Page 69 of Sexting the Don

I take in my surroundings. Sure enough, I’m in some old warehouse office, a big space that looks out over the empty warehouse floor. The room is rundown and dirty, the furniture stained, and the paint on the walls peeling.

Jimmy’s accomplice is just as grungy as I would’ve guessed—tall and lanky, with long hair that’s thinning at the top. He’s got the lingering scent of booze on him.

He looks me over with beady brown eyes, his face gaunt and gross.

“She’s fine,” he says.

“Shut the fuck up, Graham!” Jimmy replies. “Phone’s ringing. Don’t need you yapping like a fuckin’ lovesick puppy in the background.”

He paces back and forth, the phone cradled to his ear.

“Yeah, I got her,” he barks into the phone in a casual tone, as if he were talking about snagging a good parking spot instead of kidnapping his own kid.

The conversation rolls on, Jimmy smugly making arrangements. “Yeah, that’s the deal. Fifty grand. You tell Garadino it’s handled,” he says, a sneer on his face as if he's got the upper hand.

The betrayal stings, but hearing him talk about me like I'm just another one of his shady deals is a whole new level of low, even for Jimmy.

He wraps up the call with, “All right, we’ll be waiting,” then finally looks at me. It’s brief, filled with nothing but cold calculation and disdain. Not a shred of fatherly concern or warmth, just the shell of a man who's sold out his own flesh and blood without a second thought.

He turns back to his planning, leaving me burning with a fierce resolve to get out of here.

“This is low, even for you, Jimmy. How can you do this to your own daughter?” I ask him, not sure I want to hear the answer.

He snorts, shaking his head. “You’ve been calling me Jimmy for as long as I can remember, and now you want me to go easy on you because we’re blood? Not a goddamn chance.” He raises an accusing finger in my direction. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re nothing but a mob whore who couldn’t even help her own family out.”

The tension in the room spikes as I finally find my voice, my anger giving me a razor-sharp edge.

"Really? Weren’t you the one that wanted me to sell myself to Enzo in the first place? You tried to pimp me out to solve your problems, and now you’re pissed because you didn’t benefit!" I spit the words at him, each one dripping with venom.

Jimmy stops pacing and turns toward me.

“What’s the point of you doing it anymore if you’re not going to help your own family?" His voice is rough, accusing as if I'm the one at fault here.

I stare him down; my hands clenched so tight the ropes burn my wrists. "You're seriously asking me that? You throw me to the wolves for your own gain, and now you’re wondering why I’mtaking a little happiness where I can? It’s not about money, not that you’d understand anything that isn’t.”

Jimmy snorts out a laugh, a harsh, bitter sound. "Happiness? With Enzo Martelli? You’re just another one of his playthings. Don’t kid yourself, kid."

The accusation stings more than I want to admit, but I mask it with a scoff. "At least he respects me, which is more than I could ever say for you. You’re not a father, Jimmy; you’re just the guy who donated DNA."

Jimmy’s face darkens, his hands balling into fists. He steps closer, his breath foul as he hisses, "You think you’re better than me? That he’s better than me?"

The proximity, his threatening stance, it’s all meant to intimidate me, to break me. But I’m done being the victim. "Iambetter than you. And I'll prove it by getting out of this and leaving you nothing but a bad memory."

From my seat high up in the office, I spot the heavy warehouse door swinging open and two men stepping into the dim interior.Jimmy’s slimy companion mutters, "They're here." They shuffle down the stairs to greet the newcomers, leaving me momentarily forgotten.

I crane my neck, trying to get a better look at the pair. The first one strides in with an air of authority that fills the room, a gruff, older man whose presence screams power. He doesn’t waste a moment—as soon as he’s close enough, he hauls back and lands a solid punch right on Jimmy’s nose.

The sound of the crack is satisfying, and Jimmy staggers back, clutching his face. He glowers at the man, a dangerous glint in his eyes like he's considering retaliation. But the secondman immediately steps forward, a looming figure who casually flashes the gun at his side.

The message is clear—don't even think about it. Jimmy’s pal, Graham, or whatever his name is, staggers back in surprise.

Frozen, Jimmy holds his nose, blood seeping between his fingers. He straightens up, fixing a glare on the older man. "What the hell, Mr. Garadino?" he spits out, his voice muffled by his hands.

Garadino doesn’t flinch. “You’re a fuckup, Jimmy. And I don’t tolerate fuckups.”

Their exchange is tense, and as they talk, I seize my moment.

Twisting my wrists, I work against the ropes, my heart pounding as I feel them slightly start to give way. My focus is intense—every fiber of my being is concentrated on getting free.

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