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CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Dasha

I honestly wanted to scrap all my plans to spruce up the lobby.

But I’d already told Santo seven.

And I would be losing money on the industrial floor buffer I’d rented and had dropped off.

Given that money was not exactly flowing in, unless I wanted to become a drug dealer to pay for things, I had to keep making smart financial decisions.

So after all the guys clocked out and closed the bay doors, I made my way into the waiting room with the giant, clunky buffer while watching a video online on how to operate it.

Twenty minutes later, I was having a surprisingly good time swinging the buffer around and listening to some upbeat pop music in my headphones.

Watching something dirty get cleaned never failed to put me in a good, relaxed mood. And seeing decades of grime disappearing off the floors in the lobby was creating all sorts of feel-good vibes in me.

Yeah, the solid orgasms earlier weren’t hurting that good mood, either. Or the promise of a yummy home-cooked meal and more orgasms.

I’d never had a man cook for me before. Hell, I’d never had a man choose the restaurant for a date before. It was always ‘I dunno, what are you in the mood for? ’

For you to take some initiative, that was what I was in the mood for.

Now? I had that.

I mean, fine, sure. Maybe I should have been more concerned over the fact that Santo was in the mafia. It wasn’t like I was just speculating that either; he’d admitted it.

But who the hell was I to judge?

I’d inherited a freaking drug empire.

Finished with the lobby, I decided to take the buffer into the bathroom.

I’d been attacking it with bleach and bleach wipes daily. Since, well, it was the only bathroom in the place. And guys could be pretty gross.

But I was excited to see the tile brought back to life.

By the time I was finished, the floor was almost sparkling, and my arms felt like jelly. Like vibrating jelly.

I brought the buffer back into the garage, setting it by one of the bays so it would be easily pushed outside for pick-up the next day, then I went back into my office, wanting to take a few minutes to freshen up my makeup before heading over to Santo’s place.

I already had his address plugged into my GPS, since I still didn’t know many of the streets in the area yet.

“Good enough,” I decided, clipping my compact closed and tossing it into my purse before pulling it up on my shoulder.

I was still mussing up my hair as I reached to open the door.

Only to have it fly forward into me, the corner catching me in the face.

The pain shot through my cheek, making my eyes water, making my vision go wonky as my brain scrambled to figure out what just happened.

Someone pushed the door open.

When I was supposed to be alone.

I’d locked up the garage.

After walking around with a tire iron to make sure no one was around.

But someone was here.

Someone had broken in.

Or, worse yet, someone had let themselves in.

An employee.

My stomach twisted.

But before I could even work myself into an appropriate panic, the intruder grabbed the door, pulled it back, and slammed it forward again.

It caught me square in the nose, the pain overwhelming as blood trickled down my face and into my mouth, copper exploding across my taste buds.

Somehow that shocked me out of my stupor.

I had to get out.

But the only exit was straight through the attacker.

My gaze slid wildly around the office, looking for something—anything—I could use to defend myself.

There were pens on the desk.

And while, yes, I was sure one would be pretty effective when stabbed into someone’s eye, I didn’t feel too confident in my ability to actually do that. I felt sick just at the thought of it.

I had an umbrella in the stand.

Open, it could keep someone from grabbing me. And it had that little hard plastic nub at the end that I could, I don’t know, ram into someone.

I had my Uncle Phil’s old brass bass paperweight on one of the filing cabinets.

Decision made, I flew at it, my fingers closing around its comforting solidness.

I blinked tears out of my eyes and rushed back toward the door.

Only to find the space now abandoned.

Was I wrong?

Had it just been a normal robbery? Someone who thought the place was closed and saw an opportunity to steal something? But when they found someone hanging around, they panicked and ran?

I debated the merit of staying inside my office, locking the door, and calling the police.

But it was a rickety old door. And there was no other exit from the room. I’d be trapped.

If no one was around, making a mad dash for an exit was the best bet. If I saw even a shadow dancing across the wall, though, I’d lock myself in.

Decision made, I inched around the door.

My heartbeat was thrumming in my chest as a slow trickle of blood continued to drip. I tried to keep my lips closed, making the drops slide down my chin and catch on my chest, but when I tried to suck in air through my nostrils, blood slipped down the back of my throat, choking me.

Sucking in a greedy open-mouth breath, I leaned my head out of the doorway.

The blow came from the side, whacking me hard enough on the back of the neck to make me fall to my knees.

The impact had pain ratcheting up through my thighs and hips, dragging a cry out of me.

But I couldn’t stop to worry about my knees, about hospital trips and recovery.

There would be no recovering if I couldn’t get away.

