Page 17 of Sexting My Bratva Boss

“Sa—”

I can’t say his name, the air leaving my windpipe in a short burst. “Saa?—”

“I need that money, Audrey.You fucked me over with this. You fucked up.”

He brings his other hand up.

Wraps it around my throat and squeezes.

Something grinds, something that feels like bone.

I let out a hiss of a whimper and my leg kicks, uncontrolled, knocking into the garbage that goes sideways. It immediately smells like trash in the small apartment. Sal curses, stepping away quickly to avoid dirtying his shoes.

It’s enough of an imbalance for me to stumble out of his grip.

I make it to the door, but he slams me against it hard. One of my fingers is crushed awkwardly on my left hand and I cry out.

Sal is pressed against me, his body sweaty and smelling of garlic and car leather and cigarettes. I cry out again, desperate, and sure thatthis is it.

Only minutes ago, I was afraid that Konstantin Martynov was sending someone to end me, but that… that would be more merciful than this, I’m sure.

Sal presses my head hard against the door, but he takes too much pleasure in my pain. I manage to get the lock undone and pull back hard, almost opening the door.

It slams shut loudly when he shoves forward again.

“You bitch!”

“Miss Wolfe?”

The voice is recognizable, but I’m dizzy and can’t place it. My finger throbs, as do the toes of one foot; Sal must’ve trampled on them at some point, or maybe I stubbed my foot against the door. He’s pulling my head back by my hair when I cry out again.

“Miss Wolfe!”

Someone pushes on the other side of the door. It catches Sal off guard and we both stumble back, the door opening to reveal one of my neighbors—a man named Bill who lives two doors down.

There are grocery bags spilled open in the hallway. He looks brave and scared and horrified all at once, glasses askew as he takes in the sight of Sal holding me up by my hair and a scrape on my face bleeding.

“I’m calling the police.”

Sal releases me, suddenly all appeasement as Bill pulls out his phone and quickly dials.

“Woah, woah, man, no need to do that. My girl and I were just having an argument. She disobeyed me—you know how it?—”

He doesn’t get to finish the sentence. Bill, who stands a good six inches over both of us, glares into the apartment at Sal as I cradle my arms around myself and try to hide. Anywhere, just away from Sal’s wild gaze.

“Yes, I’d like to report domestic abuse. No… no, the victim lives here, but I don’t think the perpetrator does. Yes. We’re at 147 Magnolia, fourth floor. I can try to hold him if?—”

Before he can finish, Sal is out the door, slipping by Bill like it’s nothing. Bill shouts after him and I hear the thud of Sal’s heavy boots down the hallway but, sinking to the ground, I’m dizzy all over again.

“Hey.”

Bill is kneeling next to me.

“Hey, Miss Wolfe. Audrey, sorry. Are you okay? They’re asking if you need an ambulance?—”

I shake my head, finding my voice, although it’s hoarse. “No… no thank you. Sorry, please no. Just let him go. He won’t come back.”

I promise that a few times, though I’m not sure if it’s true. Bill gives in eventually and opts to go meet the cops outside when they arrive, their lights flashing down on the street and lighting up the apartment ceiling.