42. Hannah
Chapter forty-two
Hannah
I 'm fucked.
I'm a blubbering, shaking mess. Watching Santiago's body jolt with the impact of the bullets will forever haunt my nightmares.
I can't stop crying, thinking that he's lying there dead on my floor, and Rico and Matty none the wiser.
I can't stop crying, thinking about my kids waiting in the parent pickup when I don't show. Their sad, confused little faces. What will they do? Will the principal call Alan instead? Fuck, would he pick them up from school? The school doesn't know we're divorced. They don't know about the boys. I cry harder that we didn't add the boys to the kids' approved adults list.
I can't stop crying, thinking about what will happen to them after I'm gone. Will Alan take them? Will my parents? If I had to choose, I'd want them to stay with Diego and Lauren, riding horses and four-wheelers to their hearts' content.
What will Matty do when he realizes Rico, Santiago and I are dead?
It dawns on me with shocking clarity that for once in a long time I want to live. I want to fight for the future I could have with my boys and kids.
Except Santiago's probably already gone.
I wipe my nose with the back of my sweatshirt. At least I'm wearing a sweatshirt and leggings today and not a dress.
The good thing, though, is that they didn't gag, or blindfold, or zip tie my hands. Clearly, they expected I wouldn't put up much of a fight. And I really didn't.
I struggled, and put up a fight, but physically I'm no match against the last muscled enforcer Santiago didn't take out.
They threw me in the back of an SUV, with child locks on, and flashed his weapon, and that was it. I sit in the back of the SUV, compliant. If I fight or argue or anything he'll put a bullet in the back of my head and my children will grow up motherless. I haven't even made any of the guys legal guardians.
Fuck, I'd been so caught up in being happy, I hadn't made good decisions as a mother.
I'm pulled roughly from the SUV, after it parks at a white, European looking mansion. It's white, with teal blue accents, large, tall columns, and looks more pretentious than anything deserves to look.
I'm manhandled through the front doors, up a set of stairs and into what I imagine in a master bedroom, based on the size and decor.
In the middle of the bedroom is a greasy, older man with a large beer belly and far too much chest hair showing. He must be in charge.
"Miss Hannah Greenwich. How great of you to join us. I'm sure you're wondering why you're here."
I stand, silent.
"Unfortunately, Cucciola, it seems little Mr. Ricardo Torres has taken a liking to you."
He stalks towards me before grabbing my arm roughly and throwing me on the bed.
"I've been trying for a year to get Rico's territory to move our product. Luckily, one of my guys saw the fucker leaving DC and followed him. Imagine our surprise to see him shacking up with little ole you. We knew you weren't one of his other sluts because he never went out of his way for them. Thankfully, he was stupid enough to only leave you with one guard. Making you easy pickings.
My mouth waters as my breakfast threatens to make a reappearance.
Shit. There's no way Vitale isn’t going to kill Rico, and then me. Why would he negotiate anything when he has the rival gang leader in his house, alone and unarmed? It would just take a bullet to the back of his head for Vitale to own everything Rico had worked so hard to build. And with Rico out of the way, he'd have no use for me. Would Rico really come? He must know he’d be walking into his own murder.
I know in a heartbeat that he would. He would lay it all on the line for even a chance to free me.
Deadly menace sweeps over Vitale’s face and he turns to look at me. “Now, my dear, I’m going to ruin you for Rico, because I want to see the look on his face when he realized I've fucked and killed his girl. Right before I kill him.” He kicks off his shoes and begins unbuttoning his pants. I scurry back on the bed against the headboard.
“Pl...pl...please don’t kill me, I have children!” I beg, sliding my hands into my front sweatshirt pocket.
"You think I fucking care?"
He kneels on the bed, his short, fat erection exposed, before grabbing my ankles and pulling me towards him. I grab my keychain in my pocket, desperately running my fingers around the many keychains. Finally, I find the rough edge of my small pocket knife. My hands are shaking so it takes me five times to get the pressure right enough that my thumb can push open the knife and free the blade. It's tiny, but if I aim it right it could do some damage.
Vitale's leaning over me now, his hot, sticky breath on my face. He strokes himself twice before grabbing for my leggings. I kick my knees and thrash as hard as I can, but he has a hundred pounds on me and I can't escape his weight. He pins my legs under his knees, and drags my leggings and underwear down. His cock is nearly on me before I pull my right hand out of the pocket and plunge the knife into his neck as hard as I can. I pull it out quickly before slamming it in again.
His face, now inches from mine, registers shock, then confusion, and then anger.
He kneels back, one hand wrapping around his neck to stop the bleeding and the other wraps around mine. I must have clipped the carotid artery because a fountain of blood squeezes through his fingers in time with his heartbeat.
A gush covers my face and chest, but I can’t breathe or move enough to spit it out. I feel like I'm choking under his hand, but also from the hot, thick blood in my mouth. I blink my eyes hard, the coppery, metallic blood blurring my vision. I begin to become light-headed, the grip on my throat hard and painful.
I hit his arms, his head, anything I can reach but I'm so much weaker than he is, he hardly flinches.
He's going to kill me before he bleeds out. His eyes close, and his hand on my throat becomes weaker, but instead he bends over me, adding more weight and pressure onto the arm that's around my throat. My body thrashes wildly, instinctively, in a last ditch effort to survive. I struggle to hold on, I try to calm my heartrate, to focus my efforts and push his torso away from me.
Finally, his grasp releases enough I can drag in one tiny, thin breath. I do. And then another, and another. Each breath, bigger and more easy than the last. Finally, he collapses on top of me, his arm bending in an unnatural way, but one that releases his hand from my throat. I use all of the strength I have left to push his chest off of me and to the side, enough that I can slide out from under him.
I look down at the man that had kidnapped me. The one that had hit me, that had tried to rape me, and then tried to kill me. I should have felt sympathy, or at least disgust that I had killed a man. But I don’t. I feel nothing at all.
In a daze I walk through his house, barely remembering the way to the front door. I notice there's people around me, but none of them try to stop me.
I walk out the front door, and down the driveway, dragging my feet behind me in a daze.