HUNTED Read online

  Copyright

  HUNTED

  Copyright© 2020 by C. Luca

  All rights reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not meant to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental. No part of this book may be reproduced or distributed in any format without the permission of the author. The author acknowledges the trademarked status of products referred to in this book. Trademarks have been used without permission.

  The author has asserted her rights under the Copyright Act of 1976 to be identified as the author of this book.

  Photo credit: Shutterstock.com

  CONTENTS

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Epilogue

  One

  Kane

  I’ve been watching her from where I sit in my car—parked across the street from the café where she works. With all the windows across the front wall facing the sidewalk and street, it’s easy to watch her every move. The building is about as fucking vulnerable as it can be. It’s one level with front glass windows and doors, with one exit in the very back—where a single lightbulb outside the door has been burnt out for going on three weeks. I’m about ready to change the damned thing myself if the manager doesn’t get his ass out there soon to take care of the issue.

  Darkness has overtaken the sky now that the sun has dropped out of sight, and it’s getting late. Fortunately, the streetlights are few and far between on this side of the street, so I can easily park in the shadows, watching and waiting.

  I flick ash from my cigarette out the window beside me while I sit in the darkened interior, smoking and waiting to make sure she makes it home safely.

  Since she’d turned eighteen and became rebellious of the rules, I’ve personally taken over becoming her handler. I observe her intently as I mull over what a pain in the ass she’s become. She’s still refusing to use the funds provided for her, rejecting the vehicles offered, and essentially ignoring all the shit we give her to make her life comfortable.

  Instead, she insists on working a job that she doesn’t need.

  She’s also outright ignoring the text messages I send her. It doesn’t matter how many times she switches numbers or cell phones; I always have the information within the hour. This is a bad time to be ignoring me though, and as the days pass by, the more aggravated I become.

  It’s time for her to move.

  She’s been living here in Salt Lake City for two years, and it’s time for her to switch locations. A thirty day warning had been sent to her phone two weeks earlier.

  If she were any other client, we would have severed all ties due to her being so difficult. We don’t protect those that don’t follow the rules. We’re not going to waste time watching clients that won’t do what needs to be done to remain safe. We have plenty that willingly follow the rules, so we focus more so on those. We are not full-blown babysitters watching over disobedient children. If a client wants to risk their ass by being stupid, that’s on them.

  But Tessa’s special.

  I have personally seen to all her finances—something that is unheard of in the business. We don’t financially support our clients after their new lives have been established. Once we have them safely settled and have given them a financial start, it’s up to them to keep their finances rolling in.

  However, Tessa’s a unique case.

  I’ve been in charge of her case for eleven years. She’s a mafia princess originally from Colombia. Her father landed himself in prison on charges he couldn’t outrun or cover-up, and though he’s a very powerful man with ties, his enemies still got to his wife and daughter. The wife died in a prearranged car crash, but Tessa survived—just barely.

  That’s when we came into the picture.

  We hide the innocents caught up in the tangled web of underworld corruption. At the time, the business had become quite profitable with each successful client that we took on. Mario Escudero somehow came across our network and paid a hefty price to hide his daughter in order to save her life.

  My eyes follow Tessa as she smiles and waves goodbye to an old man, obviously a regular.

  Christ.

  She’s friendly to fucking everyone. Seeing that smile directed at strangers every evening grates on my nerves like nothing else can. With irritation, I flick cigarette ash outside the window once more.

  Because she was so young at the time of the accident, I took a personal interest in her case. I was the one who chose her boarding school and made all the necessary decisions that would affect her life and future. I never personally watched her until she turned eighteen. That was when her rebellion became an issue—she was old enough to strike out on her own.

  The café is closing for the night, and Tessa and her coworkers begin cleaning the day’s mess. She’s limping more than usual.

  This has my lips tightening briefly around the cigarette before I part my lips and release the smoke into the air.

  Tonight, the limp is quite noticeable, which means she’s hurting. It’s always distinct, but much worse on some days. It’s the result of an injury she sustained from the car crash that took her mother’s life. As the damage caused was permanent, the limp and pain will always be with her.

  Using my free hand, I pinch the bridge of my nose.

  I’ve used my own finances to support her, but once she became a legal adult, she began rejecting the money and the vehicles I’d purchased for her—one as a graduation gift, and the other for her twenty-first birthday. She’s determined to support herself and relies on public transportation. With her limp, having her own mode of transportation would be so much easier for her, but she’s too obstinate to accept any further financial aid.

  I’m perfectly aware that she’s become an obsession—otherwise, I would have given up on her long ago.

  Tessa’s grown into a beautiful woman; I’d be blind not to notice. Hell, I have every inch of her face and every curve of her body memorized. Don’t get me wrong, she’s always dressed. It’s just that thanks to binoculars and photo equipment, she’s permanently etched into my mind.

