Page 10 of The Woman with the Target on her Back (Grassi Family)

I pulled out the oven racks and placed them on top of the range.

Most men probably wouldn’t even think to glance in the oven, not even if they saw the racks out.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

Voicemail.

Over and over and over.

And then, finally, a voice on the other end of the line just as I started to fold myself into the oven. It was a task made even more difficult by the fact that my entire body had started to tremble uncontrollably as the male voices got louder, started to say shit I was trying not to imagine actually happening to me.

August must have picked up on the panic in my voice as I finally got into the oven, knees crushing into my chest, making breathing difficult as I grabbed the door and tried to ease it closed, knowing it was going to have a little snapping noise at the end no matter what I did.

He was short and demanding on the other end of the phone. But, God, the relief that washed over me when he said he was coming.

The organizations around here were tough, sure, but nobody fucked with the mob. Not if they wanted to live to see another year, anyway. They weren’t as loud and flashy about their kills, but they took care of business. And they rarely got caught for it.

Even as I ended the call, I heard the men inside the shop. Heavy footsteps and the crashing sounds of things I loved and carefully curated over the years fell to the ground.

Motherfuckers.

I hated this.

Hiding and afraid.

I wasn’t someone whose bark wasn’t as big as their bite. I had, on more than a few occasions in my life, stood up to bullies. I’d even thrown some punches and kicked some groins. I’d broken a nose once.

But I wasn’t stupid, either.

There was no standing up to what sounded like at least five or six men. All of whom were likely armed. And even if they weren’t, every woman knew how much of a weapon a man’s body could be. Sprinkle on that whole gang mentality guys got when they were doing shady shit together, and, yeah, you had to accept when it was time to hide instead of fight.

I turned off my ringer, and slid my phone under my shirt, so the light wouldn’t give me away, then listened with my heart in my throat as the men ransacked my shop, then made their way through into the back room.

I didn’t move.

I didn’t even darebreatheas I heard cabinets opened and closed as the men described in horrific detail what they all planned to do to me.

The shaking intensified to a point where I was shocked that they couldn’t hear the oven rattling from the inside out as their steps moved closer, as their voices got louder.

Pressing my hand over my mouth in case anything dared to escape, I braced myself for a hand grabbing the handle, pulling open the door, then reaching in for me, and dragging me out before August had a chance to get here.

He was an hour away.

Doing the speed limit.

I could only hope he was flooring it.

Even then, though, what could he possibly cut? Ten minutes? Fifteen, tops.

I’d maybe called ten minutes ago.

I had thirty or forty to go.

“Can’t wait to shut that bitch up, if you know what I mean,” one of the voices said. “Can’t talk shit if she’s choking on my cock,” he added in case his friends were too dense to pick up on his innuendo.

Cabinets opened and closed again, items getting tossed around.

“She’s not here, man,” one of them said.

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