32. Alessandro #2
She throws me a wide-eyed look of mixed terror and loathing before stumbling away while dragging on her thin dressing gown. I have no time to protest because Mr Warkow hauls me upright.
“They all warned me you’d be trouble, and they were fucking right! I let a dog sleep right in my back yard!”
Spittle lands on my face as he hollers.
All the words to defend myself march through my brain in organized rows. Your wife drugged me, approached me in my sleep. I was trying to throw her off. I never broke your trust.
Piteously, none of it escapes my mouth. Only a wretched moan as my belly turns in on itself.
“Nothing to say?” He scoffs, the sound chilling my blood. He draws back his fist. “You fucking piece of trash!”
I see it coming, but my arms won’t move. Knuckles drive deep into my stomach. I gag, the air vanishing from the whole room. My stomach rebels, throwing up fragments of my digested lunch into my mouth. I choke as the mess blocks my airflow.
Mr Warkow slams his fist into me again. Objectively speaking, there’s not a lot of force in it, not compared to some of the trouble I got into back in the day. But I’m completely defenseless. Can’t force my body to respond. This isn’t tiredness or shock, it’s a fucking overdose.
Mio Dio! He might really kill me.
Agony flares in my body. I snatch a breath between hits, focusing over his head on a crossbar in the ceiling. I need to get free. Huffing, I force my breath out hard, using an old technique from gym class long ago to wake up my energy. The first hint of adrenaline pulses through my stupor.
With a fierce growl, I force my hands up to block his next hit. My mind whirls, tearing at the foggy shroud inside.
“I . . . didn’t!” I gasp out.
His eyes widen. “You think you can deny it, when I caught you in the act? You fucking slimeball! I saw everything.”
“She . . . drugged . . . water bottle.” Every word feels more difficult than the last.
He freezes but he reaches out to clasp my throat, nails digging into the skin at the back of my neck
“What? Fuck! Now you think you can play the victim here? When I saw you wetting your cock in my wife’s business?
” He shoves me down toward the bed and my ribs hit the frame hard.
Mr Warkow swears and surges forward to grab my throat with both hands.
“You’re worse than fucking trash! I’ll do the world a favor and end you now. ”
He squeezes, choking me. Hot adrenaline spurts through me, finally waking up my body. Burning and tingling all over, I shove my hands up between his arms and hammer outward, forcing his fingers off my throat.
I gasp for breath and scramble back, knocking things over behind me. Water sloshes across my feet.
“I tried . . . to stop her, sir,” I wheeze out, holding up one hand to stop him approaching. “I swear on my father’s grave . . . I didn’t want to touch her.”
He leans one hand on his knee, catching his breath. His face transforms as a carousel of emotions runs across it. Disbelief turns to suspicion, and then something else, darker and uglier.
“Bullshit! My Miranda’s a good girl. Always has been.
You must’ve seduced her.” He straightens, jaw tightening.
“And if you think you can blackmail your way out of this, you’ve got another thing coming, you man whore.
” His top lip curls up. “I’m going to get my gun, and you’d better be gone by the time I’m back. ”
He turns and lurches out into the darkness.
He's serious. The reality lights a fire in my chest.
I grab an armful of clothes and my box of important files and streak outside to my truck.
Thank God I left the trailer hitched on last night.
I hesitate, one hand on the door, knowing I still have piles of tools inside, and some cash under the bed.
Doors slam up at the house, but I can’t tell if he’s going or returning. Miranda screams at her husband.
A bullet could come flying at me any second, and I wouldn’t even hear it.
I throw myself into the truck and flip the ignition. Nothing inside that shed’s worth my life. I pump the gas and my tires spin on the gravel drive, spraying rocks all over the shed wall. Images of what his wife did ghost through my mind.
The bottle.
I stomp on the brakes and throw myself out without thinking. Some deep instinct born of working for two years in this district compels me to find insurance for myself, even if I get shot for it.
I skid on the wet floor as I bolt inside. Slamming against the wall, I shove upright and search through broken stuff to find the water bottle. It’s mostly empty, sitting on its side after leaking everything across the floor.
“Merda!” I hiss, snatching up the bottle along with my dripping phone.
More angry shouts ring out. I spin and hurl myself out of the shed. The truck’s rolled ahead, still in gear and I run to catch up with it and jump in through the open door.
A gun shot rings out, smashing into my nervous system.
My thoughts grow silent, waiting for the pain to come. But only the familiar ache of bruises rolls through me. I reach the side gate and my heart pounds so hard it seems to rock my body as I lean half out to punch the security code into the box.
As the gate crawls open, Mr Warkov pounds along the pathway behind me, faintly backlit by the shed’s light. Another gunshot barks, a loud metallic tink saying it hit the trailer. I duck and cover my head.
He roars a garbled word—German. One he didn’t teach me. Two black shadows streak out of the dark, angling straight for me.
I leap for my seat faster than I’ve moved in my life.
Teeth snap by my heels as I kick the dogs’ heads away.
Throwing the car into gear, I roll forward, giving me just enough space to slam the door closed.
My foot might be bleeding, but I don’t care as I stomp the accelerator to the floor and roar down the street, gasping and shaking.
My home disappears in the rear view, swallowed up by the darkness.