Chapter 91

When they whip my hood off, I’m panting in my fear. My eyes go wide as I look around at the men standing around me, and I sniff hard against the blood that’s still trickling from my nose – courtesy of being tossed around in a trunk for thirty minutes with my hands cuffed around my back, which means I slammed my face into the floor of the trunk several times.

“Well, there she is,” a man says, his voice cruelly cheerful as he bends down to peer into my face. “The little stripper Bonetti paid so much money for. We’ve missed you, little girl.”

My eyes go wide when I realize that I’m looking into the eyes of the same brute who was at the strip club my last night there – the night Nico carried me out over his shoulder and put me into Christian’s car.

His friend is dead – I know that, I saw him fall in the door of the strip club dressing room – but this one? He’s alive, and as big as ever, and he smiles at me like he can’t wait to tear me to pieces.

I sputter, not knowing what to say, how to respond –

But his hand whips out, smacking me hard across my face.

I groan, my mouth hanging open as my head stays where he put it, cranked hard to the side. I realize suddenly that he doesn’t want a response, that he doesn’t want me to say anything at all. And so I just shut up, and let my eyes drift closed, and give in.

Because there’s nothing I can do – absolutely nothing.

I am finally, after all of Christian’s efforts, at Bonetti’s mercy.

And I’m well aware that this is going to be…very, very bad.

“Little girllll,” the man says, his voice sing-song, and I hear the men standing around with him chuckle at his stupid joke. “Time to wake up! Open those big blue eyes and look at me.”

I do as he says, turning my face to him, my eyes slowly opening.

Just in time to see his open hand again heading right for my face. I screech this time as he slaps me, as my cheek stings with the pain of it. All the men laugh again, entertained.

“Enough,” a rough voice says, and I turn my head back, wanting to see the face of my apparent savior.

“It’s her, sir,” the big man says, stepping aside a little and turning towards an old man who walks forward towards me, resting some of his weight on a white cane with an ornate silver ball on the top. “I recognize her from that night, when she escaped.”

“It’s been a long time, Bruno,” the man murmurs, coming forward, studying me. “I’m not sure we trust your memory on this one. With you…pretty faces bleed together so much.”

The old man leans forward, his eyes searching my face, and I can tell immediately from the way that he carries himself that he’s someone powerful. The way the men in the room turn to him, they way they go quiet when he speaks.

Yes, this is a man of Christian’s caliber, though older. A man whose power rivals Don Romano’s – though he is much, much more refined. Where Romano is a tiger, his power on full display, this man is a hawk – cool, precise, and patient, but just as lethal.

Don Bonetti, I know, instantly. It’s not hard to figure out.

“Sir, I know it’s her,” the man called Bruno says, stepping forward a little to defend himself.

Bonetti rolls his eyes a little, straightening and looking Bruno in the face. “Still,” he says, soft and slow, “it won’t do any harm to fact check a bit. Just to make sure your memory serves. A little…interrogation will do that just fine.”

My breath starts to come faster now as I look between Bruno and Bonetti – at the slow smile that spreads across the former’s face, the placid pleasure of the latter.

Interrogation. I know what that means.

“Please,” I breathe, as Bruno lifts his hands and cracks his knuckles. The other men slowly back away a little, giving him room. Bonetti moves casually over to a chair a few feet away, well within eyesight of me but far away from any blood splatter that could land on his suit.

Blood splatter like that which sprays from my mouth in the next second, as Bruno backhands me across the face.

“Who are you!?” he shouts as a cry breaks from me, as tears start to slip down my cheeks.

I hang my head, sobbing, shaking it slowly. Knowing that this doesn’t end well. That they know who I am – that these questions aren’t real.

That they’re just trying to break me.

And that they’re going to do it. That I’m not strong enough to withstand it.

“I said,” Bruno snaps, grabbing my hair and hauling my head up and back so that I’m staring up at him, my jaw aching. “Who are you!?”

I give in, instantly, remembering what Christian said. That I should tell the truth as much as possible. “I’m Iris Smith,” I whisper. “I am who you think I am. I swear it. I’ll –“

“I didn’t ask you anything else, little girl,” he growls, cruelly twisting his hand in my hair so tight that I think he’ll rip it out. I groan and then screech in pain as my roots stretch to the breaking point. “You’ll speak when you’re answering my questions. Not otherwise. Is that clear?”

“Yes!” I pant, desperate to give in, to do what he says. “Yes!”

The next hour is the worst of my life.

Bruno pushes me to the edges of my pain tolerance, and while he doesn’t do any real damage that can’t’ be fixed – he doesn’t break my bones, or cut off my fingers, or knock out my teeth – the collection of bruises on my face, and my arms, and my torso are testament to the proficiency with which he questions me.

I answer every question that is laid out for me, confess my whole life to them. As the questions pass I spit out the answers, not letting myself try to be clever, not holding anything back.

But as the easy questions go by – who am I, what is my relationship to the hacker Steven, what do I know about the financial information that he had on his computer – I sink deeper and deeper in my resolve to keep my true secrets.

That Christian is my oldest friend. That Christian saved me because I’m important to him, not for the financial information they think I have. That Christian killed Edward Marino to keep me out of his hands.

These, I resolve, I’ll never tell. Everything else they can take from me – pain, integrity, my entire life – they can have it all.

But I will never give him anything that will allow them to touch Christian. Never, never.

“I don’t know anything,” I stumble out through my swollen mouth, working hard to focus on the men in front of me. “I swear – I was just his girlfriend. I never saw anything he did on his computer, never had a hand in it.”

Bruno turns to Bonnetti after the sixth time I’ve said the same thing, tacitly looking for instructions on what to do next, and Bonnetti gives him a slow nod. To my surprise, Bruno steps away, and Bonnetti steps forward.

“All right, girl,” he says, his voice even and quiet even if his eyes glitter with pleasure at my pain. This man – he is so cool, and controlled, but there is an element of masochism in him. Christian – he does this work because he has to, because it is his role in his family.

This man? He does it because he loves it.

“Now,” Bonnetti says, stopping about six feet from me. I stare at him, still panting a little, anxious about this change. “Even if you don’t know anything, I have a feeling you know what Romano knows. So,” he leans closer, giving me a pretty little smile and revealing a perfect row of perfectly white, too-small teeth. “Sing, little birdie. Tell me. What does Romano know about my finances?”

Before I can answer, Bruno’s fist slams across my cheek yet again.