When they whip my hood off, I’m panting in my fear. My eyes go wide as I look around at the men standing around me, and I sniff hard against the blood that’s still trickling from my nose – courtesy of being tossed around in a trunk for thirty minutes with my hands cuffed around my back, which means
Blood splatter like that which sprays from my mouth in the next second, as Bruno backhands me across the face. “Who are you!?” he shouts as a cry breaks from me, as tears start to slip down my cheeks. I hang my head, sobbing, shaking it slowly. Knowing that this doesn’t end well. That they know
I tell them what I can in between strikes to my face, my arms, my body – offering the information freely, letting it stumble from my lips. I let them know that Romano does indeed have the information – that if there’s anything in Steven’s notebook about their finances, that Romano’s studying it for
“It’s too much of a coincidence,” Marino murmurs. “The hacker girl you’re looking for ends up in my son’s car the night he dies? And she’s living in Romano’s son’s apartment, a childhood friend? Under his personal bodyguard all day and night? It’s…too much.” “I agree,” Bonetti murmurs. “There’s mo
I don’t know how long I’m in the cooler, not really. I cried for hours, I know, and then somehow fell asleep – or went unconscious. I don’t really know what the best word is for that state. Just…out. Not in the world anymore. But I’m ripped back into it the moment I hear the jangling of my padlock
I go completely still, my mind not processing this – Because, I mean – It’s impossible – He doesn’t take his time to say anything else now that he’s stopped me from screaming, let me know that he’s here. Instead, he just shoves – hard – at Bruno’s legs, freeing my body. I don’t move, just star
I don’t even bother to close the door behind me, because Christian’s already in his seat, already hitting the gas. I just scream and duck my head down as low as I can, and the movement of the car peeling away from the house slamming my door behind me. But…we drive. Which mean’s Christian’s alive,
“What are we doing?” I ask, a little afraid at the change. Honestly, if we’d kept driving for hours – weeks, years – I might have felt better. “We’re getting those cuffs off you,” Christian murmurs, pulling into a spot towards the empty back of the parking lot. “Oh,” I say, sitting up a little –