Page 43 of Tortured Hearts
“Don’t disappoint us, Gianni. You’ve seen how we reward failure.”
Chapter Fourteen
BECCA
Iglare at the door at the top of the staircase, still hearing the moment it slammed behind Gianni, trapping the echo of his final words…
“Play along, Becca. Trust me when I say your life depends on it.”
His personality swings are giving me whiplash. One minute, I see the man who held me in his arms after my attack and rushed into a burning building to save me, and the next it’s like he never existed.
Stop this.
Obsessing over Gianni’s identity crisis won’t do anything but feed his father’s ego.
Rising to my feet, I storm across the room, my head swimming. Once I reach the landing, I pound my fist against the hard steel. “Open this damn door!”
Just when I’m about to collapse from exhaustion, I hear a click, and my fist freezes. I don’t know who’s on the other side. Best-case scenario it’s Gianni. Shuffling backward, I brace myself for the worst case—Marcello Marchesi.
My breath catches as the door opens, revealing a muscular man with short brown hair pointing a gun at my face. There’s a fleeting moment where I consider fighting him for the weapon, but since the goal is tonotdie, I remain still.
“What the fuck do you want?” he snaps in a rough New Jersey accent.
I open my mouth to answer, but nothing comes out.
“You deaf, bitch?” The guard steps forward, waving his gun. “Answer me.”
I try again, only to have my vision blur, my “fight or flight” instinct turning more into “surrender and crash.”Think, Becca. You’re smarter than this.“I have to use the bathroom,” I blurt out.
He laughs and motions the gun behind me. That’s when I notice the white painter’s bucket, a slap in the face that makes my blood boil.
I grit my teeth. “I’m not using a bucket.”
“Then don’t. Hold it until your eyes float for all I care.” He steps back to close the door, but I shove my foot next to the frame, biting back a scream as the sharp-edged steel bounces off my heel. I’ve barely caught my breath when a hand wraps around my throat.“Vaffanculo, puttana!”
I don’t speak Italian, but the translation is obvious when I’m shoved backward so hard my spine slams into the railing.
I’m fucked.
I claw at my neck, so desperate for air that it takes a moment to realize there’s a gun pressed to my forehead. I don’t know if it’s the lack of oxygen to my brain, but as darkness closes in and fear takes control, I swear I hear my own words.
“Men who feed on fear are derailed by defiance.”
As the phrase ricochets inside my head, myconcrete prison crumbles, and I’m thrust back into my office that first day, surrounded by colorless walls and the scent of burnt pine. The day a smooth, arrogant man walked into my world and flipped it upside down.
A struggle isexactlywhat this guard wants. Guards may rank lower on the mob hierarchy, but I’d stake my license that this idiot subscribes to Marcello’s same misogynistic ideas. That’s why my chance of survival hinges on weaponizing something men like him lack.
Basic logic.
I stop fighting and drop my arms by my side. The sudden change throws him off, and the pressure around my neck lessens. “Have you ever heard of E. coli?” I rasp.
“The fuck?” His grip on my throat slips even more.
“That’s what I thought.” I smile as if I’m not one trigger pull away from having the back of my head explode. “It’s nasty bacteria that wreaks havoc on a body denied its basic functions.”
“I don’t care if?—”
“I’m talking more than a UTI.” Taking a risk, I push away from the railing and brace for retaliation. However, instead of resetting his hold, he lowers his hand from my neck to my shoulder, spurring me on. “You’re looking at infections, fevers, sepsis… Left untreated, it becomes a life-or-death situation.”