I scrambled away on all fours, wanting to put as much distance between us as possible. Grit ripped at my palms and legs, raking across my skin, mingling with the grease and grime on the floor.

Behind me came a dark chuckle, making my belly flip, realizing they were enjoying my panic, my pathetic attempt at escape.

There was a load-bearing beam to my side; I reached out toward it, ready to pull myself up off the floor. When a foot landed a kick to my ass, sending me flying forward.

And with my arm outstretched, there was no bracing my fall.

I’d cursed being top-heavy any time I tried to buy new clothes. But just this once, I was glad for being well-endowed in the chest area, as my chest cushioned my fall, preventing my whole face from whacking off the unforgiving cement floor.

As it was, my forehead cracked off the floor slightly, making my vision swim for a horrifying second.

But I didn’t pass out.

I had to get up .

I had to get away.

Ignoring the pain in my ripped-up palms and my aching knees, I pushed up onto all fours again.

There was a door across the shop.

I was halfway there.

I just had to get to my feet and run for my life.

Throw the locks.

Rush outside.

Scream like a freaking banshee.

Run right into the street if I had to.

Seeing a woman bleeding down her face? Someone would stop. Someone would help.

Pushing past the pain, I got myself to my feet.

Maybe my attacker thought I would stay down; I heard him scrambling behind me again.

There was no time to panic.

I had to move .

I got a total of five feet before my wrist was snagged, yanked back so viciously that a sharp pain seared through the joint and across my shoulder.

There was no stopping the cry that escaped me, even if I hated the idea of giving him the sick satisfaction of knowing how much he was hurting me.

I was nobody’s martial arts expert, but I at least knew how to throw my weight to knock someone off center, to catch them off guard enough to loosen their hold on me.

Wrenching away, I ran again, but, given my attacker’s position, I couldn’t go directly toward the door.

Instead, I made a beeline toward the cars still parked in the garage, waiting on parts to be delivered so they could be fixed.

If nothing else, I could put a car between us.

Or get into one and lock the doors.

Sure, glass could be broken.

But it would give me just a second or two to call the police, at least.

By the cars, also, were the walls lined with industrial metal tool boxes. They were full of, I imagined, a lot of heavy, blunt, or sharp tools.

I knew some of the guys locked their boxes if they had some special personal tools in them. But the majority of the tools belonged to the shop, not the mechanics. So there would be something in one of them I could use to defend myself with.

The garage wasn’t that big, but it felt like it took forever to run across the space, the thud of my pursuer’s feet sounding like they gained on me with every second.

My chest was getting tight from my inability to take a deep breath in through my nose, making me gasp for air like a beached fish. Which wasn’t helping the way my heart seemed like it was trying to find the quickest way out of my chest—through my actual ribs and flesh.

I rushed around the side of a dark-colored sedan, putting it between myself and my attacker, using the car like I’d once used the dining room table to keep my friend from catching up to me and shoving a plate full of whipped cream in my face.

The stakes were higher, but the game was the same.

I sucked in greedy breaths while I inched around the car in one direction as he did the other.

I found myself frustrated by the lack of light, by the moonless sky outside, allowing no light to shine in through the windows.

It was next to pitch black in the garage, and my attacker’s hoodie made it impossible to see who it was. If I knew him at all.

But the fact that he refused to speak, even to taunt me, made me think that he had to be someone at least somewhat familiar to me, someone who was afraid of being found out.

Then why chase me around the garage?

I had no answers.

And I really needed to stop thinking about who it was. Because right at that moment, it really didn’t matter. All that mattered was getting away, getting safe.

My attacker surged forward suddenly, closing the gap between us, making me have to rush backward.

I cracked my back against one of the lifts, making a whimper escape me as sharp pain shot up my back.

Sidestepping the lift, I rushed toward the wall of toolboxes, yanking open two drawers at once, reaching blindly inside.

My hands closed around cold metal, and I lifted them, then hauled toward the shadow rushing toward me.

I’d never had great aim.

I missed twice.

But the third wrench managed to ding off the top of his head, getting a grunt of pain out of him that shouldn’t have been as satisfying as it was.

Grabbing more tools, I turned and ran.

The glowing red exit sign was beckoning me.

So close.

Until a shadow caught up with me, rushed in front of me, blocked my exit.

A pathetic little whimper escaped me as I pulled to a stop.

I had two options.

Back to my office. With its locked door. But glass walls that could easily be broken.

Or I could head to the waiting room.

There was a front door.

If I couldn’t get to that in time, there was the bathroom. A locked door. Solid walls. A window to escape from if I climbed on top of the toilet.

