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“I need the bathroom,” I say instead of explaining who I am and what I mean to the Severino family.
He looks me up and down one more time, but instead of untying my hands and directing me to the bathroom, he turns around and leaves the room.
I could possibly escape, but I stay on the bed, merely looking toward the single window in the room. Where would I go even if I managed to get away?
My life is a sad state when I consider staying here tied up is better than risking falling back into the hands of the Severino family any time soon.
Chapter 13
Hollis
I’m not very big on focusing on mistakes, but this is a very hard one to ignore, considering the thing I never should’ve done is sitting on the fucking bed in the other room.
I never should’ve taken her. I should’ve followed the other vehicles, waited until Alessio got out, and emptied my magazine into him. I think dying today would be easier to deal with than her fake fucking tears.
I hate when women cry. I used to seethe inside when my mother would do it. I would want to destroy anything and everything that would cause her pain. It took years to understand she did it because she was weak.
My hands tremble, but flexing my fingers into closed fists and reopening them in rapid succession doesn’t make the shaking stop.
I’ve paced. I’ve sat on the love seat, the only piece of living room furniture other than a small side table, for hours trying to figure out what I should do. Hurting her the way Alessio hurt Ellie was the first thing that came to mind, but fuck if that doesn’t make my stomach churn the way it does when I pore over the case file from her murder.
I haven’t heard a sound from the room, not with the setting sun, not with the long hours of the night. The sun is starting to peek through the curtains and still nothing from the room.
I grind my back molars together, knowing it’s too fucking late, that worrying about what I’ve done won’t make it go away. Standing, I take a look at the door leading to my truck in the garage, but leaving her here tied up really isn’t an option.
I head in that direction, a sinister smile, something in complete contradiction to the recent thoughts in my head, taking over my face when she jerks her head up.
She hasn’t scooted down in the bed. Other than her head having been lulled to the side, she’s still in the exact position I put her in.
“How often do they hurt you?” I ask, not sure I want to know the answer.
She’s been too compliant, too accustomed to threats to be the righthand of an evil man like Alessio. What I thought I saw with her raised head in public, even her smiles, have to have been because it’s what’s expected of her. If she was as defiant as I imagined she would be, then she would’ve gotten as comfortable on the bed as she could manage. She’d yell at me from the darkness and threaten my life with her lover’s vengeance. I’ve gotten none of that since I took her. The only thing she said was that she’s as good as dead, that they’ll kill her if she talks. She honestly seems resigned, maybe even a little relieved that was her destiny. As if dying is better than facing another day of what she’s been enduring.
It could be a ploy. The tears could’ve been as fake as I considered them being, but the sight of her, exhausted and weak on the bed makes me reconsider all of my earlier assumptions.
“How often?” I growl when she doesn’t speak.
“Anytime they got a chance,” she says, her words scratchy, making it clear her throat is dry.
She flinches when I step in closer. I have no doubt if her arms weren’t tied behind her back, she would’ve instinctively brought them up to cover her face the way she did in my truck.
I know all too well the signs of an abused woman.
“Motherfucker,” I grumble as I lean her forward and pull at the rope on her wrists.
I didn’t allow her to go to the bathroom, but it looks like she still managed not to soil herself. I didn’t offer her anything to drink or eat. It’s the only form of fucking torture I can manage.
I point to the bathroom door off to the left, feeling like a complete piece of shit when she stumbles off the bed, her pretty face marked with pain as she rolls her shoulders. I hate her. I don’t feel like she deserves any sympathy, but I still can’t stop looking at the lipstick marking her very dry lips.
I consider my next move, but I already know what it is.
