He was marrying someone else.
I was a few hours late, showing up at almost midnight, looking and feeling
like a rag doll that had been left in the mud for the past century, and he didn't
even give me a second glance.
What did I expect?
You expected him to treat you as more than just a womb for hire.
But that was my first and hopefully last mistake regarding Cillian
Fitzpatrick.
I made my way from my bike to my apartment building, stomping on
puddles deliberately. It was the middle of the night, raining hard, and my
windbreaker was torn from the ride to and from Back Bay. My toes and fingers
were numb. Maybe they fell off on the way, and I hadn't even noticed. The rest
of my body wasn't going to miss them when Byrne and Kaminski finally
dismembered me and fed me to the crows.
Wherever you are, Pax, I hope you suffer twice as much as I do.
I opened the front door to my building—Belle's building. I had no home, I
reminded myself. It was dark, damp, and moldy. I took the first step toward the
stairway when my head flew sideways. My cheek burned so bad my eyes stung
with tears.
A whip-like thwack! pierced the air a second later. Before I knew what was
happening, I was on my knees, facedown. The sound of gurgling reverberated in
the empty hallway. It took me a moment to realize I was its source.
A sharp kick to my stomach followed, coming from the blanket of darkness.
I collapsed on my stomach, gagging. Craning my neck to look at my assaulter, I
shot my arm forward, patting the floor to find my bag in the dark and reach for
the pepper spray in it.
A heavy boot flattened over my fingers. A cracking sound filled the air as
my attacker put his full weight on my hand.
"Think again, bitch."
For the first time in my life, fear had a shape and a taste. My attacker kicked
my bag away, sending it spinning across the floor until it hit the wall. I took the
opportunity to claw my nails onto his ankle. I felt my nails bending backward as
I desperately tried to hurt him. I used his leg for leverage, pulled myself up, and
sank my teeth into his shin, clamping on it viciously until I felt my gums
bleeding.
"Fuck! You whore!"
A dirty green army boot kicked me off. I only knew one man who wore this
type of footwear.
Kaminski.
"Tom," I croaked, using his first name as if it would help. Warm, metallic
blood filled my mouth. Adrenaline coursed through my veins, and every cell in
my body prickled with panic. "Please, Tom. Get off me. I can't breathe."
Another kick found me. This time, he hit my jaw. My face throbbed, and I
bit my tongue in the process. More blood filled my mouth.
Kaminski could end me right here, right now, and no one would ever know.
The only person who knew about the mobsters after me was Cillian, and
between almost letting me poison myself and refusing to help me, it was safe to
say bringing me justice wasn't high on his to-do list.
I started crawling up the stairs, frantically trying to get away, but Kaminski
grabbed my foot, pulling me down the three stairs I managed to take. He spun
me around, unzipping himself.
"Why don't we see what you're worth, huh?" His menacing laughter rattled
the air. "Seein' as you'll be sucking a lot of cock in a few days to pay back Pax's
debt."
Rearing my body back, I sent a kick to Tom's groin, smacking my sneakers
against his heavy erection. He tripped backward, screaming in pain as he cupped
his groin. I turned around and climbed up the stairs on my hands and knees, like
an animal, guttural screams leaving my lungs. I knew Belle wasn't home, but we
had four other neighbors in the building.
A hand wrapped around my hair, pulling my head up with a violent yank.
Kaminski's rancid breath skated over my cheek, the scent of cigarettes and
plaque hitting my nostrils.
"Saved by the bell. You killed my hard-on, but that just means I'll take you
up the ass next time. You've got a week, Mrs. V. One week before I turn all your
nightmares into reality. You better believe it."
He let go of my hair. My face hit the floor with a thud. The entrance door
slammed behind me.
I lay there, allowing myself a rare moment to break. For the first time since
Paxton had left, I cried, pressing my swollen, hot, and bruised face to the floor.
Curling into a ball, I bawled like a baby, the agony rocking me back and
forth.
I cried for making all the wrong choices in life.
For being deserted by my husband.
For paying for his sins.
For cycling in the storm, wet and cold and desperate, and for being so
freaking, unbelievably, pathetically stupid.
For wasting Auntie Tilda's precious Cloud Wish on Cillian Fitzpatrick, who
turned out to be the villain in my story.
For believing her stupid miracles in the first place.
Minutes, or maybe hours had passed before I peeled myself from the floor,
slapping the dirt and blood from my scraped knees. I dumped my bag into the
trash can outside the building, shoving my wallet into my panties to hide it, then
went upstairs to Belle's apartment.
My sister had to believe I had been violently mugged.
I couldn't drag her into this mess.
A week. I wanted to scream.
Seven short days.
Before my life would be over.