Chapter 8
Becca
The first thing I feel is the pounding—not the cold, not the silence, but the pounding in my skull like something is trying to break free from the inside.
I try to move and can't. Metal bites into my wrists, cold and sharp and unforgiving.
Cuffs. My arms feel like they've been torn from their sockets, and my shoulders scream when I shift even an inch.
My thighs ache. My ribs stab with every breath.
My tongue drags across dry teeth and I taste iron—blood. There's dried blood on my face.
I force my eyes open. At first everything is blurred, light smearing across darkness.
Then slowly, shapes form. Concrete. Rust. A single hanging industrial bulb swaying slightly overhead, casting a sick yellow glow that flickers just enough to make shadows twitch.
Warehouse. Cold seeps into my skin like it belongs there, and water drips somewhere in the distance—slow, methodical, like a clock counting down.
I inhale carefully, taking in the smell of oil, mold, metal, dust.
I'm upright. Tied to a chair. My wrists are cuffed behind me, tight enough that I can feel my pulse throbbing against steel.
My ankles are secured to the legs of the chair.
I test the metal again, just to be sure.
It doesn't give. I swallow and force myself to think, to focus, to understand where I am and what's happening.
Then I see her. Across from me. Inez. She's tied to a chair too, duct tape covering her mouth.
Her face is swollen, blood at the corner of her lip, a cut above her eyebrow still leaking slowly down her cheek.
Her eyes are open and wide, not screaming yet, but death has its fingers wrapped around her throat.
"Inez," I whisper, my voice scraping out like broken glass.
She makes a sound behind the tape—small, fragile.
"I need you to stay with me," I tell her.
She nods once, too quickly, and tears spill immediately, her chest heaving.
"No," I whisper sharply. "No crying. Breathe.
They don't know we're awake yet." Her breathing tries to slow, but mine doesn't. Goddamn it.
Memory crashes back into me in fragments.
The parking lot. The headlights. The men.
Hands grabbing. The sound of a gunshot. Izzy.
My stomach twists violently. "God... Izzy, what the hell have you done?
" I whisper to myself. Why are we here? Why would he—no.
I know why. Because I embarrassed him. Because I wouldn't fold. Because Jenna doesn't lose.
I scan the ceiling, and that's when I see them.
Cameras. Four of them, mounted in each corner, watching.
They know we're awake. They've known. A slow chill creeps up my spine.
This isn't rushed. This isn't sloppy. This is staged.
"Inez," I whisper. "Listen to me. Whatever happens, do not beg.
Do not scream. They want fear. Don't give it to them. " Her eyes widen. Too late.
The sound comes first—engines. Not one, but two.
Deep. Expensive. Controlled. They echo into the warehouse like something from a nightmare.
Headlights flood through the open bay door, slicing through the dark, and my eyes squint against the brightness.
Two black Rolls-Royces glide inside like they own the building.
My heartbeat slows into that dangerous calm I know too well.
The first door opens. Polished shoes hit concrete.
Then another. And another. A slow clap echoes through the space—sharp, deliberate, mocking.
Heels follow. Click. Click. Click. Jenna's voice floats toward me before I fully see her.
"Well, well, well..." She steps into the light, red curls spilling over a fur coat, diamonds catching the yellow warehouse glow, red bottoms clicking against concrete like she's walking into a fashion show instead of an execution.
"Good job, Rebecca," she says sweetly. "I heard you weren't an easy snatch. "
Behind her is him. Manetto Lionetti. Older.
Calm. Tailored suit. Hands folded in front of him like this is business, not brutality.
"I lost good men tonight," he says casually.
"Some injured. Some dead." His eyes scan me, assessing.
"If my daughter wasn't so insistent on ending your life," he continues smoothly, "I would've recruited you. " He smiles. "Strong women are rare."
I stare at him. I know that face from tabloids, court appearances, federal investigations that never stick, witnesses who disappear, police who look the other way. My stomach drops. This isn't a threat. This is a sentence.
And then I see him. Behind them. Izzy. Leather jacket. Cigarette between his fingers. One hand in his pocket like he's at a damn photoshoot. But his jaw is tight—too tight. His eyes won't meet mine. Coward.
Jenna steps closer until she's right in front of me.
She smells like expensive perfume and power.
