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My hair’s a tangled mess, resembling a bird’s nest. Bruises and swelling decorate my face. I have other injuries as well. Other bruises that color my brown skin black and blue. Scrapes that are nasty reds and purples from irritation and dried blood.
Blood.
I’ve been hurt… very badly.
My hand travels to my neck where a severe bruise has developed, and a feeble cry leaves me. My family’s heirloom rose necklace that I’ve worn since I was thirteen is gone. It was torn away when…
I scream. Alarm rings through my body and propels it backward in my desperation to get away. My urgency to flee, run anywhere that’s not here.
Anywhere safe.
Because, deep down, somehow I know I’m anything but in this moment. I spin toward the door and then collide with a figure that’s taller and immovable. Hands clench around my arms and hold me in place despite my instant reaction to twist and fight.
My gaze lifts to the grotesque face grinning down at me.
“Long time no see,” Cesar says. “Finally, a chance to finish what we started.”
“Let go of me. Don’t touch me!”
“You might’ve escaped being sold that night. But I assure you, tonight… no one can hear you scream.”
“HELP! HELP!”
I become hysterical. Manic in my level of panic as he digs his fingers into my skin and his vile, minty-methanol stench surrounds me. I’m tossed to the ground, landing hard on my belly, without a chance to crawl away.
When I try, he grabs my legs and pulls me toward him, yanking down my yoga pants as he does.
“HELP!” I scream, clawing at the bathroom floor. “PLEASE HELP!”
“MRS. PHI!”
My eyes pop open to the blurry sight of Stitches shaking me by my shoulders.
“Mrs. Phi, you okay?!”
I’m panting and sweaty, completely dazed and speechless. I can only blink and stare vacantly ahead.
A nightmare. That’s all it was. A terrible nightmare. My first one in months.
Stitches frowns. “Mrs. Phi, you were screaming. I came up because there’s been an emergency.”
The ‘E’ word jolts me back into the present. I jerk and redirect my focus onto Stitches. “E-emergency? What do you mean? What kind of emergency?”
“Nirvana,” answers Stitches grimly. “There’s been a shooting at the club.”
5
salvatore
“This isthe last time I’m going to address this shit,” I growl as I stalk the second-floor halls of Nirvana’s VIP.
Fabio shakes his bald, cueball head. “Psycho, they’re refusing to listen. Kozlov says he didn’t get his cut.”
“That’s not possible. I was with Suarez when he got the shipment in. He understood the distribution agreement. Kozlov was losing five. Giancola was gaining five.”
“Kozlov’s saying that ain’t what happened. He lost ten.”
“This is very easy to prove. Get Suarez on the fucking phone.”
