run away, and I'll be free to search for Jace as I planned. It was risky, but at least I had a ten to a hundred chance of surviving that, rather than surviving the game he just described.
I searched fast around the room. My eyes fell on a thick, glass figurine sitting on a low shelf. I snatched it up fast, and I moved for him. Slow and stealthy at first, and when I reached a few feet from him, I increased my speed.
My shadow must have hinted of my attack. Just before the figurine could jam against his head, he spun around, as quick as a flying disk. Surprisingly fast for a man his age and size. He caught my wrist, stopping my attack midair.
His other arm claimed my waist, and he rode me back to the nearest wall. A wave of agony rippled up my back as it jerked against the wall.
I jammed my teeth in pain. There was a tantalizing feel to the way he held my waist. It was almost as if he was declaring me to be his. I glared right at him, and I let him glimpse all of my hate for him.
His lips curved in a dark smile again, and he snatched the figurine from my fingers. He leaned closer to me. He was dangerously fast. He's taken the figurine before I could even move.
He pushed closer until his hot breath now warmed my face, his blue eyes looking directly over mine. "Why don't you reserve your fierceness for the game, Miss Raven? You will need a lot of it." He whispered.
He pulled back instantly after, and he waved the figurine in the air. "I will be leaving with this." He said, grinning. "And sleep tight, Miss Raven."
The lock clicked behind him, and the silence that followed was suffocating, sealing my fate.