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And finally, there’s Gavriel, who the family simply calls Vriel—virtually, a splinter of his name and nothing more. My understanding is this… he’s notasinvolved in the enforcement side of the family business, unless it’s warranted and he’s the last man standing so to speak, he’s more of their information man, their intel person.
But that doesn’t make him any less dangerous as his brothers are.
Shayne insists he’s just as ruthless, spiteful, and merciless as the other three are. This doesn’t bode well for me having a one-on-one get together with them. As a matter of fact, it makes my skin crawl and vomit inch its way up my throat.
“Don’t worry, we’ll hose you down before we take you in to see them,” the other man at his side snickers, and I guess by the sniggering between the two, they mean that quite literally.
“And what about clean clothes? Am I to meet them wearing the same clothes I was dressed in when I was taken? They’re pretty smelly, downright ripe, and should’ve been burned days ago. Will it offend them to be in my presence in this state?” I ask, squaring my shoulders. I refuse to allow these mean men to get the better of me, make me quake, and cause my lips to quiver.
Not happening, fellas.
I know what game they’re playing, and I refuse to be a willing participant. They’re trying to make me squirm, and that isn’t happening, not in front of their faces anyhow. Maybe when I’m back here and alone without anyone to witness my fear, I’ll give into that and allow myself to have a mini breakdown.
Maybe.
But as ill-tempered as I’m feeling right now, I doubt that’ll be happening anytime soon. If I give into that desolate temptation, it’ll be later—much, much, later.
“Don’t worry. I’m sure we have a burlap sack around here somewhere,” the first one who previously spoke says, causing them both to bowl over and laugh like a couple of hysterical hyenas.
I. Am. Not—in the least. Impressed.
“I don’t care what I’m wearing as long as it’s clean,” I shoot back, keeping my voice as calm and collected as I possibly can. I’m sure that there was a little hissing included, but that’s the least they deserve.
“Wouldn’t mind helping her dress,” the second man snickers. “Too bad we don’t supply underwear and bras.” The two of them high-five each other as if their favored football team just scored a touchdown. I’ve seen this with Leo and Luca when they’ve been glued to a television set—again, another pastime event I was not impressed with.
But these guys make it seem skeevy. They make my skin crawl. They’re vile and have no moral compass.
They’re gross.
Perverts.
Misogynistic cretins.
Sexist pigs.
The two step into my cell, getting into my space, and my tummy turns. One grabs my left arm, and the other grabs my right, neither of them are polite about it. I’m sure my skin will be donning fingerprint sized bruises from the brash way they’ve taken hold of me.
“Stop manhandling me! There’s no reason to be so rough,” I shout before lowering my voice to a more manageable, lady-like tone as I try to remove their mitts from my flesh. It hurts and I’m tired of experiencing pain—no matter the level.
“We don’t answer to you or take orders from you,” one of them says. “We were told to deliver you, nobody said we had to wear kid gloves while doing it.”
Not wanting my treatment to become even harsher, I choose to zip my lips, and stop fighting them as they lead me to wherever it is I’m being ruthlessly dragged to.
* * *
They didn’t lie, there was no shower in my future, instead I’m tossed into a cold, concrete room with a drain in the center where they douse me in hand soap and spray me down with a water hose. The water slapping against me is rough, chilling, and my teeth begin to chatter immediately. Their treatment of me is brutal and cruel.
“C-c-cold,” I manage to stammer out, wrapping my arms around my midsection and cradling myself in an attempt to insert some warmth back into my frozen body. Their only reaction to my chattering teeth is to laugh. I’ve lived through some maltreatment in my life, but in stating that to myself, I’ve never endured such mercilessness. I’m not sure how to take it nor how to respond to it.
“Good enough,” one states. “She’ll do, at least no one will hurl from the stench and being closed in the same room as she is.”
“Yeah. She’ll do,” the other parrots, tossing me a tattered rag that I’m supposing is meant to be a towel. It’s hardly large enough to cover my breasts let alone my entire being. However, I decide to go with my prior choice and remain silent. Complete and utter silence is the better alternative in this warped instance than being argumentative.
The sisters did have good advice from time to time, and in this case, taking them up on said advice is my best outcome. I hope.
I become a zombie, going through the motions, following directions, but I do it all numbly. This is the first time any man has seen me unclothed, and I may not have been violated in a sexual way, but it still feels like a violation of my mental and emotional welfare. It has me gagging, and I don’t keep that a secret from them.
“What? We aren’t good enough for you? Looking for a holy man? Too bad you decided slumming it with Luca Alvarez was a good idea. Do you know what they call him on the streets? They call him the widow maker. Wanna know why?” One of them asks, which one, I’m not sure because I’m refusing to look their way.
