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When I get out of this hellhole, I swear I’m never wasting food again. Not a crumb, not a single grain of rice. I’ll lick my plates clean and funnel every cent of my trust fund into soup kitchens. Being this hungry isn’t just uncomfortable—it’s torture.
This isn’t some dramatic, woe-is-me hunger. This is agony. A deep, twisting, gut-wrenching pain like period cramps dialed to a hundred. I don’t even have the energy to shift positions, let alone breathe normally.
If not for the dried blood crusted beneath my fingernails and Pavel’s stench clinging to my skin, I might’ve skipped showering. But the acidic taste of bile still burned the back of my throat, so I forced myself through it. Even brushing my teeth felt like an Olympic event.
Now, curled beneath a thick duvet, I watch rain hammer against the window. On a normal night, I’d see stars. Tonight, there’s only darkness.
God, I want to be out there. Free. Away from this prison.
My eyelids grow heavier, sleep threatening to drag me under—until the sharp click of my doorknob jolts me awake.
I freeze.
No one’s supposed to come in here. Dominic made that crystal clear. For days, that rule has been my only shred of security.
But now…
Dread coils in my stomach, and my heart slams against my ribs as a hundred awful scenarios flood my brain. Maybe it’s Dominic, finally deciding I’m more trouble than I’m worth. Or TJ, rolling in with rusty pliers to pull out my teeth one by one.
The worst possibility—the one turning my blood to ice—is that Pavel isn’t dead. Maybe he and his brothers clawed back from hell to finish what they started.
Maybe they’re here to force my legs apart.
I don’t turn to look. I can’t. Instead, I go rigid, trying to even out my breathing. If I stay perfectly still, maybe this is just another nightmare I’ll forget when I wake up.
Maybe this’ll all disappear.
Footsteps creep closer. Two sets.
Shit.
The soft shuffle against the carpet makes my stomach drop. I squeeze my eyes shut, praying that if they’re going to kill me, they make it quick.
“Right here?” A voice I don’t recognize speaks up. A man.
“Yes.”
Dominic.
I’d know that voice anywhere.
“She must be sleeping.”
On cue, the overhead light flickers on, burning into my retinas. I don’t flinch. I force my eyes open, locking onto the men invadingmy room. If I’m about to die, I’ll know whose faces I’ll be haunting.
“All the corners, sir?” The stranger asks.
“Just the two. Make sure there are no blind spots.”
Blind spots?
I frown, panic momentarily replaced by confusion.
What the hell are they—
I hear movement. A ladder creaks. That’s when I see him—the stranger, an older guy in a blue-striped polo and cargo pants, fumbling with a drill in my room’s corner. His round face with a mustache nearly swallowing his upper lip screams working class, not mobster.
And then there’s Dominic.