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In a secret basement, under my husband’s secret closet bunker.
Don’t throw up.
“Understood.” Mark says as a guy in the all-black gear binds his hands behind him in the chair. He makes eye contact with me. “Come, sit.”
I move to sit in the opposite chair. I’m shaking already.
“Gailo. No choking her. No sexual threats.”
“What?” I squeak.
“We have to make this look real.” Mark explains again. “He will act like a vile, scum of the earth barbarian. A mafioso, if you will.” He half chuckles at his joke and then looks up to Gailo. “Seriously. If you push me too far, I’ll snap and call you by name and we’ll have to start over.”
“Don’t snap.” Gailo replies flatly.
“Acknowledge what I said, Gailo.”
“No choking. No groping.”
“I’m going to be sick.” I say for maybe the twentieth time in so many minutes.
“Look at me.” Mark commands. I look up at him as my hands are bound behind me and my ankles are tied to the chair legs. “It’s okay to throw up. Or scream. Or piss yourself. You will cry and shake because your brain will think this is real. Just beg for him to stop. You’ll mean that and you can say it a million times, okay?”
I just shake my head. No. Not okay.
“Listen, every time you hear me call him an insult, that’s code. That’s your reminder I’m in control. Same for Gailo. Every time he insults me, he’s saying we’re faking this. He’s not hurting me as bad as it looks. Alright?”
“Insults? What do you mean?”
“I fucking love talking in code. This is going to be fun.” Gailo says with a crazed smile on his face. “Plus, I get to punch Mr. Perfect in his pretty face. Hit record. Let’s start this party.” He calls to a man in the corner and Mark gives a nod.
“No I’m not ready I—“
WHAP!
Gailo backhands Mark across the face. His head flies to the side and spit and possibly some blood comes out. Ohshit shit shit.I can’t do this. I won’t be able to fake it. I’m going to say his name or something.
“Dimmi come gestisce il confine, leccapiedi sporco e nutrito pezzo di merda!” Tell me how he runs the border, you bootlicker, dirty, Fed piece of shit.Gailo yells in Italian.
“I don’t speak Italian, asshole.” Mark grunts softly.
“I’ve heard even your Spanish is shit. Mr. Texas can’t even hablo the espanolo. What a useless piece of garbage. Tell me what I want to know, or we do this all day long.” WHAP! He smacks him again. Mark is bleeding now. I’m trembling badly. Not just because of the violence. But because I am going to say the wrong thing and ruin this and then we’ll have to do it over again.
“How many cars go through each checkpoint? How many kilos in each car? Huh? Answer me,you pussy.” WHAP! Mark groans a bit. I don’t think he’s acting. I whimper. Mark looks at me. Gailo charges him again. “Don’t look at her, look at me. How many cars, fuckface? Huh?”
“Go to hell, you weak bastard. Let her out of here.”
“Oh, is the little lady upset?” Gailo mocks. “Doesn’t want to see you hurt? She won’t like this.” He punches Mark in the stomach so hard the chair shifts.
“Fuck!” Mark huffs out. But then Gailo is back on him again, another punch to the stomach and one uppercut to the face. The sound of it. The smashing. And he’s bleeding now, from his nose and his bullet wound, which the punches must’ve reopened. His stained shirt is now bright red in spots again. I know it hurts. I know he’s in pain no matter what they told me.
I turn my face to the side and throw up.
“Let her go,” Mark grits out.
“Ah, so you won’t sing for me, but maybe we can change your tune for her, huh?”
Mark leans forward against his restraints. “Listen,you Italian piece of gutter trash. Do not touch her!”
