We shared a few casual conversations, and he seemed nice enough.
“Well, I’ll be damned.” He chuckles. “It’s a small world.”
I freeze, one particular patch on his cut catching my eye. “You’re the president of the Disciples.”
He grins. “The one and only.”
My heart drops into my stomach. “Are you going to kill me?”
“I am, but it’s nothing personal, sweetheart.”
“Do you know who I am?” the blonde standing beside him asks. She runs a teasing hand over his bulging bicep, smug satisfaction curling her lips.
I study her features, but I don’t recall our paths ever crossing. “No.”
“I’m Sam’s mother.”
“What?” I whisper. How is she mixed up in all this?
She was a sore spot for Sandman, so we rarely spoke about her. I’ve never even seen a picture of her.
“Why are you doing this?”
“I came to visit Sam a couple months ago.” She releases the arm she’d been admiring and approaches me with a confident sway in her hips. “I wanted to make things right between us, be part of his life, but he slammed the door in my face like I was nothing,” she spits, bitterness contorting her features into a hard mask. “I’ve made mistakes, but nobody’s perfect.”
Sandman didn’t say anything about his mother’s visit, but he’s not exactly forthcoming with me.
“Please don’t do this.” I grasp her hand and place it on my swollen belly. “I’m pregnant with your granddaughters. Whatever issues you and Sandman have, we can work them out together.”
She jerks back and laughs, a sinister sound that crawls down my spine like ice. “I no longer have a son. I want Zeus and everyone who shares his blood gone, starting with the little whores in your womb.”
“Is it money you want? Sandman will pay whatever you ask. Just don’t do this!”
“We know.” Spider ambles up behind Sandman’s mother and wraps his arms around her waist. “We’re killing two birds with one stone.” He nods at his henchman, who then drags me over to a shallow grave.
Oh God,they’re going to bury me alive.
“No, no, no!” I scream hysterically, pulling against the hard hands holding me. “Please don’t!”
They shove me into the makeshift wooden coffin. That’s when I feel it—a small pop, then a warm gush between my thighs.
One of the men laughs. “Little bitch pissed herself.”
“Her water broke, idiot.”
“Hurry the fuck up,” Spider growls. “We got people to kill and moves to make.”
They nail me inside the crudely made casket. Dirt falls through the cracks, filling the confined space with dust and debris. I hear their elated laughter and taunts, muffled by my pounding fists and frantic screams.
Soon their voices fade away, and I’m left in complete darkness. I slam my fists against the wood until my knuckles are raw and slick with blood.
The familiar tightening in my chest unleashes a new level of terror. I don’t have an inhaler. My chances of survival have just dropped to zero.Be strong for your girls. If you don’t survive, neither do they.
I take deep, even breaths, inhaling through my nostrils and blowing out through my mouth. Wait—Idohave one.
I dig the canister from my jacket pocket and inhale the life-saving medication into my lungs. Thank God I slipped it in there the last time I went out.
I press down again.
