Page 108 of Saving Sophia

John nodded and left.

“I thought you’d understand the opportunity,” Daddy said, returning to the business at hand.

“I’m still not sure I understand why you’d hand over such a lucrative option,” Mr. Roscoe said, his eyes sliding up and down my body, “for such an unexceptional creature.”

Daddy’s jaw tightened, the muscles of his neck flexing past the crisp white collar of his shirt.

“And there is still the problem of leverage,” Mr. Roscoe added, his eyes narrowing. “If you have the little maid, then you have too much.” The regret on his face looked almost sincere. “I’m afraid I can’t have that.”

The moon-faced man took a step toward Callie and me, his eyes slithering up her long legs and lingering on her cleavage. She let go of my hand to flip him her middle finger, but he just laughed. “We could keep the feisty one,” he said. “She’ll be more fun to break anyway.” He tossed a glance at me. “This one would fold too quickly.”

An awful pounding started in my head. We weren’t getting out of this alive. The cold reality of it smashed into me like a concrete wall. There was no deal Mr. Roscoe would honor. No matter what, they were going to kill us all.

Deep inside me, something snapped. My fists tightened around my stupid server’s tray until my knuckles were white.

I was the main character of my story. Maybe it wouldn’t have a happy ending, but plucky heroines don’t go down without a fight.

I sidestepped to the right, away from Callie and toward the moon-faced man, who was still looking at me with an amused smirk, like I was so easily broken he wouldn’t even enjoy it. I took another half-spinning step for momentum and slammed the hard edge of the tray into the side of his head with all the anger and pent-up frustration of a lifetime.

For all the forced apologies, pleading forgiveness for my existence, for all the people I cared about who he threatened, for each time in my life someone told me I was small and pathetic and insignificant. I channeled every bit of it into that swing and let him have it all.

He gave out a little whoof sound that mingled with a sickening crack. It might have been bone breaking.

I didn’t care.

I watched him fall to his knees, slowly, like an old man with arthritis easing down to the ground. His eyes stared up at me in bewilderment through two thick rivers of blood before he collapsed onto the floor.

“Holy shit!” Callie screamed, lunging for me as I lost my balance from the swing and the impact. The tray crashed to the ground next to his limp body. Callie threw her arms around me, and we clutched at each other like two women drowning.

Panic rose from deep in my guts. What had I done?

We both spun our heads in time to see Mr. Roscoe jump up and pull his gun from its holster. Callie stifled a scream. Horror and fear washed through my moment of bravado.

“No need for that,” Daddy’s voice cut through my hysteria. I turned toward him, my jaw dropping when I saw him standing, a gun in his hands too. Pointed at Mr. Roscoe.

“I think there is,” Mr. Roscoe snarled, his voice low and menacing. His eyes darted around the room, as if he were just realizing his only back-up was unconscious on the floor.

“I’ll kill her,” he threatened, aiming the gun at me.

I stared at the dark hole of the barrel. My brain replayed the wisp of smoke that came from it the night it killed Nik Vasili.

“And I’ll make you regret it for the rest of your short life,” Daddy answered, his aim steady at Mr. Roscoe’s chest.

Mr. Roscoe glared at him, his eyes shrewd and calculating. He licked his lips, the arm holding his gun pulled back a bit but stayed aimed at me. “Then we’re at an impasse.”

Daddy cocked his head. “How so? The way I see it, you are vastly outnumbered.”

Before Mr. Roscoe could answer, the door opened. His eyes widened. He jerked the gun reflexively toward the group of people coming in.

Daddy took that moment to get to us in two fast steps, tucking us behind him and keeping his gun leveled at Mr. Roscoe.

John the bouncer walked in front of the group with his own gun also pointed at Mr. Roscoe’s chest. Several people I didn’t recognize followed him.

“What the fuck, John?” Mr. Roscoe yelled, his eyes darting from John’s gun to the tall, razor-thin woman with sable brown hair and a red pantsuit standing next to him. “Valerie?”

His gun arm dropped.

“I’ll take that.” Daddy stalked up to him and slid the gun from his hands. Then he kicked him down hard onto his knees and bent close to his head. “And she’s more exceptional than you could ever comprehend.”

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