Page 45 of Ruthless Boss

25

Gia

I groan. My entire body hurts. Sometimes, the aches shoot down my spine like a rocket, and other times, the throbs are latent and slow, as if they have all the time in the world to torture me.

The last two days have been hell—but a different type than the one I lived through before.

My wrists and ankles are cuffed to a rickety bed that creaks every time I try to shift as much as this awkward position will let me. My muscles have been worked to the max. I’ve been lying flat for the past two nights, apart from the few times Ciro let me use the restroom in this cheap motel room. Blisters wrap my wrists like a rubber band.

I look up at the ceiling, at the ratty brown curtains drawn over the window overlooking the eerie parking lot. At him.

Ciro paces in the room. He struck my face a couple of times when he removed the gag so I could eat or drink the minimal amount of nourishment he gave me and tried to scream for help.

He hasn’t given me the beatdown I’m sure he’s looked forward to. Why not?

He’s waiting for something. A go-ahead, maybe? But from who?

Contempt and pent-up anger ooze from him with every step he takes. I feel his frustration in my bones. In a dark, twisted way, I almost wish he’d beat me more—then I’d experience something other than the crippling anxiety every time he looks at me. When he slaps me, I know what to expect. Pain. Shame. Anger.

It's a different story when he pops his knuckles and mumbles to himself so low I can’t hear.

Tension rises in the air. I inhale deeply, willing myself to calm down, but quickly regret my decision. This place smells like sweat, dirty socks, and cheap perfume.

I groan and cock my head in the direction of the half-empty bottle of water on the nightstand. My lips are parched, my throat feels raw. I can’t remember the last time I had a drink.

I’m two days into this nightmare. It feels much longer.

“You’re thirsty, aren’t you?” He walks closer, lifts the bottle, and removes the cap.

Seeing him like this, with the black patch covering his right eye, is like watching a bad horror movie. I did that to him. He may kill me, but I took something of his. A small measure of triumph jolts through me.

He wants me to beg for water. I want to beg.

He looks me square in the eye, lifts the bottle to his lips, and chugs it down.

Rage consumes me, but I don’t make any sound, don’t show weakness. I simply stare at him, hoping my eyes convey my emotions.

He tosses the bottle on the carpeted floor, then erases the distance between us, leaning over me. I barely register his nasty scent of too much cologne and cigarette when he strikes a hand across my face, and the pain responds quicker than my brain. My skin throbs like a layer has been ripped off.

I want to touch my cheeks, to feel them, to know they’re still there, and my face doesn’t look like it’s been re-arranged by a Frankenstein enthusiast.

I breathe slowly, carefully, to spare the ache around my lungs. In between drinking booze, smoking, and making calls, Ciro has been more erratic than ever.

Why hasn’t he killed me yet? The question stabs at me again.

I killed his father.

I mean, yes, he’ll probably end my life soon. Judging by how little I’ve had to eat and drink in the past two days, it’s not like he cares if I live or die. Seems like he’s biding his time. Prepping me for the worst.

The worst scares me.

Shit. What can I do?

I’m lucky he hasn’t tried to have sex with me—he said something about me being a cheap bitch who slept with one of the Gallos. That probably turned him off forever—a small blessing. I don’t know if I could survive if he touched me again. The bile would rise up my throat, lodge there, and suffocate me.

“I’ve done so much for you, you dumb cunt. And you never appreciated any of it.” He reaches to his side and produces a knife, making a superficial cut across my stomach. A sliver of blood quickly appears. “You always wanted more.”

He moves the knife around, making another cut. He’s drawing an X across my stomach. I grunt as the pain from the sharp knife tip surges through me. I try to keep still, knowing that if I move or fidget, the knife will cut deeper.

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