Page 31 of Last Hand

“I already told you, do you not remember?” Vittorio’s voice isn’t a question. He smooths his tone to something almost cordial. “First, we find out if he dies slowly, or if it will be quick.”

Adrien groans behind the duct tape, the sound is animalistic and desperate. His chest rises and falls in rapid, shallow breaths. The front of his once-white shirt is stained rust-brown with old blood and bright red with new. His hands strain against the zip ties, wrists raw and bleeding from previous struggles.

“Please,” I whisper, the word barely audible. “He’s just?—”

“Just what?” Vittorio cuts me off, his fingers still twisted in Adrien’s hair. “Just a friend?”

“No!” I shake my head, sitting up on the bed, arms tight around the blanket. “Please. Let him go. He has nothing to do with this.”

Vittorio laughs.

He pulls a small blade from his pocket. A switchblade. He flicks it open and presses it to Adrien’s chest.

The blade slices. Adrien cries out behind the tape. I scream, leaping off the bed.

“Stop! Stop it, please! I’ll do whatever you want, just—please, don’t hurt him!”

Vittorio tilts his head. The blade moves higher, pressing against Adrien’s throat.

Adrien looks at me. His eyes are glassy, terrified. The blade presses harder, dimpling the skin of Adrien’s throat just below his Adam’s apple. A bead of blood wells up, trembles, then slides down the column of his neck in a thin scarlet line.

“Take off your underwear and bra.”

I freeze, certain I’ve misheard. “What?”

“Your underwear.” He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to. “Remove them. Now.”

My hands tremble at my sides, fingers curling into fists then uncurling. “Please, don’t make me?—”

“I won’t ask again.” The blade twists slightly, drawing another drop of blood from Adrien’s neck. “And he’ll pay for your disobedience.”

I look at Adrien, whose one good eye is squeezed shut now, as if he’s trying to remove himself from this room, this moment. This horror that’s unfolding because of me.

With shaking hands, I reach behind my back and unhook my bra. The straps slide down my arms as I pull it away, exposing my breasts to the cool air of the hotel room. Shame burns through me, hotter than any fever, as I drop the bra to the floor.

“All of it,” Vittorio says, a hungry gleam lighting up his eyes. “Then spread your thighs so he can see what I now own.”

Tears spill freely down my cheeks as I hook my thumbs into the waistband of my panties and slide them down. They catch on the curve of my hips, and I have to wriggle to get them past my thighs, the movement making me feel like astripper performing the world’s most pathetic routine. When they finally drop to my ankles, I step out of them, leaving them crumpled on the carpet like the last remnants of my dignity.

“On the bed,” Vittorio orders, never taking his eyes off me. “Sit back. Legs apart.”

I back up until my calves hit the mattress, then sink down onto it. The blanket is still bunched nearby, and I reach for it instinctively.

“Don’t.” His voice stops my hand mid-motion. “Leave it.”

Swallowing hard, I lean back on my hands and slowly, reluctantly, part my thighs. Tears blur my vision, and I can see the satisfaction spreading across Vittorio’s face as he takes in my exposed body.

“No more,” I plead, my voice breaking. “I’m a virgin, I swear. Please. Just let him go.”

Something flickers in Vittorio’s expression—surprise, disbelief, then a deeper, more predatory interest. “A virgin?” He laughs, the sound sharp and unpleasant. “After the way I saw you both last night, I don’t trust your word.”

“It’s true,” I insist, though I’m not sure why it matters, why I’m telling him this. Perhaps I think it will earn me some mercy. Maybe I just want him to know what he’s taking from me.

Adrien suddenly thrashes against his restraints, the chair legs scraping loudly against the floor as he tries to move, to speak, to do something. His muffled sounds grow increasingly frantic and desperate.

Vittorio yanks his head back harder, the blade pressing dangerously against Adrien’s jugular. “Be still,” he hisses, “or I’ll cut out your fucking tongue before I slit your throat.”

Adrien goes rigid, his chest heaving with panicked breaths. Fresh blood trickles down his neck, joining the stains already soaking his shirt.