Page 48 of Dirty Mafia Torment

He punches me. Once. Twice. A third time.

The pain is searing. I double over, hugging my side.

“Get back in the living room and clean up your mess. Then you’ll practice not being such a clumsy bitch.”

He grabs the cigarettes and lighter, the video still playing on his phone, then vanishes.

You can do it, Fina. You won’t be alone with him. The worst is over.

The men are seated when I return. Rolls of hundred-dollar bills on the side table nearest Emo.

I make quick work of the broken glass.

“Drinks, anyone?” Emo demands.

I don’t wait. I push down the pain and return to the bar, pour four more whiskeys, place them on a tray, then serve the men. My hands are steady this time, but only because I force them to be.

“My uncle hates incompetency,” Emo says. “Fill that tray with glasses and keep crossing the room until I say stop.”

I glance at my father.

He says nothing. Just watches, forehead furrowed.

No outrage. No protection.

I’m on my own.

Tears threaten. I blink them away.

I carry the tray. I walk. I return. Over and over. My body screams, but I ignore it. I smile like it’s a game. Cunt stud. Cunt stud. Cunt stud.

Again.

And again.

Until the pain blends into the rhythm of my steps.

Emo claps. “Faster.”

I nod, moving quicker, though my ribs feel ready to shatter. He watches me like he’s already got me zipped up in rubber. And I thought cigarette burns were torturous.

Time slows. It feels like this hellish nightmare will never end.

Then his phone rings.

His men’s phones buzz too.

I’m twenty-one, and have seen so little of the world. Barely have had a taste of what freedom feels like. Just once, I want to be loved, happy, alive,safe…

My gaze falls on Emo, then widens.

Gone is the coldness. In its place, a storm of disbelief and fury.

“Fucking strawberries?” he snarls, lurching to his feet, fists clenched, jaw grinding. “How did this happen? Why wasn’t I called sooner?”

His men, phones lit up, exchange sharp looks.

“We need to get to Chicago.”