Page 1 of Carnal

Prologue

Pina dela Cruz

Darkness fadesas faint noises grow louder. A chill runs down my spine while sweat breaks the surface of my skin. My heart pounds harder, and the sound of metal slamming together is followed by horns blaring.

A gruff voice heckles, "Stupid motherfuckers. Look at those idiots, Kiko."

Kiko? Who is Kiko?

I blink, and the sunlight blinds me. Hammers pound in my head. I squeeze my eyelids shut, wondering why my mouth is so dry.

Why does my body feel so sore?

A whistle rings in my ears. Another man's voice replies, "That's not getting fixed. Too bad. That Porsche deserves better."

"Good thing I didn't bring my new Vette down to this dump."

Where am I?

I need to wake up!

"Still think you should have gotten red over the blue, boss," Kiko claims.

The other man grunts. "When you pay for it, you can choose it."

"Suit yourself."

I blink again and attempt to sit up then whimper when pain shoots through my entire body.

"Biagio, she's awake!" Kiko exclaims.

The throbbing agony almost convinces me to stay asleep and not face whatever situation this is, but the voice inside my head tells me not to fall back into the dark abyss. I try harder and keep my eyelids open, letting everything come into focus.

Faded, chipped yellow paint covers the walls. A large window with dusty half-open blinds explains the sunlight. A brown door sits open across from me, and the hallway looks as worn as the room I'm in. Two men study me. One appears a lot older. He's maybe late fifties or early sixties even. The bald spot on his head is shiny, as if he polishes it. Several scars indent his face, and he wears a white tank top. So many tattoos run up his arms and neck, I can't see any skin without ink.

The other man could pass for being in his late thirties. Dark, thick hair fills his head, along with a short goatee. He's in better shape than the older man. He has an arm sleeve tattoo and his designer T-shirt hugs his body, displaying his muscles. They're so big and veiny that he has to be on steroids. Unlike Kiko, he doesn't look like a thug. It's clear he's in charge.

Who are these men?

Panic washes over me. A flashback of me at a conference room table, typing, and warm, muscular arms sliding around my shoulders, pops into my mind. The scent of tonka bean, cedarwood, and geranium briefly filters through my nose. However, almost as soon as it appears, it's gone. The present replaces it. I try to sit up again, but the bald man pushes me down.

"Easy," he orders. I assume he's Kiko, based on his voice.

I freeze, unsure if I should try to fight, even though my body feels like I can barely move it.

Biagio lights a cigarette. The sound of his Zippo flicking makes me wince. Smoke seeps into my airway, and I cough. Sharp pain like nothing I've ever felt before erupts in my lungs.

He steps to the opposite side of the bed and reaches for a metal chair. He pulls it closer, turns it backward, and sits. A few moments drag on as he stares at me, never blinking, keeping his intense gaze on mine. Then he leans closer to me. His stale, cigarette breath flares in my nostrils.

"Wh—" I barely make a sound. I try to swallow the raw feeling in my throat, wincing from the pain.

"I've been waiting a long time for you to wake up," he asserts, then moves his hand toward my face.

I flinch, my breath hitches, and more pain assaults my chest. A tiny whimper escapes my lips.

He holds his hands in the air. "Easy. You've got a few broken ribs, a concussion, and extensive bruising."

"What?" I whisper, confused about how my body is so battered. Several beeps come from the machine next to me, and I glance at it.

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