“I want to find my drugs!” he yells, his fist slamming on the table with the resounding bang echoing. “Tell me!”
With his raised voice, I jump at least an inch off my chair. “I don’t know,” I say choking back tears. Something tells me the crying won’t help me out here.
Antonio shakes his head and then nods once at the man standing behind me. “Make her talk,” he says.
There’s a screeching sound on the floor and I turn in time to catch them slide a rectangular table a few feet until it’s next to my chair.
Antonio smiles on the video screen and it means not good things for me.
“Give me your hand,” the chubby man says.
I clench both hands to my chest, sticking my fingers underneath my arms. “No.” Do they think I’m a moron? No one’s touching my hands. I like them and my fingers. I’m attached.
“Boys, why don’t you help our friend out,” Antonio says, and I slap myself for thinking he could almost be cute if he wasn’t a mob boss. The man has psychological problems.
The two men who rode in the car’s backseat with me each tug an arm until I’m unable to keep it tucked away. “I swear I don’t. I promise!” It doesn’t stop them.
Together they take my hand and pry my fingers apart until they’re set flat on the small table beside me. Bile curls in my stomach and threatens to come up as I gag with imagery of what they’re about to do. I like my fingers. All of them.
“Which one do you want, boss,” the driver asks.
My eyes search them out, begging and pleading for him to make a different choice. “I swear I don’t know.”
I gag again and Antonio smiles. “Start with the little one.”
“No!” I work to tuck my fingers back into a fist but he applies more pressure, leaning his entire body weight on my hand and cracking the knuckles.
20
Glass shatters and I fling my body forward out of instinct more than anything else. They pull my arm back as a large body soars through the air. It’s the limp form of one of the guys. In the commotion I pull my hand away and tuck it into myself, rolling into a small ball on the floor.
A thick head of hair — one that’s easy to make out as Nate — tackles the driver to the floor, his fist punching him in the head.
“Get Josie!” he yells. Our eyes lock in for a second and the world stops as I stare at him, hopeful he’s come to rescue me. The first sign of a tear trickles down my face as the commotion picks back up again in rapid speed.Now is not the time to cry, stupid.Why do my tears always come at the worst times?
Two hands grab me and I hit my attacker as hard as possible, doing everything I can to wiggle away as he picks me up in his arms and clutches me close to his chest.
“Shhh, Josie. I’ve got you, it’s me.” I struggle, but look up and see a pair of eyes belonging to a man I’ve met before.
My heart clutches in my chest. “Crispin?” It’s not Nate but another one of Ridge’s team.
He squeezes me tighter and carries me away from the melee happening on the floor in the warehouse. “I’ve got you. You’re okay.”
I shake my head no. “I don’t feel okay.” Where’s Nate? Why isn’t he following us out?
“Are you hurt anywhere? Bleeding? Did anyone touch you?”
“No.” My injuries aren’t physical. Crispin carries me outside, and the sun hits my face, stinging my eyes and forcing me to clench them closed.
There’s yelling as more men from Ridge’s barbecue race into the warehouse. Panic and mayhem ensue everywhere.
“Put her down and step away,” a harsh voice utters.
Crispin laughs and puts me down on the ground, keeping me steady until my feet touch. “She’s all yours,” he says.
I turn and Nate stands three feet away. “Josie.”
I don’t wait for whatever else comes next. I run into his arms and throw myself into them, hopeful Nate can catch me.