"You really put up a fight," she says. "You should see what you did to one of our guys.
I almost felt bad." She doesn't look like she felt bad.
I spit at her feet. It lands near her heel. Silence. Lionetti chuckles behind her.
I tilt my head. "I'd rather hump sandpaper," I say slowly, tasting blood, "than ever work for someone like you.
" The slap comes fast. Her palm cracks across my face so hard my head whips to the side, the metal chair scraping against concrete.
I taste fresh blood and laugh. It echoes in the warehouse.
Her face tightens. "You're a nobody," she hisses.
I look at her, then at Lionetti, then back at her.
"I should've known who you were," I say calmly.
"Too bad you're not important enough for me to recognize your skeezing ass.
" Her hand flies again. Another slap. My cheek burns, but I don't stop smiling.
She steps closer, grabbing my chin harshly.
"You don't speak to him," she snaps. "You speak to me. "
I shift my gaze past her, to Izzy. Sharp.
Direct. "You," I say quietly. "Of course, your dumb ass finds a way to ruin not just yourself.
.. but me too." His jaw tightens. I soften my voice just slightly.
"I didn't think you had it in you, Izz." That name—the one I used when it was just us.
His fingers twitch around the cigarette.
Jenna notices. Her eyes flash. Another slap.
Harder. "You don't talk to him!" she screams. "You talk to me!
" She turns toward him, grabbing his arm possessively.
"See? I told you. She's nothing but a weak bitch. "
Izzy smirks, but I see it. Fear. Not of me. Of them. And that's when something clicks. He didn't plan this. He started something he couldn't control, and now he's standing in the middle of a storm he doesn't know how to stop.
Lionetti steps forward slowly, calm and measured.
He crouches in front of me, his eyes ice.
"You're going to answer some questions," he says softly.
"And then we'll decide what to do with you.
" He leans closer. "Your little shop. Your popularity.
Your connections. You'd be surprised who's interested. "
My pulse slows again. This isn't just about Jenna's jealousy.
This is business. Control. Leverage. And suddenly I understand.
They don't just want to hurt me. They want to use me.
I sit up straighter in the chair despite the pain, blood dripping from my lip.
I smile. "You made a mistake," I tell him quietly.
He tilts his head. "And what mistake is that?"
I look him dead in the eyes. "You should've killed me before I woke up."
Silence falls. Even the water dripping somewhere in the distance seems to stop. Lionetti studies me, and then he smiles—slow, interested. "Oh," he murmurs. "I like her." Behind him, Jenna looks furious. Izzy looks terrified. And I realize something important. I refuse to go down without a fight.
Lionetti pulls Jenna aside after telling Izzy to go with Cesario and wait in the car.
His tone is calm, controlled, like he’s discussing business logistics instead of two women bound to chairs in a warehouse.
He orders his men to make sure everything is cleaned up properly.
No loose ends. No mistakes. Izzy doesn’t look at me when he leaves.
Not once. The absence of his eyes on mine hurts in a way I don’t have time to unpack.
Jenna laughs as she walks toward the car, satisfied, like she just finished a shopping spree instead of orchestrating this nightmare. Lionetti tells her he’ll handle the rest and to wait for his call. She doesn’t argue. She doesn’t hesitate. She simply leaves.
When the engine noise fades, the warehouse feels even larger, emptier.
He turns his attention to us.
The overhead light casts a harsh glow over his face, sharpening the lines around his mouth. He studies Inez first, walking a slow circle around her. She’s shaking, tears streaking through dried blood on her cheek. He tilts his head slightly, examining her the way someone might inspect a painting.
“You,” he says thoughtfully, almost pleasantly, “are unfortunate. Wrong place. Wrong timing.”
Inez whimpers.
My jaw tightens. “What are you planning?” I demand. My voice sounds steadier than I feel.
He doesn’t answer immediately. He steps closer instead, the polished leather of his shoes stopping inches from mine. “You’re still speaking because I need you intact,” he says quietly. “Bruises lower value.”
The meaning lands slowly, then all at once.
Value.
My pulse spikes. “Where are you taking us?” I ask, this time unable to keep the edge from my voice.
He smiles faintly, not cruelly — almost professionally — and walks away toward the small office in the corner. The door shuts behind him.