Page 81 of The Beast Who Broke Me
His smile widens. “Go ahead and try.”
Idon’twant to hurt him, though. No matter how much I might like to bait him, it’s true: heisthe only protection I have right now.
He also chained me up in the dark and left me there.
Both of those things are true.
“Come on,” he says. “Do it.”
His arms are loose at his sides, his weight forward on the balls of his feet, his knees relaxed. I’ve never even thrown a punch before, but I recognize the posture of a man who fights for a living.
He’s inviting me in.
“Come on, Don Clemenza,” he says. “Come at me. And do it like you mean it.”
I know perfectly well that swinging a metal bar at Damiano Orsini will accomplish nothing.
But my God, I want to do it.
I telegraph my movement, I know that the instant I begin, but I can’t stop myself. I pull back hard, and by the time I swing the bar at Damiano, he’s already moved into my orbit and blocks my wrist with his forearm. It jars me so hard I feel the reverberations down my arm and into my chest. He grabs my wrist with his other hand andtwists, making me drop my weapon with a cry.
He pivots his weight, grabs the back of my neck, and throws me toward the sofa. I hit the back and fold over it. When I push back up, he’s just standing there watching me.
“That all you got?” he asks.
“Fuck you,” I spit.
He throws the rebar down on the ground at my feet. “Pick it up.”
I bend warily and grab it.
“Now hit me.”
Fuckthis guy. This time, I try stabbing, thrusting at him instead of pulling back to swing, but he catches it and yanks me forward, stumbling into him. For a half-second I’m pressed against his chest, and I can feel his heartbeat, fast and hard.
Same as mine.
Then he disarms me and shoves me hard, into the arm of the sofa this time, so I lose my balance and fall back onto it. The old wooden frame creaks ominously.
I lie there for a second, staring at the water-stained ceiling, and then I roll off and to my feet.
“Again,” he says.
He’s enjoying this. But I’m going at it all wrong. I’m not using the natural advantages I have. I don’t have many, that’s for sure…but I’m fast.
And I’m closer to the door than I am to him.
When he tosses the bar at my feet again, I pick it up—and then I hurl it at him. It cartwheels across the room and he has to throw his hands up to protect himself.
I bolt. I run for the door, even get a foot out on the landing before a hand lands on the back of my shirt, yanking me back into the apartment.
“No, you don’t,” he laughs, and this time when he throws me, he actuallythrowsme; I get airborne and land hard on my back on the sofa, my legs banging down on the arm.
He strolls over and looks down at me. “Okay.NowI made my point.”
I glare at him and try to sit up. I get about two inches up before his hand on my chest pushes me flat down again. It’s not violent. Not even hard. Just firm.
“Give up,” he tells me.
