Chapter 6

"Beverly, get in my car. Now." Vanya's voice was fierce and protective, her keys already in her hand as she moved toward her car. "I'm driving you home. This is crazy."

Beverly shook her head hard, her hands shaking as she signed no. The I*******m comments were still burning in her mind, and Diro's public abandonment echoed in her head like a death sentence.

"You don't understand," Beverly's hands moved frantically, desperately. "In the mafia world, there are rules. If Diro said walk, I walk. If I show up in a car, if I make him look weak by disobeying..." Her hands stopped, unable to finish the thought.

"The punishment will be worse," Beverly signed, her movements sharp with terror. "So much worse. You don't know what he can do when he's really angry."

Vanya's face crumpled with helpless anger, watching her friend choose torture over the unknown consequences of mercy. But Beverly was already turning away, her work heels clicking against the pavement like a funeral march.

The first mile was manageable. The restaurant was in a decent part of town, where families walked their dogs and children played in nice front yards. Beverly kept her head down, her pace steady despite the growing pain in her feet, each step a small surrender to Carter family cruelty.

The second mile brought her into rougher territory. The sidewalks had cracks, and weeds pushed through the concrete. Her feet were screaming now, blisters forming where the shoe straps cut into her skin like tiny knives.

By the third mile, Beverly had entered the kind of neighborhood where decent people didn't walk alone after dark - and decent people certainly didn't walk alone in expensive work clothes and heels that screamed "victim."

"Hey, pretty lady."

The voice came from behind her, low and dangerous. Beverly's blood turned cold as she heard footsteps - multiple sets - following her down the cracked sidewalk. Her heart hammered against her ribs as she walked faster, but the heels became death traps.

"Where you going all dressed up like that?"

More laughter. Male voices, rough around the edges, getting closer. Beverly broke into a desperate run, her heels clicking frantically against the pavement. Behind her, she heard their footsteps speeding up, heard their laughter turning uglier, more excited.

The heel of her left shoe snapped first, sending her lurching sideways. She kicked both shoes off without stopping, leaving them scattered on the sidewalk like discarded promises as she ran barefoot through the gathering darkness.

"That's it, keep running! We like it when they run!"

The voices were getting closer. Beverly's lungs burned, her heart felt like it might explode, but she kept running. The sidewalk was rough beneath her bare feet, but she couldn't stop. She just had to get away.

That's when she stepped on the broken bottle.

The pain was immediate and terrible, glass slicing through the tender sole of her foot like a blade through silk. Beverly cried out - a sound that barely qualified as human, raw and broken - as she stumbled and nearly fell.

Blood began to pool beneath her foot, dark and warm against the cold concrete. But she couldn't stop. The voices behind her were still there, still hunting. She limped forward, leaving a trail of blood behind her like breadcrumbs in a nightmare fairy tale.

More glass found her feet - another bottle, a discarded can with a sharp edge - until both feet were torn and bleeding, each step a fresh agony. As she stumbled through the darkness, her mind drifted back to another time, another life.

She was eight years old again, trembling in the back of a black car as Diro's grandfather spoke in gentle tones. "Your family was murdered unfairly, little one. But you're safe now. The men who killed them are still out there, but they'll never find you here."

She remembered how his old hands had been so gentle as he helped her out of the car, how his eyes had been kind despite the hardness that came with running a criminal empire.

"Diro," he had called to the fifteen-year-old boy watching from the mansion's front steps. "This is Beverly. She's going to be part of our family now. I want you to protect her. Always. Do you understand me, boy?"

Young Diro had nodded seriously, his dark eyes grave beyond his years. "I'll protect her, Grandfather. I promise."

The old man had squeezed Beverly's hand. "See? You have a guardian now. Nothing will ever hurt you again."

What a cruel lie that had turned out to be.

Beverly finally lost her pursuers somewhere in the maze of abandoned buildings and dead-end alleys, but by then she was lost too. It took her another hour to find her way back to familiar streets, another hour of walking on feet that left bloody prints with every step.

When the Carter mansion finally came into view, Beverly nearly wept with relief. The imposing iron gates that had always felt like prison bars now looked like salvation. She stumbled toward them, her torn feet screaming in protest, her work dress stained with sweat and blood.

The security guard looked up as she approached, his face immediately respectful. He knew who she was - the lady of the house, Diro Carter's wife. But his expression was pained, conflicted.

"Good evening, Mrs. Carter," he said through the intercom, his voice heavy with regret. "I... I'm afraid the boss gave specific instructions. Anyone arriving after the one-hour deadline... he said you should wait outside until he gives another order. You know how his rules are, ma'am."

Beverly stared at him in disbelief, her bleeding feet leaving dark stains on the pristine concrete. The guard's eyes dropped to her wounds, his face twisting with visible discomfort, but he didn't move to open the gate.

She sank to her knees on the cold ground, her body finally giving up the fight. Blood seeped through her torn stockings, her feet throbbed with every heartbeat, and somewhere inside the mansion's warm walls, her husband was probably congratulating himself on teaching her a lesson.

Inside his study, Diro sat behind his mahogany desk, a glass of expensive whiskey untouched at his elbow. The grandfather clock in the corner chimed nine times, each sound like a hammer blow to his growing irritation.

Three hours. Three whole hours, and still no word from the security team about her return. His jaw clenched as he stared at the paperwork before him, the numbers blurring as his anger built like pressure in a boiler.

The defiance was unacceptable. Did she think she could make her own rules now? Did she think her little friend's interference had somehow changed things? Did she think she could embarrass him in public and then take her sweet time coming home like some rebellious teenager?

His fist slammed against the desk, making the whiskey glass jump. The girl was growing some serious nerves, and that could not be tolerated. Not in his house. Not in his family. Not from someone who owed her very existence to Carter generosity.

She needed to be taught a lesson she would never forget.

The rage burned hotter in his chest as he imagined her out there somewhere, probably laughing with that interfering friend of hers, probably thinking she had won some kind of victory by standing up to him. Well, she was about to learn just how wrong she was.

Outside, Beverly shivered against the iron gates of her own home, her blood slowly pooling beneath her as she waited for mercy that would never come.