Meanwhile, Charlie and I have been sitting here, tied up, listening to the three men haul anything that looked to be of value out of the house so they could load it into their truck.
One of the men found an abandoned bottle of cheap vodka my father somehow missed, and the trio has been passing it around for the past hour. Their voices have been getting angrier, their movements more impatient. Their expressions more leering and hungry when they look at Charlie and me. The smaller man and the gym rat are pacing the living room like caged animals.
Every time one of them walks by, I huddle tighter against my sister, the wall at our backs. The pain in my abdomen has abated, but my lower back still hurts and my stomach still burns with nausea.
The gym rat walks past us again, and then stops to trail a hand over Charlie’s hair.
“Nice. Soft. Your man paid big money for this hair. I wonder what else he paid for?” He eyes her chest and trails one finger down the neckline of her robe. Charlie twists away, kicking out with her bound feet. The asshole laughs and tugs her hair until she stops fighting, then lets her go with enough force that her head snaps back.
“Quit messing around,” the smaller man says. “We should probably move ‘em, huh? We’re still on Bellanti property.”
“Fuck ‘em,” Gasoline says. “They have no idea where we are, or they’d be here already. We’re right under their fuckin’ noses, with their wives to boot.” He takes another swig of vodka.
“Besides,” the gym rat adds, “if Bellanti does figure it out, we’ll just shoot him when he gets here and make even more money. Let ‘im fuckin’ come! He’s a dead man anyway.”
“What’s the price on his head?” the smaller man asks.
“I don’t know the exact number. Gotta be at least a mil,” the gym rat answers.
Dante was right. Someoneisout for the Bellantis—someone with the money, power, and influence to put a hit out on them. The entire family must have a price on their heads.
Gasoline takes another long pull from the bottle and then looks at me and Charlie.
“I’m bored,” he says. “How’s about you two put on a show for us?”
He laughs, the others joining in.
“‘How’s about’youeat shit and die,” Charlie shoots back.
The short, stocky perp is on her in an instant. “Hey, that’s not very nice. Sounds like you need a lesson in hospitality.”
He pulls her robe apart, exposing her bare breasts. The men whistle at the display.
“Stop it!” Forgetting my own pain, I launch from my curled sitting position and throw myself at the man, trying to get him away from Charlie.
Before I can do anything else, I’m grabbed from behind by Gasoline and yanked to my feet. Suddenly I’m lifted off the ground as he hefts me up and carries me into the next room, my dad’s den. Charlie’s voice cuts through me as she screams my name, the sounds of her own struggle making me desperate.
I kick and arch my back, twisting, jabbing with my elbows…anything I can do with my ankles and wrists bound. The man just laughs and forces me onto the floor. I land facedown on the carpet, my belly hitting the floor before I roll over. Pain blinds me, making me gasp.
I’m so stunned by it that I can’t react as my robe is ripped open and hands track over my breasts and belly.
“Well, well, well,” he says, his eyes tracking over me. “What do we have here? He knock you up already? Shame. I was gonna do it.”
Groaning in agony, I twist away, but he pulls me right back. Distantly, I know what’s happening—what’s about to happen—but I’m so wrapped up in the pain banding around my belly that I can barely muster the awareness to even try to fight back. My whole abdomen is clenching. Squeezing. Setting me on fire. Draining the strength out of me.
He starts palming my breasts, slapping them and tweaking my nipples roughly. Tears streak down my face as I struggle weakly, but between the folds of my robe twisting around me and the fact that I’m tied up, I can’t get away from him.
“Be nice, little lady. Maybe if you’re real good, I’ll take a few grand off your daddy’s tab.”
The cramping has started again, coming back full force.
“Please. I need a hospital,” I pant, breathless with pain. “Something’s wrong, please. The baby…”
Gasoline just laughs. “Fuck that. With the money I can get for killing a Bellanti, even a half-baked one, I might actually come out of this hole sitting real pretty.”
Another wave of cramping—contractions, really—hits. And that’s when I realize: the baby is coming, much too soon. I need a doctor.
“You fucking snake,” I gasp through clenched teeth. “You bastard. You fucking—”
