Blood pooled in my mouth. I turned my head and spat it onto the concrete floor, adding to the growing crimson stain beneath my chair. The metallic taste lingered on my tongue as I glared up at the man who'd just backhanded me.
"That the best you got?" I rasped, forcing my split lips into something resembling a smile.
The thug—I'd mentally named him Knuckles for the brass accessories adorning his fingers—cracked his neck and circled behind me.
"You got a death wish, lady?" he growled in my ear.
I didn't flinch. "Just bored with your technique."
The punch to my kidney sent lightning bolts of pain through my lower back. I bit down hard on my cheek to keep from screaming, refusing to give them the satisfaction. My wrists burned against the zipties cutting into my skin, but I kept my face neutral, breathing through the waves of agony.
Don't show weakness. Don't break.
I'd been here for hours—three, maybe four. Time blurred between beatings. They'd stripped me of my watch, my shoes, anything I could use as a weapon. The warehouse smelled of mildew, motor oil, and rust. Massive textile machines loomed like prehistoric skeletons in the shadows. High windows let in slivers of fading daylight. Evening was approaching.
"Boss wants you conscious when Ricci shows," said the second man, a wiry guy with a face like a ferret. "So take a breather."
They retreated to the far corner of the room, leaving me alone with my pain. I closed my eyes, taking inventory of my injuries. Bruised ribs. Split lip. Swollen cheek. Nothing broken—yet. They were professionals, knowing exactly how to hurt without causing permanent damage. I was merchandise, after all. Damaged goods were worth less.
A wave of nausea rolled through me, different from the pain-induced kind.
My baby.
Fear clutched at my throat, sharper and more visceral than any physical pain. Not just for myself anymore. For the tiny life inside me—innocent and unaware of the violence surrounding it. I'd never considered myself maternal. Never even thought about having children. But now, facing the very real possibility of death, the need to protect this child consumed me.
"We're going to be okay," I whispered, so softly even I could barely hear it. "I promise."
Another wave of nausea hit, stronger this time. I closed my eyes, willing it away through sheer force of will. I couldn'tthrow up here, tied to this chair. I'd choke. Die ignominiously, drowning in my own vomit while these animals watched.
The baby. Focus on the baby.
My mother had abandoned me when I was eight. Just walked out one day and never came back, leaving me with a father who drowned his sorrows in whiskey and channeled his rage through his fists. I'd sworn I'd never be like her. Never leave a child to face the world alone.
"I will not die here," I whispered to my unborn child. "You will not grow up without a mother. I will get us out."
The warehouse door slammed open. Sunlight briefly flooded the space before the heavy metal door swung shut again. The silhouette of a man appeared, flanked by two larger shadows. As they approached, I straightened in my chair, ignoring the screaming pain in my sides.
"So this is the famous Sophie," said a voice dripping with artificial charm. "The woman who brought the mighty Vittorio Ricci to his knees."
Gianni Falco circled my chair slowly, like a jackal assessing wounded prey. Hours of captivity had given me plenty of time to study my captor—smarmy, overdressed, with the faux confidence of a small man playing at being powerful. Gold chains glinted at his neck. Rings adorned his stubby fingers. His slicked-back hair revealed a receding hairline he was clearly fighting a losing battle against.
He circled my chair slowly, like a jackal assessing wounded prey.
"Not much to look at now, are you?" He grabbed my chin, forcing my face up. His breath smelled of cigars and cheap cologne. "But still, there must be something special about you. Ricci doesn't typically keep his whores around this long."
I spat in his face.
The backhand was expected, but no less painful. My head snapped to the side, stars exploding behind my eyes.
"Feisty," he chuckled, wiping his cheek with a monogrammed handkerchief. "I like that. Makes it more fun when you finally break."
"Fuck you," I managed through gritted teeth.
"Maybe later, if Ricci doesn't come through." His smile never reached his cold eyes. "He has six hours to deliver what I want. After that, I start mailing pieces of you back to him. One finger at a time. Antonio's paying me well to make sure his brother learns some respect."
He traced a line down my arm with his fingernail, pressing hard enough to leave a white trail on my skin.
"I had a girl once, about your age. Beautiful thing. Thought she was too good for me." His voice dropped to a whisper. "Took me three days to convince her otherwise. By the end, she was begging me to kill her."
