Page 109 of Filthy Little Games

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry!” I tell the guards left behind as we’re ushered into the building. It’s a normal-looking office with cubicles, conference rooms, printers, and computers. For once, I want to see Emilio. Maybe I can beg him to let the nannies and the guards go.

The door to the garage barely closes behind Bethany when we hear the rapid gunfire, making us all jump.

No! Fuck.

I’m too late.

Now four of Creed’s men are dead.

“What was that?” Oriana turns around and asks, her green eyes wide as she looks back at the door.

“Fireworks,” I blurt out. “Right, ladies?”

“Uh-huh,” Bethany agrees, her face pale as she nods too vigorously.

Paige seems to be holding it together better than me and Bethany. She gives Oriana an explanation and everything. “I bet someone left fireworks from the Fourth of July in their truck, and when they get too hot, they go pow-pow-pow.”

“Can I see the fireworks?” Oriana bounces on her tiptoes.

“No, honey. The show is over now. There’s just yucky smoke left behind,” I tell her as I guide her by her shoulders to face forward.

I swear, one of these days, I’m going to kill Emilio Rovina.

The fucker himself finally strolls out of one of the rooms. “Sanzio, take the nannies upstairs to my office with little Ori,” Emilio directs his men. “Hi, doll.” He smiles at his daughter, then his face reddens. All that fury is directed right at me. “Zara’s staying with the rest of us down here.”

Knowing this may very well be it, the last time I ever see my daughter, I kneel and give her a big hug, holding her tight, inhaling her orange and vanilla scented shampoo. Her arms hold me tight like she’s afraid, too, even if she doesn’t know what there is to be afraid of yet.

“I love you so much.” I kiss her cheek, then her forehead. “Miss Paige and Miss Bethany love you too. Behave for them, okay?”

She nods, and then each woman takes one of her hands to lead her to an elevator with the door standing open. Oriana glances over her shoulder at me once before they disappear.

“Take her to the back and put her on the table,” Emilio orders his men.

I don’t know what the “table” is, and I don’t really want to find out.

“Please, Emilio. I’m her mother!” I yell at him as his men grab either of my arms. He doesn’t respond when they begin to drag me down the hall into a room in the very back. Inside, there’s nothing but a long wooden workbench with a table saw on the end and a wall of toolboxes. I have a really bad feeling that the tools aren’t just for building houses.

The men drag me over, wrench my arm around, and zip tie my right wrist to one of the legs, so tight, I can’t even move it an inch. Then they yank my other arm across, forcing me to lean or risk pulling it out of socket. Once my wrists are tied, there’s no point in trying to resist as they lift my legs to tie my ankles to the lower table legs with the table saw sticking up right between them.

Still, I try to kick them in the face as they grab my legs, but they ultimately have my ankles secured, within seconds.

Emilio won’t kill me quickly. He’s going to take his time, draw it out, and make it hurt.

Why else would he go through all the trouble of strapping me to the table?

“Leave us,” he tells his men. “Make sure the nannies don’t try to go anywhere. They’re going to pay for their fuck up soon enough.”

“It’s not their fault. The women didn’t have a choice,” I tell him.

Ignoring me, Emilio goes over to the workbench. He pulls something from inside a toolbox, then leans over me, holding a long knife. He slashes it across my chest, making me cry out as it easily slices through my shirt and into my skin.

“You’re in for a world of pain, Zara,” Emilio says in my face. “How long you stay here on this table depends on how quickly you tell me what I want to know. Did you kill my son, or was it Creed Ferraro?”

Of course, he thinks it’s me. Why should I bother dragging Creed into this hell?

“It was me,” I confess.

“I know.” His knife lowers, my blood staining the tip already. And this time, the sharp point scrapes across my chest. I scream through the pain, and only vaguely recognize that he just carved a giant capital I into my chest, inches above my right breast.

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