Chapter 25
25
G ia
I groan. My entire body hurts. Sometimes, the aches shoot down my spine like a rocket, and other times, the throbs are latent and slow, as if they have all the time in the world to torture me.
The last two days have been hell—but a different type than the one I lived through before.
My wrists and ankles are cuffed to a rickety bed that creaks every time I try to shift as much as this awkward position will let me. My muscles have been worked to the max. I’ve been lying flat for the past two nights, apart from the few times Ciro let me use the restroom in this cheap motel room. Blisters wrap my wrists like a rubber band.
I look up at the ceiling, at the ratty brown curtains drawn over the window overlooking the eerie parking lot. At him.
Ciro paces in the room. He struck my face a couple of times when he removed the gag so I could eat or drink the minimal amount of nourishment he gave me and tried to scream for help.
He hasn’t given me the beatdown I’m sure he’s looked forward to. Why not?
He’s waiting for something. A go-ahead, maybe? But from who?
Contempt and pent-up anger ooze from him with every step he takes. I feel his frustration in my bones. In a dark, twisted way, I almost wish he’d beat me more—then I’d experience something other than the crippling anxiety every time he looks at me. When he slaps me, I know what to expect. Pain. Shame. Anger.
It's a different story when he pops his knuckles and mumbles to himself so low I can’t hear.
Tension rises in the air. I inhale deeply, willing myself to calm down, but quickly regret my decision. This place smells like sweat, dirty socks, and cheap perfume.
I groan and cock my head in the direction of the half-empty bottle of water on the nightstand. My lips are parched, my throat feels raw. I can’t remember the last time I had a drink.
I’m two days into this nightmare. It feels much longer.
“You’re thirsty, aren’t you?” He walks closer, lifts the bottle, and removes the cap.
Seeing him like this, with the black patch covering his right eye, is like watching a bad horror movie. I did that to him. He may kill me, but I took something of his. A small measure of triumph jolts through me.
He wants me to beg for water. I want to beg.
He looks me square in the eye, lifts the bottle to his lips, and chugs it down.
Rage consumes me, but I don’t make any sound, don’t show weakness. I simply stare at him, hoping my eyes convey my emotions.
He tosses the bottle on the carpeted floor, then erases the distance between us, leaning over me. I barely register his nasty scent of too much cologne and cigarette when he strikes a hand across my face, and the pain responds quicker than my brain. My skin throbs like a layer has been ripped off.
I want to touch my cheeks, to feel them, to know they’re still there, and my face doesn’t look like it’s been re-arranged by a Frankenstein enthusiast.
I breathe slowly, carefully, to spare the ache around my lungs. In between drinking booze, smoking, and making calls, Ciro has been more erratic than ever.
Why hasn’t he killed me yet? The question stabs at me again.
I killed his father.
I mean, yes, he’ll probably end my life soon. Judging by how little I’ve had to eat and drink in the past two days, it’s not like he cares if I live or die. Seems like he’s biding his time. Prepping me for the worst.
The worst scares me.
Shit. What can I do?
I’m lucky he hasn’t tried to have sex with me—he said something about me being a cheap bitch who slept with one of the Gallos. That probably turned him off forever—a small blessing. I don’t know if I could survive if he touched me again. The bile would rise up my throat, lodge there, and suffocate me.
“I’ve done so much for you, you dumb cunt. And you never appreciated any of it.” He reaches to his side and produces a knife, making a superficial cut across my stomach. A sliver of blood quickly appears. “You always wanted more.”
He moves the knife around, making another cut. He’s drawing an X across my stomach. I grunt as the pain from the sharp knife tip surges through me. I try to keep still, knowing that if I move or fidget, the knife will cut deeper.
He finally removes the gag, and I gasp. My throat is so dry it hurts to speak.
“Water,” I beg.
He reaches to the nightstand and scoops another bottle, but in classic Ciro fashion, he only tips a little bit into my mouth—just enough to keep me living and breathing. The liquid nearly evaporates as I swallow it. I lick my lips, desperate to remove the parched skin. My stomach grumbles.
“How did you find me?” I rasp, my brain working overtime to move through the fog.
