The moment we step inside, a door slams behind me, and I know I’m done for.
The smell of bleach, cigarette smoke, piss, and rotten flesh assault my senses. I can hear more people. The slap of sandals. The scrape of a chair against the floor. The crinkle of wrapping. A TV plays what sounds like a game show in the background. Male voices come from another room.
How many people are there? Five? Ten? Thirty?
I’m never getting out of here.
Ordus will die trying to save me.
Fuck. No—he can’t. He has to go back to the island and forget about me. There’s no point in the both of us getting captured.
I fight harder. I’d rather get a bullet through the head than deal with whatever’s coming.
Another set of hands lands on me, shifting my equilibrium by yanking my shoulder and slamming me down onto a seat. It digs into my back, like sandpaper against my inflamed tattoo. They tie me easily to it, like I’m not screaming and thrashing for dear life, and unfasten the sack on my head, though they leave it on.
I beg them to let me go in every language I know, but none of it makes sense through the gag. I strain my eyes, trying to see. Still, nothing but the light’s hue makes it through.
The echo of departing footsteps fills the room. The gunshot sound of the slammed door makes things worse. They’re calling for their boss. Who is it going to be? Tommy’s brother? One of their enforcers? His dad?
The ropes burn my skin as I wriggle, trying to undo the bindings around my wrists or loosen the ties strapping me to the chair.
The bag is ripped from my head, and I scream from the shock and the sudden onslaught of light. Breathing hard, I squint against the brightness.
A single, dreary, white light bulb hangs from the moldy ceiling. Brown and black stains splatter the concrete floors and yellowed walls, a watercolor patchwork foretelling the agony in my future. The peeling wallpaper curls around the rickety table loaded with guns, rusted knives, pliers, and tools I’ve only ever seen used on cars and construction.
Movement flashes from my side. I jump and cringe away from the person rounding me, body primed for an attack. My brows stitch together, blinking to pinpoint why the blurry face is familiar.
“Deedee?” I croak, inspecting her up and down for bruises or ropes. “What are you—what’s happening? Where am I? Why am I here? Untie me.”
Her arms are free. She’s in the same jeans and T-shirt I saw her in during dinner—how long ago was that? I crane my neck to find a window. Is the sun about to rise?
It doesn’t matter. We need to get out of here before those men come back.
Deedee tsks, and the room spins when I snap my attention back to her. “So many questions,” she muses.
My frown deepens. “Deedee, this isn’t funny—” The realization drops like a stone. I suck in a sharp breath at the smile splitting across her face. “The American,” I whisper.
She sold me out.
Myfriendgave me up to the fucking Gallaghers.
That bitch.
Rage slices through me. Anger at her. Anger atmyself. I was stupid to trust her. We were never friends. Why the fuck did we get matching tattoos if we didn’t have some kind of bond?
“Cindi, Cindi, Cindi.” Deedee’s bottom lip sticks out in mock pity. “I don’t even know your real name.”
It takes me a second to figure out what she meant. When it finally sinks in, I want to throw up. Deedee said there was an American going around saying my actual name.
Like I’m taking too long to fit the pieces together, she laughs. “There was never any American, stupid.”
I think I’m going to throw up.
“But there was a man at my house. He—he took my phone,” I say in disbelief.
Deedee purses her lips in mock pity. “Yes. One of mine, babe.”
“Why am I here?” I stutter, flicking my attention between her and the door. How long until the Gallaghers walk in? How much is she getting for handing me over?
