You know that shit with moms who could lift a car to free their babies from beneath it?
I channeledthatas the steel blade went through leather, flesh, then bone as I skewered his foot.
“Puttana!”
Overhead, it sounded like bullets were being fired, but I shut it out and focused on my survival and this bastard’s death.
With the knife lodged in his foot, I swung the lamp at his dick and did what I did best—practiced batting softballs.
Once he squealed like a baby, I aimed again. But violence was a part of his job description, so even as he bawled in pain, he showed more guts than the motherfucker I’d killed because he grabbed my hair and used it to drag me to my feet.
Screaming in agony was a reflex. I channeled the pain into aggression.
I could hurt later.
Now, I had to fight.
With more focus than I’d ever had in my life (and I’d been a bona fidecuntbefore and during the NCLEX exam process), I tightened my hold around the knife and slashed it against the bastard’s face.
He jerked back, taking me with him, and I had a split-second to focus on my attacker.
It wasn’t Cheap Suit.
When I recognized Stan’s driver, the asshole who’d brought me here, I blinked.
Then, I bared my teeth at the treacherous slimeball and slashed him.
When he went to punch me, I shielded myself with the lamp, but he tore it from my grasp and dropped it on the floor.
Desperate now, I thrust the blade at his face again.
I wouldn’t let them move me to an alternate location—who knew if I’d survive?
This time, Vinny listened to my plea as I forced my knife through his cheek. The already dulled edge was blunter from tonight’s heavy use but I managed to score down and then up, putting as much exertion behind it as I physically could.
I wanted him to hurt for what he’d done to me.
I wanted him marked.
I wanted that scar to be proof he was a traitor just in case I didn’t make?—
No.
I would make it.
NO DYING TONIGHT.
For no other reason than having to find out whatliunissameant.
And, to punch Stan.
Panting, I considered the situation. The flap of skin I’d cut open didn’t take him down like I’d prayed it would—no, my act of aggression seemed to rile him up more. One second, he was clasping at his cheek, wailing in pain, and the next, rage set his eyes alight and that same blood-covered hand that’d clutched at his face was circling my throat.
That was when he spat, “I’m going to do what I didn’t before, cunt.”
His intent was obvious when he dragged up the skirt of my dress, his filthy paw skimming over my thigh, nails digging in when I attempted to kick him, to free myself from his hold.
I clawed at him, kneed him in the junk, but his goddamn grip was like iron. No matter where I punched or tore or pulled, kicked or bucked or stomped, he didn’t feel it.
