Page 190 of House of Cards

Don’t turn back.

Don’t—

I reach for the door, but it opens before I’ve even touched the handle.

It swings inward so fast, I have to stumble back to avoid it hitting me. And since I’m already unbalanced, the man lunging into the room only needs to give me a hard shove before I’m on the floor.

Zoey screams as three more men swarm into the room, one of them making a beeline for the bed.

Dark hair and eyes, olive skin, assault rifles gripped in tattooed hands.

Cartel scum.

Black bandanas hang loose around their necks—probably used to hide their faces in the dark when they entered the villa, but unnecessary now.

Only one reason for that.

We won’t be alive much longer.

Zoey

Talk about instant karma.

I dared give Smith ‘God Amongst Men’ Hutchinson some lip, and my reward is a leering thug dragging me out of bed in the middle of the night.

Not justanyleering thug. I recognize him the moment he bursts into the room.

How could I forget Luis’s Antichrist friend from the Labyrinth? The one I conked over the head with a mannequin arm. Judging from the look of utter hatred and spite that flashes over his features when he grabs hold of me, he hasn’t forgotten about me either.

“You call this keeping mesafe?” I yell at Smith as I struggle in the man’s grip, trying to wrench myself free.

Antichrist yanks me to the edge of the bed by my hair. I whimper at the pain, scratching and clawing when he grabs my throat.

I needn’t have bothered. This creep’s only interested in my tits. His eyes are glued to my chest, a depraved twist to his mouth as he openly studies me.

“Best part of the job,” he says, quirking a sleazy smile as he squeezes one of my tits through the thin t-shirt I wore to bed lastnight, back when I still thought Manny was going to smuggle me back to the city so I could go look for Ricky.

Fuck. Fuck!

Tears sting my eyes, but I blink them back furiously. I can’t fight if I’m busy sobbing like a little girl.

“Touch her again and I’ll rip your fucking throat out!” Smith yells, struggling so hard that he gets an arm free, socking the guy trying to pin him to the ground. Blood spurts from the man’s nose as he rears back with a yell of pain.

“Oye! Déjala en paz,”?1 barks the man standing near Smith. He’s older than the thug feeling me up, with a lined face and dead eyes that make me think he’s been doing this kind of thing for a decade or two. “We don’t have time for this bullshit, Miguel.”

Miguel lets go of me, turning to argue with his boss in Spanish. I don’t know what Boss Man says, but it makes the creep slink away from the bed with a scowl.

My eyes lock on Smith. He’s struggling with the bloody-nosed cartel douchebag who’s trying to zip tie his hands behind his back. Miguel sees me looking and goes to kick Smith in the stomach.

I force my eyes away, choking down an angry sob, and send an imploring look Boss Man’s way.

But if it’s empathy I’m after, I’m looking in the wrong place.

Boss Man barely glances at me before his gaze drops to the floor, searching for something. He finds it a moment later, stalking forward to snatch it up. He tosses it at me, and I realize it’s my hoodie and sweatpants from last night.

“Cover yourself,” he says, his words heavily accented. His order has nothing to do with modesty—he just wants his men to think with their heads, not their dicks.

I slip on the sweats with shaking hands, mind reeling.