Page 68 of Sexting the Don

I let out a war cry, springing from my position, tire iron in hand. But the flashlight in my face is so damn bright that even through the thin fabric of the bag over my head, it disorients me right away.

“Whoa! Feisty one!” I hear Jimmy’s goon say.

I swing the tire iron, connecting withsomething. A dull thud sounds, then a cry of pain.

I got him.

“Fucking hell!”

I hear Jimmy laugh then someone grabs my wrist, pressing down right in the middle of it in such a way that my grip loosens on the tire iron. It falls out of my hand and onto the gravel.

“Fucking tire iron,” Jimmy says. “Must’ve been in the trunk. You all right?”

“Fine. Just, damn, she swings hard.”

“Lucky she didn’t hit you in that ugly fuckin’ face of yours. Then again, maybe she could’ve rearranged things so you’d actually be halfway decent to look at.” Jimmy laughs at his own joke.

“Fuck you both!” I shout. With a last burst of energy, I attempt to scramble out of the trunk and run.

I don’t get far.

Jimmy and the other guy grab me, forcing me to my feet as I squirm and scream. Wherever we are, it’s a place where they’re not too worried about anybody hearing the commotion I’m causing.

They grip me firmly by the upper arms as I yell out every single swear word known to man. Gravel shifts underneath me as I kick my feet. They’re too strong for me, and I’m unable to break free.

“Should’ve gotten some chloroform or some shit,” the other guy says as they drag me. “Could’ve knocked her ass out and been done with it.”

A door opens, and they pull me inside into a cool space. Echoes sound out as I scream and shout, telling me that we’re in some kind of big, empty room. I’m doing my best to get free, but it’s no use. I had a little boost of adrenaline at first, but that’s long gone.

The two of them haul me up a flight of stairs, the effort making every muscle in my body scream from the strain and stress. I feel dizzy, my head spinning not just from the fear and the sudden movements but also from thirst and hunger. It's been hours since I last ate or drank anything, and the stifling heat in the trunk didn't help.

They shove me into a room that feels starkly different from the trunk's claustrophobic space. I can sense the vast emptiness around us, the slight echo that bounces off what must be bare walls. Rough hands force me into a chair, the wood hard and unyielding against my back and bottom.

As they tie me down, the ropes biting into my wrists, a wave of lightheadedness washes over me, so intense that it nearly blacks out my vision.

The goon nursing a sore arm, thanks to my earlier swing, mutters to Jimmy, "Call Garadino. Let’s get this over with."

"Yeah, yeah," my father grumbles, clearly annoyed but dialing anyway.

I’m struggling to breathe. The fabric of the bag that’s covering my head sucks inward whenever I take a breath, constricting my nose and mouth. My heart’s beating faster from the stress, and all I can think about is the baby. I’m no expert on prenatal care, but even I know this kind of stress, dehydration, and diminished oxygen can’t be good.

“Please,” I say. “Take the bag off. I can’t breathe in this thing.”

There’s a pause, then the other goon speaks. “What do you think, J?”

“She good and tied down?”

“You kidding? I did the knots myself.”

Jimmy laughs. “You say that like it’s a fucking mark of quality. Yeah, take the bag off. The last thing we need is her suffocating on us.”

The situation is so surreal. I can’t believe that my own fatheris talking about me in such a way, like I’m some random person whom he doesn’t care about lives or dies. Part of me wonders what would happen if I were to tell him about the baby, that I had his grandchild in my belly.

Would he have any sympathy then?

No, not if he knew it was Enzo’s kid. Hell, that’d probably make him giddy with excitement; he’d see it as extra leverage.

A hand grabs onto the bag and yanks it off, the rough fabric painful against my skin.

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