  Her hair is a rich caramel color that falls just past mid-back and looks thick and shiny. It typically falls down her back in straight layers, but when it’s quite humid out, it tends to turn wavy. She prefers to pull it back into a ponytail most of the time when she leaves her apartment, but the few times she’s left it down, I’ve found myself fascinated by how it glints in the sunlight during the day. Her complexion is naturally creamy with just a hint of summer tan, and long dark lashes frame expressive, dark brown eyes. Barely noticeable freckles scatter across the bridge of her nose and her cheek bones. And those lips…they aren’t lush, but they aren’t too thin, either. There’s this little curve in one corner that has always drawn my attention…and those lips have been wrapped around my dick more times than I can count, in my dreams that is.

  Then, there’s her body.

  She’s about five-seven with a willowy figure that makes me think about how easily my
arms could wrap around her waist—or how my hands could frame her slim hips.

  Abruptly, I come back to the present when I note that she’s exiting the café. My eyes remain fixed on her as she walks down the sidewalk that leads to the bus stop at the end of the street. She doesn’t seem as fidgety, nor is she looking over her shoulder as much as she usually does. Instead, she adjusts her ponytail and limps down the sidewalk, wearing black leggings and her café shirt. She looks tired and overly warm in this evening’s summer heat.

  I find her relaxed behavior odd.

  Tessa’s typically quite paranoid, and I know that it’s because of me. We’ve never met face to face—with good reason. A handler can’t protect his client if they’re always aware that they’re there. She can sense me though, and while she has no idea what I look like, she’s extremely watchful of those around her.

  She’s reached the bus stop, and there are three others waiting beneath the streetlight. I watch the strangers like a hawk, alert to their every move. None of them seem to pay Tessa any extra attention, but I still keep a close eye on them. In my line of business, I’ve learned that danger usually shows its ugly head when it’s least expected.

  The bus comes five minutes later—right on time as usual, and I allow it to drive past before tossing the cigarette aside and starting up the vehicle. I pull into the street and follow it.

  This is my evening routine.

  I watch Tessa for a few hours and then make certain she makes it safely inside her apartment.

  While I drive, my jaw clenches as my hands tighten around the steering wheel.

  Fuck.

  I should really stop following her.

  She’s been safely hidden for eleven years—there’s absolutely no reason to believe her cover is blown.

  I like watching her, though.

  She’s…irresistible.

  Last year, I’d tried to quit following her, because it isn’t necessary for a handler to watch a client twenty-four/seven. All it did was turn me into a foul motherfucker.

  She’s my high, and I’m addicted.

  The stoplight ahead turns red, and I slow the vehicle, which is now three cars behind the bus. I wait patiently for the light to change, and when it does, I keep the bus in sight.

  I’m thirty-five years old, way too old to be legitimately stalking a soon-to-be twenty-two year-old. I need to find a hobby, but nothing really interests me but the job. I don’t have a personal life and never will. Everything I lost haunts me with every breath I take. My past could creep up on me at any time, because a ‘new’ life is never a sure thing. So I live my life as a bachelor, with no ties so there’s nothing for me to lose.

  A few minutes later, I pull over to the curb, watching as the bus stops at the corner up ahead. Tessa’s apartment complex is located adjacent to it.

  Tessa exits the bus and walks alone down the lit sidewalk.

  I fucking hate the apartment she’d chosen to rent after outright rejecting the one that I’d handpicked for her. However, there’s not much I can do about it. She’s an adult, and I can only do so much.

  She carefully takes the steps located along the side of the building that lead up to the second-floor apartments. I dislike how open everything is and that there’s only a narrow balcony hallway leading to the doorways.

  Tessa comes upon her door, and she unlocks it and slips inside, closing it and disappearing from sight.

  She’s home.

  I can easily visualize her moving throughout the apartment to go to her bedroom. I’ve been inside her place more times than I care to admit when she’s been at work.

  I pull my phone from my pocket and text, Two weeks. Then, I press send.

  After one more glance at her apartment, I pull away from the curb.

  Two

  Tessa

  I’ve removed my leggings, and I’m currently sitting on the bed in just my work shirt and panties, rubbing my aching calf and knee. My fingers nimbly move along my scarred kneecap before traveling down to my deformed calf. A long, indented scar runs along the length of it. Pieces of muscle have been removed from surgical operations, so the skin is dented in areas, and what’s left of the muscle feels like knotted, hard flesh beneath my fingertips. As I try to ease the pain, I release a tired sigh. Today was a long day, and I’m utterly exhausted.

