I shake my head while my quick breaths make my chest feel tight and as if icy shards are stabbing my lungs.
My legs give way beneath me, and I drop down to the cold concrete floor. The movement jars my body, causing more pain to shudder through me.
On the next breath, I can’t get any air in, and my panic spirals out of control.
Feeling like the padded shirt is suffocating the air from me and crushing my chest, I don’t think and begin to frantically struggle to take off my sweater.
When I finally get the fabric over my head, I’m so lightheaded, my vision goes black.
Gripping the padded shirt with my right hand, I can only pull the tight fabric up an inch or so, and not being able to get it off, I let out a strangled sob.
Augusto
What. The. Fuck.
For a few seconds, I’m not sure what I’m looking at, but I don’t have time to try to figure out what the fuck Tanaka is wearing, because he starts struggling to breathe.
“Christ!” I snap as I drop down beside him.
Not wanting him to die on us, I grab hold of the weird-looking shirt, and when I pull the fucking tight and thick fabric over his head, he lets out an agonizing cry that sends chills down my spine. I drop the surprisingly heavy padded shirt on the ground and look at him to see if his breathing is better.
Before the thought can register that the cry sounds like a woman’s, my eyes lock on the sports bra covering feminine swells and hard nipples.
“Jesus Christ,” Raffaele gasps.
“She’s a fucking woman?!” I say, my tone sounding incredulous.
It takes a lot to catch me by surprise, but as my eyes rake over all the bruises on the much smaller torso, now that the padded shirt is off, an emotion I haven’t felt before creeps into my chest. Something akin to remorse, but much, much worse.
What have I done?
Once the shock begins to lessen, I notice Tanaka has passed out, and my eyes return to the sports bra and horrible bruises over her ribs, chest, and shoulders.
“Fuck,” I growl. I have no other words to express how I feel in this moment.
In the Cosa Nostra, we don’t torture women. Ever.
If we’re faced with a female enemy, we usually give them a quick death with a bullet to the head.
Recovering quicker than me, Raffaele says, “Her shoulder is dislocated.” He crouches down on the other side of her. “Should I put it back in place while she’s unconscious?”
I nod and slowly rise to my full height, trying to process the shock as quickly as possible.
Watching Raffaele fix the woman’s shoulder, I wonder who the hell she is and why she didn’t say anything.
Jesus. We’ve been beating a woman for the past couple of days.
I press my hand to my stomach when nausea rolls through my gut.
“Do you think she’s Masato’s daughter? Maybe the fucker didn’t want everyone to know he doesn’t have a son?” Raffaele asks as he stands up.
Before I can answer him, the woman regains consciousness. She lets out a whimper, and the moment she realizes the padded shirt is off and we’re staring at her, she panics.
She tries to drag herself away with her right arm while shaking her head, and then, for the first time, she speaks.
“Please.” The word is weak but filled with terror. “Please.”
When I take a step toward her, she lets out another scared whimper, shaking her head wildly. “Don’t rape me. Please.”