There was really no choice at all.

Changing directions, I flew across the garage.

But it was further.

He was faster.

The second my hand closed around the knob, he was behind me, slamming me forward. My face crushed into the door as a forearm pressed into the back of my neck, crushing me harder against the wood.

My cheekbone screamed in pain, and the pressure had my nose throbbing once again, more blood slipping down and sliding into my mouth.

I was momentarily too stunned to move, too panicked to think straight.

But when the man’s free hand started to slide up the back of my thigh, lifting the hem of my skirt, it was like an electrical current shot through my body, shocking me back to the present.

A sound I’d never made before escaped me—half human scream, half wild animal snarl.

My whole body jerked, writhed, fought.

But our bodies were too close to give me much space to get away.

The only way out was… forward.

I forced my arm up between myself and the door. Closing my hand around the knob, I turned it.

Then we both fell forward.

I was quick enough to bring my arms up to brace my fall. But when a full-grown man crashed down on top of you, apparently, your braced forearms flew outward like wings. My head whacked off the floor. Again.

There was no time to wallow in the pain, though, not now that I found myself in an even more precarious position.

My attacker recovered first—thanks to my body breaking his fall. He shifted some of his weight to his hands, easing the pressure on my chest.

As his body shifted, though, my breath caught on a silent cry as his knees pinned the backs of my thighs.

All I could think as I felt his hands on my skirt again was: No .

This could not be happening.

I threw an arm out to the side, suddenly incredibly thankful that I hadn’t had the money or time to replace the cheap plastic chairs with their rusty metal legs with the loungers or couches I’d been eyeing. I damn sure wouldn’t have been able to grab a lounge chair and pull it closer, then—as I threw my weight to allow me to twist—use it to whack my attacker.

The blow was true, but there was only a split second before he was grabbing the chair himself.

Who knew what he might do to me when he had it.

Not that I was waiting around to find out.

I scrambled forward across the still tacky floor, and some small part of me was wondering how much blood I was dripping all over the tile I’d just labored over for hours.

That would be a problem to solve if I survived this.

No.

Not if.

When.

I was going to get away, damnit.

I wasn’t going to let this monster win.

I was closing in on the front door when I felt a hand close around one ankle, the grip punishing.

I tried to kick out, but his grip just tightened.

Then my other ankle was snagged.

Just as I was trying to pull, my attacker yanked back hard, making my hands fall out from under me, pulling my body across the floor, erasing the progress I’d made.

But this time, he yanked me over toward the reception desk, away from the chairs and their potential for harm.

The desk itself was a solid wall on the front side. Nothing to grab. No way to hurt him.

And as he wrestled me against it, forcing my face into the space where the desk met the floor, I realized he was limiting my ways to escape. The definition of having your back against the wall. Except, of course, it was my face.

The pressure on my nose caused another flood of tears to escape, blurring my vision.

Hopelessness rooted, sprouted, grew.

Unexpectedly, in that low moment, it wasn’t thoughts of all the awful things that could happen to me that spread across my mind.

No.

It was Santo.

Santo and his gooey eyes and his sweet smile. Santo and the way his hands and lips worshipped over me.

Santo, who was waiting at his house for me with a home-cooked meal.

I wanted that meal, damnit.

I wanted his arms to wrap me up and tell me it was going to be okay, that I wasn’t alone.

I couldn’t let this asshole take all of that from me.

On a roar I wouldn’t have thought myself capable of until that moment, I brought my hands and knees up against the wall, shoving off of it like a springboard, sending me rolling onto my back.

On her back with a scary man looming over her was not a position a woman typically wanted to put herself in.

But at least this way, I had my legs and arms to fight with.

Hell, I had my teeth if I needed them.

Gone was the woman who, just moments before, hadn’t thought I was capable of stabbing a pen through someone’s eye.

I would bite this bastard’s nose off with my damn teeth if I needed to. I would rip his ears off with my bare hands. I would hook my fingers into his eye sockets and scoop his eyes out.

The promise of more time with Santo and the rage I felt because this man was trying to keep me from that mingled together, creating something noxious, something really dangerous. A pissed-off woman.

I kicked high with one leg, wanting him to focus on that one as my other leg aimed lower, landing true.

A roar escaped him as my heel collided with his crotch, and I actually felt my lips curve up as I scrambled backward while he cupped his dick, his body bent forward, gasping for breath.

Good.

I hoped it hurt.

I hoped I broke the damn thing.

I hoped he could never use it again.

I got myself up onto my knees, was about to spring to my feet.

