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I refuse to fucking die here.
I stay still, unmoving, unwilling to play into his game. He likes his women to struggle, to cry, to plead and beg. I sense that deep down inside me, so I will my tears to stop flowing, and I take in the biggest breath I can manage. It may not be much, may not be satisfying, but I have air in my lungs, and that’s all I need in this moment.
I refuse to fucking die here.
He runs his finger up and down my slit, which refuses to moisten for him.
And that makes him angrier.
He jams two fingers inside me, and I remain calm despite the pain. He continues thrusting, and my mind escapes, going somewhere else. Somewhere far away from this shitty little storage unit and somewhere I don’t have to feel him as he slowly enters me. His small cock penetrates me, and I barely feel a thing.
I refuse to fucking die here.
I keep my cheek pushed as hard as possible into the cement as I glance toward him while he hastily shoves in and out of me. He’s lying against my back, and his breath in my ear causes my chest to pound harder, and something else, something different starts to surface from deep down inside me.
And for some reason, although I’ve been doing a damn good job at not playing into his madness, at not giving him what he wants, I decide I’m going to give myself one thing in the midst of this fucked-up attempt at payback.
I let out a deep, psychotic-sounding chuckle, doing my best Dante impression, before asking, “That all you got?”
I refuse to fucking die here.
Not without giving this bastard a piece of what he deserves.
I buck my head backward and deliver a hard blow to the front of his face.
If this is how I go out, I’m not going to make it easy.
What doesone do when the woman he loves has been kidnapped by an unmanageable drug lord?
Bargain with the devil himself to avoid hell.
Our twelve-car caravan careens down the dirt road to the storage units where Giana’s tracker says she is. I’ve looked it up, and it looks like it’s a three-acre space of land with an endless amount of units.
This is one of Martínez’s legitimate businesses, so to have immense security would be too suspicious. I’m assuming we’ve got a locked gate with security and guards posted by wherever Giana is. We’re one step ahead of them because Martínez is more than likely assuming we’re questioning the Amatos right now.
But in reality, been there, done that, and Gabriel Amato refused—or at least refused to come himself. He’s sending men with us, but the man is a scared fuck who doesn’t want to get his hands dirty.
We had to deal with the devil we know to try to take down the one we don’t.
All we got out of that meeting was that Gabriel Amato really is a heartless fucking prick.
At least we have his soldiers and a few capos, her brothers Niccolò and Matteo included. Clearly, they are much better men than their fucking father ever will be.
I don’t feel great about our limited number of men in correlation to the cartel’s. I’d love to get the MC here. We’ve got a contract with a local motorcycle club, but they’re out on a run of their own, and they can’t get here quickly enough.
We’ll have to make do with just our family and the ones we do have from the Amatos.
My phone rings, and when it picks up, I don’t bother letting him say hello. We don’t have time for fucking pleasantries.
“She still in the same spot?” I ask my tech graduate soldier, who’s been keeping an eye on the tracking software from my house.
“Sure is.”
“Patch me into the audio software. I need to hear who’s in there before we pull up.”
He does as I command, and I hear Giana ask if that’s all someone has.
All who has?