  The sound of my phone buzzing inside my purse draws my attention, and I go completely still with dread. I have no friends, so I know exactly who it is. Even so, I reach for my discarded purse I’d left on the bed, pulling out the phone.

  Two weeks, the text on the screen reads.

  With mounting frustration, I toss the phone aside and press my palms against my closed eyes.

  I am a hostage to my own life.

  I’m fully aware that whoever is on the other end of that unknown number is just doing their job, but I still hate the contact.

  When my father was sentenced to life in prison, I was only ten years old. I hadn’t known he was going to prison however, as I’d been told that he just was going away for a while.

  No ten-year-old is going to comprehend that her father is a powerful crime lord. It had been kept from me, and the only excuse I was given for the constant presence of bodyguards was that my father was special. But even at such a young age, I could tell something was amiss. My mom always seemed sad even though she tried to hide it, and there was always tension lingering within the walls of our elaborate home. Not because of my parents, but tension from something else.

  Even so, I had a wonderful childhood. My father always had a ready smile on his face and never-ending patience in his eyes. He never missed my birthdays or made me feel as if I were a hindrance rather than a blessing.

  My parents were…well, parents. They were consistently there for me, my mom hugging me when I cried from a skinned knee, my father tucking me in at night. Everything seemed so normal except for the strange men that always watched over us.

  I didn’t realize the full impact of what was going on until I lost my mom in the car crash that nearly took my own life as well. Once my father was in prison, we’d become a target, and an enemy managed to plant a bomb in one of the cars that chauffeured us around. Lucky for me, I hadn’t been wearing a seatbelt, and my small body had been expelled from the force of the explosion out the open window beside me.

  My heart aches as a tightening sensation develops deep within my chest.

  I miss both my parents so much. I’d give anything to feel my mom’s arms wrapped around me, or to see my father’s face, his steady eyes telling me that everything was going to be okay.

  One minute my world seemed nearly perfect except for what I believed to be my father’s temporary absence from our lives, and then the next, I’m waking in a hospital and my mom is no longer at my side.

  After the bombing, and once I was medically stable, I’d been transferred to a private hospital. Then from there, I’d found myself bounced around boarding schools.

  During that first moment of transfer, I’d been able to speak to my father by phone. He’d explained that he’d hired special people to keep me safe and that I was to trust them. That it was extremely important that I follow their rules—always follow the rules.

  That was the last time I ever spoke with him, because the number one rule is to never contact anyone from my past.

  I can feel a headache coming on, and I set aside the phone and rise to my feet, limping to the bathroom. My leg aches more than usual tonight, and after swallowing a couple of pills to ease the pain, I then brush my teeth.

  I’m so tired—and not just physically.

  My eyes lift, and I stare at my reflection in the mirror. Sad brown eyes gaze back at me as the hair near my temples frizz from the evening’s heat.

  I was born Adriana Escudero, but eleven years ago, I became Tessa Wilkins. Tessa has a birth certificate that states she was born in Michigan, on U.S. soil. She was given up for adoption and bounced around until a wealthy family fostered her and sent her to boa
rding schools. Of course, the foster parents are now on file as deceased due to a tragic accident, so if anyone looks too deeply, they won’t find much. The people protecting me have spun some miracle lies—lies that have kept me safe.

  My first boarding school assigned me a tutor who worked with me until there wasn’t a sign of my Columbian accent. So here I stand, a young American woman—or so that’s what everyone believes. I’ve actually become quite comfortable with my new identity, and I’ve let Adriana Escudero fade away permanently.

  I’m lonely, though.

  Lonely and paranoid.

  I limp back into my bedroom, strip off my shirt and bra, and climb into bed after turning off the light.

  Every important decision in my life has been made for me. The boarding schools, where I’m supposed to live…

  I began rebelling at eighteen, because if I’d been safe for eight years, and my father’s enemies were in Columbia, I shouldn’t have to continue looking over my shoulder. I thought perhaps I could begin distancing myself from the rules and begin truly living my life on my own, but I was wrong.

  Money was pushed on me that I continually reject. Well, I can’t fully reject it when I can’t personally return it. I’ve never actually met the people my father hired, so the money and unused credit cards remain in envelopes in a locked safe under the bed.

  They always figure out every new number I switch to, and I receive random text messages with ‘suggestions.’ It’s downright creepy how they know everything. I’ll get texts about something I did that was considered a ‘risk.’ Or I’ll receive messages about employees or coworkers that have police records. I’ve tried to make friends throughout the years, but my mysterious watchers always find something they disapprove of. If I don’t sever the friendships on my own, the friends usually drop me without explanation, and I know that the watchers were behind it.

  I stare moodily up at the ceiling.

  I’m a twenty-one-year-old virgin with no friends.