Just as I put one foot flat on the floor, though, his arm shot out, hand grabbing me around the throat, cutting off what little air I was getting.

My fingers clawed at his hands, praying at his fingers.

My face was starting to feel tingly, my lips numb. There was a burning in my chest that had panic surging through me.

I don’t know where it came from—some movie about a kickass heroine, or some social media post teaching self-defense—but an idea dredged up from the depths of my memory. And suddenly, I was raising both my arms, clasping my hands, turning my arms, then bringing my elbow down with as much force as I could muster onto the man’s forearm.

The second of impact, his hand released my neck.

I gasped desperately for air, but there was no time to pause.

With renewed determination, I leapt to my feet with an agility I didn’t know I was capable of, turned, and ran.

Or, well, tried to run.

I got two feet before a hand grabbed a bunch of my hair by the ends, yanking back viciously.

Pain screamed across my scalp as my hands went back instinctively, grabbing my hair above his grip to ease the ache.

More tears streamed down my cheeks as desperation had me moving forward, despite the pain.

Close.

I was so damn close to the front door. To freedom. To help.

Even as I looked, I saw the flash of headlights in the road, traffic steadily moving down the road. People heading home to their loved ones, to meals on the table, to everything I wanted.

I pulled and pulled, moving forward, half dragging him with me.

Sensing my plan, he yanked so hard on my hair that I went down on my knees, hot bursts of pain in my knees.

But, blessedly, the position change had him letting go of my hair.

I searched for any means of self-defense.

But save for the magazines that were older than I was, there was nothing. I was pretty sure they’d cause a mean paper cut. If a kick to the nuts didn’t take this guy down, a magazine to the face wasn’t going to do it either.

I had to get away from him.

I was further away from the front door then.

But closer to the bathroom.

Decision made, I flew at it.

He was only half a step behind me, but I wasn’t going to let that slow me down.

I rushed inside the open door, grabbing it and shoving it closed, catching him in the middle of the arm.

There was another roar from my attacker, but his hand was trying to claw at me still. So I pressed my whole body weight into the door, getting another howl of pain.

But he snatched his arm out.

I shoved my weight into the door again as my hand fumbled for the lock.

I wanted to stay there, pressing my weight into the door, but I rushed over toward the toilet, ripping off the toilet lid, finding something comforting about its solid weight, knowing how much damage it could do if I swung it with enough purpose.

With that in my arms, I lowered myself onto the floor, back pressed against the door, legs spread out to push against the wall, prepared for him to try to push the door open.

But the slams never came.

All there was—save for the rush of blood in my ears and my own labored breathing—was silence.

No breathing, no footsteps, nothing.

I couldn’t say how long I sat there. But as my breathing and heartbeat slowly but surely evened out, all the various aches and pains came back to me, intensified by the lack of adrenaline surging through me.

Pain seemed to ping from one location to the next, a sharp stabbing here, a dull ache there, a demanding throbbing in my nose, and a percussive beating in my temple.

Objectively, I knew I needed to move. To get up. To leave the relative safety of the bathroom. Get to a phone. Call for help.

But I couldn’t bring myself to take the chance that my attacker was still out there, waiting for me.

So I sat there, counting slowly to sixty over and over, counting on all of my fingers. Once. Twice. Three times.

Thirty minutes.

I couldn’t sit there forever.

I had to force myself to get up.

As silently as I could, I got to my feet; I leaned against the door, listening.

Then, hearing nothing at all, I slowly slid the lock, cracked the door, leaned out.

My eyes were better adjusted to the dark, so I could more easily see out. And there was nothing. No one.

Clutching the toilet tank lid, I slipped out of my shoes, then moved silently through the waiting room.

Five feet into the garage, I started to see the contents of my purse that had dropped from my shoulder one of the times I’d fallen.

Wallet.

Pens.

Makeup.

Then, finally, my phone.

I stopped long enough to grab it, then I was turning and running again, not stopping until I was behind the locked bathroom door once more.

I sat there, unlocking my phone.

I knew who I was supposed to call.

But my finger slid to my texts instead and hit call.

“Sweetheart, I was starting to—“ Santo’s voice met my ear.

“Santo!”

I hadn’t meant to come off as hysterical, but all of the fear, anxiety, and upset bubbled up and boiled over.

“Where are you?” he asked, voice tight. “Are you still at work?”

“Yes,” I said, sniffing as tears flowed down my face.

“I’m on my way, okay?” he said, and I could hear the bleep of his car locks, then the purr as his engine turned over.

“Okay.” I sniffled.

“Three minutes,” Santo said. “Just sit tight. Stay on the phone with me. I’m on my way.”