Page 190 of Bitter Poetry

Jesus! Get a grip, Carmela!

Are they looking at me? I don’t dare turn to check. When I’m level with the counter, I lift my eyes to meet Tony’s.

“Tony.” My smile feels wobbly. “It’s Carmela… Mrs. Gallo.” God, I will forever hate that name. “Can I come around the back? D-do you have a phone I could… use.” My throat is dust dry, and the words have to be scraped out.

His eyes widen and his jaw falls slack before his gaze shifts to the corner of the room where the two men in leather jackets are sitting.

“Yes, yes, of course. Come on through.” He’s still staring over my shoulder as I squeeze around the counter.

On the other side of the room, I hear a chair scrape across the wooden floor.

An almost electric current goes through me.

“Bolt the door,” he says quietly. “There’s a phone in my office. Second door on the right.”

I don’t look back, shoving through the door.

“How can I help you?” I hear him say just as the door closes on the coffee shop.

I fumble to shove the bolt across.

Oh God, what have I done?

I’ve got tunnel vision. The tiny corridor seems to close in on me.

A thud comes from the other side of the door, followed by a crash.

Fuck! I turn full circle before my focus lands on the open doorway at the end of the corridor—I run, banging into the open door before I can correct my trajectory and push off.

I slam it shut behind me. No lock—damn it! The only chairs present are two overstuffed armchairs—I won’t shift them quickly.

Another thud comes from the direction of the coffee shop, followed by the sounds of splintering wood.

I pitch myself over the desk and drop down behind it, fumbling for the desk phone.

The office door crashes open and bangs against the wall. I’m plucked from my hiding place by a meaty fist and dragged back across the desk. I scream. The phone is snatched from me. Not satisfied with this, the man, still with my arm in a death grip, takes hold of the desk set and rips the landline—and all connecting equipment—clean from the wall.

I’m losing circulation in my hand. I shove against the brute holding me, but I might as well try to dislodge a concrete wall.

A second man enters, rounding on us. He snatches my baseball cap from my head and tosses it to the floor. He gets right up in my space and pinches my jaw between his fingers and thumb, forcing my chin up.

“It’s her,” he says in a thick Russian accent. “The door is blocked. It won’t hold him for long.”

Him?The blood drains from my face so fast I fear I might faint.

So stupid. It didn’t cross my mind that they might be here.

I’ve just put myself into the hands of the very people I was going to pretend were holding me.

CHAPTER 57

CHRISTIAN

The occupants of the coffee shop start spilling out just as I reach it—not a good sign.

I slam through the front door into a woman trying to flee. Catching her arm as she stumbles back, I shove her behind me and toward the front door.

I can’t see Tony… I can’t see Carmela.