“You mean the first time? I checked the air tag and knew you were looking for jobs. Saw you visit a couple of strip clubs in Chicago, which narrowed it down. I took care of some business and got my ass here,” he says with a victorious smile I wish I could wipe from his face. “Checked the places you interviewed at and talked to the managers. A few days after I promised Chevy some money if he gave me information, he called. Said one of the girls overheard Rocco Gallo telling his brother how close you were getting to your boss.”
Anger washes through me. Couldn’t have been Tara. She wouldn’t snitch on me. Probably my replacement did it.
“I thought you found out my new name through Clayton,” I say, remembering who helped me get my new name when I left New York.
“I did. He didn’t want to help me, but after a good beating, he changed his mind.”
My face aches as I inhale. “How about here?” I made it all the way to California overnight.
“I paid attention, sweetheart. Stalked Dante’s house. I knew sooner or later, your ass would show up.”
One thing doesn’t make sense. Why would Ciro go to all this trouble and not kill me at the first opportunity? “Why am I still alive?”
“Next Wednesday, we’re meeting Ross. And he’ll finish you off.”
Ross Santini. I sink my teeth into my lower lip and taste the dry blood lingering from earlier. “Why? I never met him.”
“I used my conundrum for leverage. With my father dead, I needed extra income. Ross may not be rich, but he values loyalty. Besides, even though you’ve never met Ross, do you think he wants you alive? You killed his cousin, popped one of my eyes out, and then found solace in our biggest enemy.”
My stomach sinks. Of course, Ciro hasn’t hurt me the way he thinks I deserve—he’s priming me for Ross.
“I defended myself. I did nothing against your boss,” I say, desperation creeping into my voice.
“You can tell him that in person in a few days. In Chicago.”
“I never… I never knew you two were close. Or that he cared for your dad.”
The cold glint in his left eye scares me to the bone. “The Gallos killed his only son. Then you offed my dad and tried to do the same to me.”
“I have… nothing to do with the Gallos.”
He scowls.
I’m the weak link. It’s easy for Santini to kill me and make an example of me. The fact he wasn’t super close to Aroldo or Ciro doesn’t matter. They both worked for him, under him, and were his employees, regardless of how useless they were.
Maybe…
Another layer of panic settles in my gut. Does Santini know I care for Dante? That he may care for me? Could Santini want to use me as bait? The question stings at the tip of my tongue, but I can’t voice it. I don’t want to manifest those crazy ideas out loud.
Ciro’s phone buzzes, and he shoves the gag into my mouth again before picking it up. “Parking lot of Jaq’s Diner. Wednesday. Got it.”
Fuck.
It’ll take a few days to drive to Chicago. Today’s Friday. Fuck, fuck.
I assume we won’t fly—the Santinis don’t have money for charting jets, and commercial flights would be too risky—I could easily ask for help. If someone sees the bruises on my stomach and limbs, they’ll know.
Nope. We’re for sure driving.
Maybe when we’re in the car, I can do something when we stop during the day. Other motel stays. At some point, the exhaustion will catch up to Ciro. It has to—and then, I’ll act.
Hopefully, a measure of my strength will be back by then. But not if he doesn’t feed me or give me enough water. I need to play nice.
I grunt, moving my arms, desperate for a chance to speak again.
He removes my gag. “What?”
“Ciro… I’m sorry,” I say, swallowing what feels like razors. My throat is awfully dry, and the taste of bile doesn’t help. “I shouldn’t have done any of it. I’m sorry.”
He waves me off. “Sorry won’t cut it, sweetie,” he says, a dark, condescending quality dripping from his voice. “You know what will? This.”
He grabs his knife again and slides it across my stomach. A shock of pain jolts through me. He’s going deeper but not shoving it inside like he probably wants to. I’m sure Santini promised him a substantial reward if he returned me in somewhat good shape.
Santini doesn’t trust Ciro to interrogate me. If I’m only half alive, I won’t be as helpful. The boss wants to do it himself.
The idea sends a wave of fear through me. What will be waiting for me when we arrive in Chicago? I don’t have any valuable information I can use as leverage. I can’t say it now, though, as that possibility is undoubtedly one of the reasons I’m still alive.
Ciro taps my shoulder as I scream. “Shut up, or the gag goes back on.”
“I’m quiet,” I whisper, biting the inside of my cheek.
I avoid looking down at the blood on my stomach so as not to heighten my panic. Now is not the time to be brave… not when my unhinged ex is on top of me, holding a knife already dripping with blood.
“I’m quiet,” I repeat to myself.