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Thirty

 

Once everything was settled, Giovanni released us to clean up, assuring us he would send the physician to tend to our wounds. I didn’t even want to look at myself in a mirror. In twenty-four hours I’d been hit by a car, had my head slammed into metal bars, and had been beaten with a belt. Domenico didn’t look much better. I hadn’t really gotten to focus on much but the presence of him, and I had a feeling there was more to be seen under his clothes.

When we stepped out of his office, a woman in slick black heels and tears streaming down her face stomped toward us.

“You murderer!” I recognized her as Renata Ferrante, Giovanni’s wife. Domenico stepped in front of me, but when I watched her pull her hand back to strike him, I moved in front of him and grabbed hold of her wrist.

“Don’t you fucking touch him, you witch,” I growled.

“Get your hands off of me, maggot!” she screeched.

In her heels she was easily six inches taller than me, so I turned her wrist outward, bringing he
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