The house is quiet. I take the back stairs, the ones Rosa showed me lead to the kitchen. My bare feet are silent on the marble floors. I don’t know why I’m doing this. Don’t know what I think I’m going to accomplish.
But my feet keep moving, carrying me across the damp lawn toward that warehouse, toward whatever is happening inside.
The door is slightly ajar.
I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t.
But the man who pressed his hard length against me and commanded me to strip is in there. The man who walked awaywhen I said no. The man who locked my door and left me aching and confused.
What does he do when there’s no door to lock? When someone doesn’t have the power to say no?
I press myself against the wall and peer through the gap.
The warehouse is mostly empty, concrete floors, exposed beams, industrial lighting casting harsh shadows. In the center of the space, a man is tied to a metal chair. His face is already bloody, nose obviously broken, and one eye swollen shut.
And standing over him, perfectly calm in his tailored suit, is Salvatore.
My stomach drops.
I swallow hard, but it does nothing to steady the sudden, sickening realization settling in my chest.
“I’m going to ask you one more time, Romano.” Salvatore’s voice is quiet. “Who did you tell about the shipment?”
“I didn’t tell anyone, I swear.”
The crack of Salvatore’s fist against the man’s jaw echoes through the space. The man’s head snaps to the side, blood spraying from his mouth.
My hand flies to my mouth, stifling a gasp.
Those same hands that touched my skin. That dragged down my gown strap. That I felt pressed against me.
“Wrong answer.” Salvatore flexes his fingers, the same fingers that traced my collarbone, completely unbothered by the blood now staining his knuckles. “Let’s try again. The Bratva knew exactly when and where that shipment was arriving. They knew which truck, which route, which guards would be on duty. That’s not a lucky guess. That’s insider information.”
“I don’t know anything about the Russians!”
Salvatore sighs like he’s dealing with a particularly slow child. He walks to a table against the wall, I hadn’t noticed it before, and picks up something that glints in the light.
A knife.
Oh my God.
My fingers twitch at my sides, a tremor I can’t control. I’ve read about violence in books, studied it in history, but standing here, seeing it… it feels completely different. Real. Terrifying.
“I really didn’t want to do this.” Salvatore tests the blade against his thumb. “You’ve been with us for three years. Good worker. Reliable. Your wife recently had a baby, didn’t she? Little girl. Leah.”
The man’s remaining good eye widens in terror. “Please. Please don’t hurt my family. I’ll tell you whatever you want, please don’t—”
“I don’t hurt women and children.” Salvatore crouches in front of him, the knife held loosely in his hand. The same casual dominance he had when he stepped into my room. “That’s not who we are. But you? You put my family at risk. My brothers. My people. The shipment you compromised had enough fentanyl to kill half of Newark. It’s now in Bratva hands, being cut with God knows what, killing people in neighborhoods we’re supposed to protect.”
“I needed the money! Leah was sick, the medical bills—”
“So you went to the Russians instead of coming to me?” For the first time, there’s heat in Salvatore’s voice. Real anger, barely leashed. The same steel that was underneath when he said “That wasn’t a request.” “I would have paid for your daughter’s treatment. Every penny. All you had to do was ask. Instead, you betrayed us. You put my family in danger. You made me look weak.”
He presses the tip of the knife against the man’s knee. Not cutting. Not yet. Just pressure.
The same control he showed when he stepped back from me. When he could have forced me and didn’t.
“Last chance. Give me names, or I start taking pieces.”
