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“Don’t pretend you didn’t hear me, you little whore. Where is Max Fiorenza?” The voice was harsh and demanding, and I thought my arm might pull loose from its socket. Tears of panic stung my eyes.
“I don’t know!” I gasped. “I don’t know who you’re talking about. I don’t know anyone named Max.”
Did I? I wracked my brain, but it came up empty. “You must have the wrong person.”
The stranger rasped a laugh, but there was no humor in it.
“Not likely, Camilla. Do you know how long it took us to track you here? Years.”
My mind raced. What was he talking about? Years to track me where? I’d always lived here.
“Then as soon as we find you, you go and disappear again,” he continued in a growl. “But now you’re back and we’re not going to lose you again, so answer the question. Where is he?”
“I. Don’t. Know.” I forced out the words, wondering if I could bite the hand that covered my mouth. “I don’t know who the fuck you’re talking about.”
He pulled and my shoulder screamed. I barely managed not to cry out.
“Got a mouth on you, huh? I shouldn’t have expected anything less. Look, bitch—”
The sound of footsteps echoed loud down the alleyway toward us and my breath caught. I knew my assailant heard it too because he froze, moving only to jerk me deeper into the shadows. But then the footsteps slowed as if they knew exactly where we were hiding, and the hand over my mouth moved to my chin, forcing my head to the side so I couldn’t see as another person joined us in the alcove.
“He says let her go,” the new voice panted out. The person was female, high pitched and out of breath.
“What?” My assailant echoed my thought. And who was ‘he?’ Who were any of them?
“But the bitch hasn’t told me anything yet,” he growled, his voice pure menace, but the other person didn’t seem put off.
“He says it doesn’t matter. Let her go. He’s got eyes on her now. She’ll lead us to him, one way or another.”
Did he mean me? Who had eyes on me? What did that even mean? But my train of thought derailed as the man behind me twisted my arm one final time, pulling hard, and this time I did let out a muffled shriek of pain.
When his voice came again it was right by my ear, so close I could feel the heat of his breath. “You’re free for now, but don’t think this means you’re safe, bitch. We’re watching you. Now run.”
Then his hands were gone, and I did the only thing I could. I obeyed. I ran, and his laughter followed me all the way to the end of the alley.
I spilled out into the parking lot, my shoes pounding on the pavement as I rounded the corner, my backpack still gripped tight in one hand. My other arm was useless. My shoulder was a ball of pure fire, and I clutched it tight to my chest as I pelted across the parking lot toward the tattoo studio.
None of what Ian had said mattered—he would help me. He had to. But when I got there the studio was dark, the door locked, and Ian’s car was gone from the parking lot.
I let out a curse in a high-pitched voice I barely recognized as my own, futilely yanking on the door in a desperate attempt to get inside, but it didn’t budge. With a last frustrated growl, I took off again, heading toward the street. I felt so exposed, even though I knew no one was likely to be in pursuit. They wouldn’t have let me go if they intended to grab me again, I told myself over and over, the refrain doing little to calm my shaking legs and frayed nerves. The pain in my shoulder was enough to convince me that whatever they’d been after, they were serious about it, and I couldn’t get the man’s words out of my head.
Don’t think this means you’re safe, bitch. We’re watching you.
I finally made it out to the main road. Traffic was light, but a few cars passed by, and the streetlights that flooded the sidewalks made me feel marginally safer. I stopped under the awning of a convenience store—closed early for the holiday—and tried to calm my panicked breathing.
My phone was in the outside pocket of my backpack and I fished it out. There were messages from the guys, both individually and in the group chat, but I ignored them, swiping them off the screen so I could call for a ride.
I huddled under the awning while I waited, shivering despite the warm temperature, and when the car came I slid uncomfortably into the back seat, flattening myself against the stained leather as far from the driver as I could manage. There was no hesitation on where to go this time; we headed straight for the airport.
It was late by the time we got there, and after managing to change my flight to the next one heading out, first thing the following morning, I curled up in a hard plastic chair at an empty gate, wrapping my arms around my legs.
I knew sleep wouldn’t come; I didn’t even try. Instead I sat there, huddled in a ball, and replayed every moment of the evening in my head, examining it from every angle.
The obvious answer was that they’d targeted the wrong person, that it had all been a mistake. But he’d known my name. Nothing else he’d said made sense though. What did he mean it’d taken him years to track me down? Who was he? And the woman, the breathless one who had told him to release me? Not to mention the third mysterious person who was calling the shots. And the biggest question—who the hell was Max Fiorenza?
I pulled my phone out and opened a web browser, typing the name into the search engine. I held my breath as I hit enter, then blinked in surprise at the message on the screen.
Your search has returned no results.
