No.
My body knows before my brain catches up.
The sting crawls into the air first. Sharp. Chemical.
Not again.
I jerk my head, fight the grip, but the hand over my mouth shifts and forces my face up.
The cloth slams down.
Over my nose.Over my lips.
I try to scream and drag the drug straight into my lungs instead.
Fire.
Then numb.
The alley tilts. The rain becomes streaks. The streetlight smears itself into molten gold. Hands wrestle me closer. Someone swears. A fist drives into my ribs and empties my lungs of whatever was left.
Sound tunnels.
My knees fold.
My last clean thought isn’t Santino’s mouth or Guido’s eyes or Giovanni’s damned ledger.
It’s the same one I had when my father hit the floor and the world first went red and silent around me.
Not again.
Darkness snaps shut as they drag me toward the open mouth of the van.
Waking in the Dark
I surface slowly.
Smell comes first.
Oil, old and burned into concrete and steel. Mildew crawling underneath it. Damp stone. Rust. Something sour riding the air.
Then the sound.
A drip somewhere behind me. The low electrical hum of dying wires. Pipes knocking in walls that haven’t heard a repairman in decades. No traffic. No life.
Underground.
Of course.
Pain is next.
My shoulders scream as if something pulled them from their sockets. My wrists burn—white-hot where steel has kissed bone. When I move them, even an inch, metal bites deeper.
Handcuffs.
Perfect.
I force my eyes open.
