The Runaway Billionaire ( Del Valle Series 1)

~Vivaldi's POV~

I LAY SPRAWLED OUT ON THE COLD, damp cave floor, feeling like a broken, naked doll. Massive chains cuff my small hands, weighing me down like anchors. As I try to move, a groan escapes me, echoing off the cave walls. The sound is pathetic, but I'm too far gone to care. Pain throbs in every part of my body.

The keys to my freedom lay temptingly close, but my hands are shaking, weighed down by the heavy chains and pulsating pain. “Come on, superpowers! Get your bloody act together!” I mutter to myself, trying to will my body to heal faster.

Blood splatters cover the cave walls like abstract art. Deep claw marks scar the stone surface, evidence of my 'Wolf' abilities. Finally, relief washes over me as my body miraculously knits itself back together.

With a triumphant grunt, I grab the keys and unlock the chains. Pushing open the metal doors guarding the cave, a cool breeze hits me, carrying the refreshing scent of pine and earth.

Stepping out of the cave, I watch the sun slowly dip below the horizon, painting the sky with dazzling streaks of pink and orange. A cool breeze rustles the trees, making them sway.

Spotting a pile of clothes, my heart leaps. “Clothes! Glorious, wonderful clothes!” I think, slipping them on and relishing the comforting feel of fabric against my skin.

Flexing my muscles, I expect pain to wrack me, but I'm good as new. My body's ready to take on the world.

My stomach lets out a growl. I haven't eaten in roughly a month. “Time to find some meal and tame this inner beast,” I think, taking off like a shot.

I dart through the trees with a speed that could give The Flash a run for his money. The world around me blurs into a kaleidoscope of colors. I burst out of the forest and onto a quiet, deserted road.

Cars are scarce, but I don't care. “My stomach's calling the shots now, and it's screaming for food!” I think, scanning the horizon for any sign of sustenance.

Time to find a restaurant and get some food! Luck's on my side, and I spot a neon sign across the road: "COCO'S BAR."

A lopsided grin spreads across my face, and I skip across the street. I nod approvingly at the bar's glitzy lights and the warm glow of streetlights.

A drink before a meal never hurt anyone, right? Not that I care. I shrug and grab the door handle.

But there's a note: "We are closed. Come back tomorrow. Thank you, and God bless you."

A sarcastic laugh escapes me. “As if some sign could stand between me and a drink!” I think, rolling my eyes.

Do they think paper and tape can keep me out? I'll show them what a real entrance looks like.

I shove the door open, a loud cackle bursting from my lips. I step inside, leaving the cold behind.

The bar may be closed, but it's not stopping me. No way, not today! I take in the surroundings.

The entire place is made of gleaming, brown wood. It's like they used wood for everything – the building, tables, chairs, counter, even the mugs.

I let out a chuckle. “Wood you like a drink?”

My eyes widen as I spot rows of glass bottles filled with booze. “Ooo, jackpot!” I murmur.

I saunter over to the counter, where a line of stools stands.

I hop onto one, resting my elbows on the counter. I had my heart set on Jack Daniel's, but now, faced with this array of bottles – different shapes and sizes, filled with vibrant liquids, and fancy names – I feel like a kid in a candy store.

"What should I choose?" I think. "Fancy whiskey or tequila?"

Just then, I spot a gleaming, bald head behind the counter. It shines brighter than a mirror!

I clear my throat. "Hello, my good man," I call out. "Mind fetching me the strongest drink you've got?"

But my words are ignored. The mysterious barkeep continues to move around behind the counter.

"Hello, are you deaf?" I bellow, my voice echoing off the walls. The bar falls silent.

At last, the bald head turns in my direction. In a deep voice, the barkeep says, "We are closed. Come back tomorrow. Thank you, and God bless you."

Seriously? That's the same as the note on the door!

"Listen, man," I plead, "I get it; you're probably tired, but how about just one drink? I need some liquid courage."

"No," he grunts. "Rules are rules, and we're closed."

"Please," I beg, "Just one tiny drop?" I hold up a single finger.

"Still no," he growls.

"Okay, okay," I scramble for a compromise, "What if I just sniff it?"

"No." His answer hits me hard.

I groan, feeling defeated. Anger churns inside me. What's this guy's problem? I lean forward, trying to see what he's doing behind the counter. Maybe I can figure out what's so important...

I spot him hunched over the sink, furiously scrubbing wooden mugs. Is he choosing dirty dishes over a paying customer?

“Hey, Mr. Bean Head!” I bellow. The guy jolts, his head jerking up in surprise. “Get over here and serve me some beer!” I jab my finger on the counter, irritation clear in my voice.

His head stops bobbing, and he slowly turns to face me, his glare icy cold.

I watch as he rises to his full height, like a transformer in slow-motion. This guy's a towering mountain of a man! I feel like I'm staring up at a skyscraper.

His arms are mountains of muscle, and his chest bulges like it might burst. He's a living Greek myth, a hulking giant. I'm talking tree-trunk legs, cannonball shoulders, and a face that looks like it's been chiseled from granite.

But as I sit there, he leans in, his words cutting through me: “What did you just call me?”