Page 100 of The Woman in the Garage

Heavy pans.

Decision made, I turned and ran.

Behind me, the door knocked against the wall as it flew open.

He was coming.

I ran around the table, making a beeline for the kitchen.

I could hear his footfalls behind me.

Despite not knowing the floor plan, he was gaining on me.

Desperation could do amazing things.

But so could the desire to, you know, survive.

I flew through the doorway into the kitchen.

When David ran to the right—cutting off my exit toward the driveway—I ran toward the island, putting it between us, getting flashbacks of being chased through the garage, of putting a car between us.

The island wasn’t quite as good an option as a car, but it did happen to be home to one of Santo’s massive—and ridiculously heavy—cast iron pans.

“You’re not getting away this time,” David snarled, inching around the island.

I knew the smart thing to do was conserve my energy, to save my breath. But I couldn’t seem to stop myself from throwing something at him that I wasn’t sure he’d considered.

“Do you have any idea who I’m dating?” I asked, watching his body closely for even the slightest sign of movement, knowing even a second of warning could be the difference between life and death.

“Don’t give a fuck who you’re dating.”

“Not even if he’s in the mafia?” I asked, getting a second of satisfaction at the stunned look on his face. But just as quickly as it flashed at me, it was gone.

And then he lunged over the island, grabbing my arm as I tried to rush away.

I kept moving, but my shoulder screamed as he pulled harder.

Ignoring the pain, I forced myself to keep moving forward, arm thrown out, reaching for the drawer.

It wasn’t where the knives lived, but there was a heavy meat tenderizer in there. I knew because the stupid thing kept making it hard to open the drawer that also featured spatulas and tongs.

“Think the people I work for give a single fuck about the mob?” he growled, yanking me back so hard that I had no choice but to abandon my hopes of tenderizing him to death just to ease the shooting pain up my shoulder.

Panic gripped me—a hand tightening around my throat, cutting off my air.

But almost as quickly as it started, it was chased away with something newer, stronger.

Anger.

It was one thing to be attacked in the shop. To have him break into my uncle’s house.

But to come for me here—this place that had been home to nothing but passion and tenderness and excitement and, yes, love—and attack me?

That was unacceptable.

David pulled me back against him, his hand going from my shoulder to my throat.

Before I even really knew my intention, I ducked my chin to my chest. Then, with everything in me, I threw my head back.

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