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Assuming he won’t shoot me, I dart from where I stand and pull a chef’s knife from the butcher block. When I turn from the counter, Eddie is standing only a few feet from me.
“What do you plan to do with that? Make me a fucking sandwich?”
The knife trembles in my grip as I swipe it in his direction. He hisses when I make contact with his arm. Blood drips from his wound, but it only infuriates him.
Lunging at me, the back of his hand comes down hard across my cheek. The pain of his strike radiates through my face and eye, causing me to cry out in pain. Shoving my disoriented body backward, I hit the counter as he pulls the knife from my hand and tosses it to the floor.
I cringe as his bloody fingers curl around my throat, squeezing hard enough to impede my ability to breathe. Struggling to suck in air, I forcefully lift my knee into his crotch.
The blow catches him off-guard, and he lets go of my throat to clutch at his manhood. Pushing away from the counter, I run with all of my might toward the elevator.
If I can just get to the guards downstairs in the garage…
As my barefoot steps over the threshold to the elevator, Eddie fists the hair at the back of my head and yanks me backward. He pulls so hard that I’m brought to the ground in tears.
“Get up, bitch,” he uses my hair as leverage to pull me from the ground.
My feet scrambling beneath me, I struggle to stand to alleviate the pain caused from him pulling at my hair.
“I’d recommend against trying that shit again,” he pushes the button to take us down to the garage with the muzzle of the gun, his other hand still firmly gripping my hair.
Feeling the elevator coming to a stop, I scream for help. Hoping that my screams alert the men on the other side of the door that there is a situation. The doors open and Eddie chuckles as he shoves me forward by my hair.
“They aren’t going to help you,” he pushes me past the guards. Both are sitting on the ground, beneath a trail of blood smeared down the wall they are both now slumped lifelessly against.
The concrete of the garage is cold and hard against my bare feet, only increasing the pain of every forced step.
Popping the trunk of the car, he shoves me toward it and waves the gun in my direction, “Get in.”
“Eddie,” I look up at him, “You don’t have to do this.”
“Get in the fucking trunk, sweetheart.”
Even with the gun waving in my face, my body won’t move.
If he’s going to kill me, it can happen here.
With the gun in his hand, he punches me in the face, and everything immediately goes fuzzy.
“I said get in the fucking trunk,” I feel him shove my crumpling body as everything goes black.
thirty two
ALEJANDRO
Andres is speeding, swerving around cars, taking red lights, and doing whatever he can. Regardless, he can’t make it through city traffic fast enough for me and he knows it.
The phone lines are down for the building, and I can’t reach security. Redialing Isabella, I slam my fist into the dash when it goes to voicemail yet again.
My heart is thumping in my throat, and my fist crashes into the dash again and again. I need to vent out of some of this anger…and fear.
Andres stays silent, his eyes focused on the road and getting us back to the penthouse. He’s known me long enough to know that words won’t console me right now.
Finally pulling into the garage, it’s quiet. No different from any other Tuesday morning.
“That’s Eduardo’s car,” Andres gestures to his left before pulling us to a stop near the elevators. My stomach drops when I see two of my men slumped over on the ground.
Climbing from the car, I run the distance to the elevator and slam my palm repeatedly against the call button. Bending down while I wait for the doors to open, I check the men on the ground for pulses and pull the guns from their holsters.
