Page 8 of Where's Molly

His job is extraction—a fancy, bullshit name for a kidnapper. They provide him with a picture of a pretty young girl, her name, and her location; his only job is to lure her into his car and bring her back. Most of them are sex workers. Easy to get in a car, and very few people go looking for them once they're missing.

However, they've been having issues with him letting targeted girls slip through his fingers. A mistake that would typically get him killed, but every time Rocco threatens to, Francesca stops him.

She's attached, and it's the only reason Rio is still alive.

I open my mouth, but the answer gets clogged in my throat. It feels too tight, like a crowded room with bystanders pressedshoulder to shoulder, preventing me from uttering a word and wrapping a noose around my neckandtheirs.

“I got all night. Don't know if you do, though,” he drawls casually, pushing for an answer.

“Out,” I squeak, the lone syllable forcing its way through the crowd.

A stupid thing to say, but what possible excuse could I conjure? Under no circumstances are we allowed out of our rooms after bedtime, let alone out of thehouse.

I'm fucked. Well and truly fucked.

“Out,” he repeats tonelessly.

Adrenaline pumps through my veins, and sweat gathers at the base of my spine. I have the urge to vomit all over his boots, nausea swirling in the pit of my stomach.

I try to clear my throat but only end up squeaking out a choked cough. After tossing a nervous glance over my shoulder, and then over Rio's, I meet his penetrating gaze again.

I'm no longer confident the men behind me won't wake up to our voices, and the guard can show up any second. The smart thing to do is offer him whatever he wants in exchange for his silence and to return to my room. Except something keeps me rooted to where I stand.

Hope.

Hope is what keeps me in place.

He let others go. Maybe he'll let me go, too.

“I'm sorry,” I whisper. “I-I'm dying.”

I wasn't planning on saying the last part, but it's the truth.

Every second spent in this place—subjected to these waking nightmares—is one less beat my heart is willing to give.

“We all are, no?”heretorts.

I flick another nervous glance over my shoulder. Surprisingly, he takes a step back, allowing me just enough room to step out of the entrance and softly close the door behind me.

A small mercy, yet it means everything to me in this instance.

The warm June air feels like a suffocating blanket at this moment.

“P-please. I'll do anything. I won't tell anyone about this place. About you.”

He quirks a brow.

“Is that supposed to convince me? You won't have the option to tell anyone shit if I don't let you go,estúpida.And keeping you here means no risk,” he hisses quietly, his accent deepening with annoyance.

“Right. That was stupid. But it is still completely the case. I just… I have a sister. She's only a year old, and all alone…” I trail off, realizing I'm telling a sex trafficker that my little sister is super fucking kidnappable.

Stupid. Fucking.Idiot.

His other brow joins the first halfway up his forehead.

“You're terrible at this,” he comments dryly.

“She's not completely alone,” I amend weakly. Then, I sigh impatiently. “Okay, whatever. Telling you that doesn't put her in any more danger than she's already in. My parents are addicts and will have friends come over who tend to go exploring the house at night. I guess the only difference between here and there—I'll be able to kill the sick fuck who touches her if she’s with me.”

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