My blood chills as I take in the room. There’s far more people in here than I thought. It’s a conference room filled entirely with men. Most sit in plush executive chairs, circled around a large mahogany table. I recognize a few of the guys standing around the room as Giovanni’s guys, as well as the cop Daniel. The men sitting, however, look well-to-do. Dressed in nice suits, puffing on what are probably expensive cigars, with drinks in hand. Some look down at me with mild disinterest, others crane their necks to get a better look, while some look downright alarmed.
“Bella.”
My head turns toward the voice, recognizing it, finally finding Giovanni in the group. He wears a deep frown as he rises from the table, coming closer.
“I was looking for the dressing room—” I start, my eyes darting around. All eyes are on me now, except for Lorenzo’s. He’s lurking at the back of the room. Still not sure what’s going on, I look back at Gio. “I didn’t—I didn’t see anything,” I say quietly, working to keep my eyes off of the trembling girl to my right.
Giovanni steps closer, bending down until he’s at eye level, taking the time to tuck a loose strand of my hair behind my ear with a level of care that doesn’t match the coldness in his eyes. “Ah, but unfortunately you did see something, didn’t you, sweetheart?” I follow his gaze to the blonde next to me, and he clicks his tongue. “And now, I've gotta make sure you don’t tell anybody else.”
There’s not a second of hesitation before I lurch away from him, falling onto my ass to escape Marco’s grip, making a desperate attempt to reach the door. Lorenzo is closing in from behind Giovanni, and a scream rises in my throat at the sight of the white cloth he’s holding outstretched in his hand.
“We-we can talk about this—I won’t say anything, I won’t.”
I claw my way to my feet, tripping over myself as I bolt for the door, but I’m wrenched backwards by my hair before I can make it. I scream, kicking and fighting, but someone grabs hold of my hands, wrenching them behind my back. Lorenzo smiles as he leans over me, pressing his cloth tight to my face, covering both my nose and mouth.
I hold my breath, twisting and turning, trying to wiggle out of their grip. But there’s too many of them. My wrists burn as I fight their hold, trying to get free, to wrench that cloth away from my face. My lungs burn, the need for oxygen becoming impossible to ignore, but I refuse to fill them.
Lorenzo’s grip tightens, and I’m losing ground, but my legs are still free. I kick at him, but it’s no use, and having run out of time, I’m forced to inhale.
The cloying scent of chemicals fills my lungs, and the effect is near immediate. I falter, my knees buckling, vision tilting. I’m losing strength. My struggling becomes more and more pathetic, and my breaths come against my will as I lose control of my body, slumping helplessly in their arms. My lungs filling up with more of that nauseating scent.
I search the room, taking in their faces, some of them grinning excitedly at the scene. There’s a man with dark, slicked-back hair, gold rings on every finger; another one with pale skin and sunken cheekbones who looks like he hasn’t slept in weeks, he has a scar along his right jawline; the one closest to me is broad-shouldered, with salt and pepper hair and a nice suit—he winks at me;the one next to him is balding, with a sharp gazeand a sneer on his face I can never forget. Daniel’s cold smile is the last thing I see before my vision blurs, finally tunneling out, as I free-fall into darkness.
14
THE LITTLE DARK-HAIRED GIRL
BRIAR
Now
Nausea hits me, and I groan, debating whether or not to wake up.
What the hell happened last night? I don’t drink anymore, not since Remi. My days of drinking recreationally are far behind me.
I attempt to open my eyes, but they don’t cooperate. I try wiggling my fingers, but I’m not sure I even feel them.
Something isn’t right…
It’s as if I’m trapped within a dense fog; perhaps I’m still half asleep with one foot in reality and one foot still in fucking dreamland.
The fog lifts slightly as I fight for clarity, and I relax a little when feeling returns to my body. My eyelids finally flutter open, but my hair is in my face. I try to brush it out of the way, and I can’t. I’m unable to raise my arm, and panic surges as I realize it’s stuck on something.
The rush of terror burns through the remaining mental fog enough for me to fully open my eyes and realize my hands are zip-tied together.
Thrashing, I fight against the restraint, only succeeding in tightening the plastic ties so tight that now it feels like they’re cutting off my circulation. My chest heaves, my breaths coming hard as I realize two things: the first being I am not in my bed; and two, I am not alone.
I’m in a moving vehicle.It’s dark, but as I look around, I find several pairs of eyes staring back at me. I try to sit up to better gauge my surroundings, which proves difficult as jolts and bumps send deep shockwaves of nausea through me while I’m still fighting the overwhelming urge to sleep.
No, I need to stay awake.
I’ve nearly twisted myself into a sitting position when we hit a bump, throwing me back to the floor, and I hit my head hard.For a moment, I feel dazed, like I’m going to black out again.Fuck, that hurt.But as much as it hurt, it seems to sharpen my senses, lifting the drug-induced fog just enough for rational thoughts to take over.
“You’re awake!” The girl closest to me whisper-shouts before leaning closer, “We thought you might be dead.”
With the fog lifting, it’s far easier this time to push myself to sitting and, once upright, I lean my pounding head back against the cool, metal wall of the van I’ve determined we’re in.
“Not yet,” I frown. I’m still wearing the dance clothes I changed into at the club, and I’m relieved to find them all intact.
