Page 95 of The Mafia Marriage Contract

LIVVIE

When the SUV swerves to a halt, I hit the door hard enough to bruise.

Metal cuffs bite into my wrists where they’re clamped on my lap, skin chafed raw from the struggle I haven’t stopped waging since Roman dragged me off the street.

A warehouse looms ahead, flanked by old rail tracks and there’s broken glass everywhere.

Abandoned decades ago, its red brick structure crumbles with decay and rust streaks the steel door.

The back passenger door is yanked open. Two men in black haul me out by the arms. My feet scrape the gravel, sneakers catching as I twist against their grip.

“Don’t fucking touch me!”

I kick out a foot, aiming for a knee. Miss. A fist slams into my ribs, the retaliating blow knocking the air out of my lungs.

I can’t breathe. Can’t think straight because Roman hasn’t ordered them to stop hurting me.

Pain flares white-hot. When Istumble, doubled over, they drag me through a side entrance, the steel door screeching open like it hasn’t moved in years.

Inside, the air is stale, laced with damp and grime. Machinery skulks in the shadows like sleeping beasts. They look like welders, metal presses, rusted conveyor belts, all sitting silent and abandoned.

Every footstep shoots through the cavernous space, echoing like bursts of gunfire.

Above my head, rows of glassless windows spill sunlight inside, illuminating a maze of steel catwalks and a rusted mezzanine office with warped blinds.

A loud clock ticks somewhere. Every beat a bullet. Every second a countdown.

They push me past stained tables, through a gauntlet of chain-link cages and hanging hooks that sway as we pass.

“What’s this about, Roman?” I hiss, voice ragged.

He strolls ahead in the gloom and steps under a flickering strip light where shadows slice his face in half, the other side carved from stone like Death has shown up.

“You always did love making a scene,” he says, calm as ever.

“You’ve lost it,” I spit, lungs burning. “This won’t end the way you think it will.”

He steps closer and smiles like it’s a joke only he understands.

“We’ll see.”

The cuffs jangle as the men shove me toward a steel chair bolted to the concrete floor. I thrash harder now, planting my feet, jerking my body in every direction, refusing to make this easy.

“It’s pointless fighting,” Roman says, voice bored. “You’re not going anywhere.”

One of the guys grabs a handful of my hair and yanks my head back while the other kicks the backs of my knees so I crumple, hitting the chair.

“Don’t touch me, you bastards!” I snarl, spitting in the direction of one.

Roman sighs, waving a hand.

“Leave us.”

The two men exchange a glance but obey. Their boots echo off into the darkness, until only Roman and the ticking of that goddamn clock remain.

He folds his arms, his boots crunching on broken glass as he circles the chair.

My breath comes faster. Sweat rolls down my spine beneath Kingston’s stolen T-shirt. I twist against the restraints, not giving up.