Page 75 of Scars He Gave Me (Bratva Crime Syndicate 2)

I can’t afford those weaknesses right now. I’m doing this for her. Everything is for her.

“Please, Tomas. Please. I can’t help her. You know what they’ll do.” His desperation takes his voice to a higher octave. “Please.”

I also know what Totti said he would do to Corrie. “And you know what I’ll do.”

His breaths come loud and harsh. “I’m going to have to trust you won’t because we both know they don’t have any qualms gutting her.” He lets out a sob. “I’ll do what I can to keep Corinne safe, but … please, Tomas.”

If the Italians had my daughter, I would do the same thing. I would move the heavens down to earth to save my loved ones.

Unfortunately for Alek, Corinne is the only loved one I have left.

23

Corinne

I’ve been here for a year. Or a month. Or three actual days that feel like a year and a month. To be fair, things could be worse. The cell is bigger than my bedroom at home and the bed’s more comfortable. There’s a shower. Clean towels. TV. Of course, a window would’ve been nice. Then I wouldn’t have to judge how long passes solely by the meals Antoni—my guard—brings me.

Since they brought me here after the warehouse, I’ve been trying to figure out how to escape. But I’m a computer girl, not a Bond girl. Plus there’s only one way in and one way out of this room. And it’s locked from the outside. I’m going to have to have help. Who is going to help me is the real question. The only person I see every day—three times a day—is Antoni.

My plan is feeble, to say the least. It’s nothing more than making friends with a guy whose entire existence in my life consists of him opening the door, dropping a tray in here for me, and leaving without saying a word. I only know his name because someone called out, “Hey, Antoni!” when he was standing inside the cell this morning at breakfast, and he answered with a surly grunt.

Judging by the growling in my stomach, it’s almost time for lunch. I don’t have anything concrete planned, but I can’t just keep sitting on this bed wondering why the TV only gets two stations—Cartoon Network and the Weather Channel. I can’t leave my rescue to someone else while I do nothing.

I click on the TV and spend twenty minutes watching a weatherwoman battle hurricane winds to do her report before the lock outside my door slides free and Antoni walks in with my dinner tray.

Now or never. “Oh my God. Check this out.” I use the remote and point to the screen. “Her hat blew away a couple seconds ago. I’m betting her umbrella is next.”

He turns from the table where he set the food to look at the screen. As dumb as that opener was, it is miraculously working, at least a tiny little bit.

I keep going. “And look at that spray when the waves crash. She should’ve just brought shampoo and soap, saved herself the trouble of showering later, am I right?” I giggle so cartoonishly that I almost make myself retch.

He stares at the screen. He’s not saying or doing anything, but he’s not leaving, either. Should I up the ante? No other choice, I suppose. I crank my dumb blonde routine up by about forty percent.

“What I want to know is how they keep the camera dry. Like, whaaat?”

“Plastic,” he grunts.

I twirl a lock of hair in my fingertips. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“They have a plastic sleeve for it, like a clear garbage bag that just leaves the lens exposed.” He speaks over-the-top gruffly, like he’s still getting used to this whole prison guard versus prisoner routine, but I notice a flash of something like a kind smile on his face before he snuffs it out.

“Oh. Wow.” I smile. “I would’ve never thought of that. You’re so smart.”

I’m an eyelash-batting machine. His skin pinks up from his neck to his forehead. Oh my God, this might actually work.

“Do you think …” I bite my lip and look down. “Never mind.”

“What?”

I slide my tongue along my lower lip, and I know it—I have him now. He’s staring like his X-ray vision is on the fritz and he can’t figure out what’s happening. “No, forget it. I don’t want you to get into trouble.”

He blinks, shrugs, turns toward the door. Fuckfuckfuck, I’m losing him, I’m losing him.

Quick—backtrack. Get him talking again.

“Would you mind … I mean … do you think you could get me some books to read or something? I’m not picky. I’ll take anything.” I couldn’t care less about a book. I just want to see if I can get him to do something for me. Get him invested, looking at me as a human being instead of just a prisoner.

He looks at me for a beat longer. Doesn’t say a word, so that’s not promising. But there’s something in his eyes that says maybe I got through to him. Or at least, that’s what I’m hoping for. Because if not, maybe this whole situation is really as hopeless as it appears to be.

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