Page 21 of Ruthless

Gregor brings me food and water three times a day, and each time I scream for Dante or beat at the door.

Eventually, I stop banging, stop yelling. I salvage the torn material of my dress, cinching it so it covers most of my skin. On the second day, Dante sends Gregor in with a bucket, rags, and some disinfectant.

“The boss wants me to clean up the mess in the corner.”

Messes like the vomit that’s been rotting in my cell for days. I must have become immune to the smell because I almost forgot it was there.

As he works, I inspect Gregor’s still-prominent injuries. The guy can barely see out of his swollen eye, and he favors his side in a way that suggests broken ribs.

I tell him as much, but he just stares at me, blank-faced.

“The boss wants me to clean,” Gregor repeats. The pity glimmering in his gaze causes resentment to rear its ugly head.

“Well, thebosscan go to hell.” This beast of a man doesn’t offer a response, but his eyes narrow, and his lips tighten. He doesn’t like me insulting Dante, which means he’s loyal. Good to know. I squirrel the information away for later use. “You’re injured, Gregor. If you overdo it, you could end up with a punctured lung. And ifthatgoes untreated, air will enter the pleural space every time you inhale, and the increased intrathoracic pressure will compress your heart and vessels.”

He gawks as I throw my arms up. “And then youdie!”

Attempting to maneuver around me, he whips the bucket out of range. His mouth firms into a stubborn line.

I heave a frustrated sigh. “I can’t let you do it.”

Lifting my chin, I press a gentle hand to his injured chest, but even my soft touch causes him to flinch in pain. Guilt stabs me. “Dante gave you a job you’re physically incapable of doing in the state you’re in. Either give me the bucket, or you can march your ass back to his office and tell him you didn’t follow his instructions. Which do you think will piss him off more?”

Gregor’s jaw flexes as he scrutinizes my expression. Whatever he sees must convince him I’m serious, because he sighs and hands over the bucket.

Humming my approval, I settle in to clean up my own vomit. Somehow, I manage to only gag twice as I complete the unpleasant task.

Hours pass before I see anyone again after that. Eventually, Gregor arrives with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a plastic cup of water. He stands in the corner, waiting for me to finish, and I wince every time he inhales, the crackle of his lungs like a physical pain in my own body. When I’m done, he locks the manacle around my neck, wheezing and avoiding eye contact.

Once he’s gone, I curl up against the wall as best I can with the collar around my neck and cry until I can’t breathe. I want to disappear. How many more people will suffer because of me? First, it was my mother, then Jeremy. Now, not even Angela and Gregor are safe.

This goes on for days.

Before, I never understood what Dante was capable of, but I’m slowly learning. He’s a remorseless man. For him, empathy’s nothing more than a sign of weakness. It’s just something to mock and stomp out in exchange for obedience.

While I languish away in my cell, time is marked by the daily meal delivery. The dank air settles into my lungs and my skin, and every time I use the toilet in the corner to relieve myself, I want to expire from mortification. The one thing that grounds me is picking at my skin. The tiny bursts of pain vibrate through my body like static shocks.

Every waking moment serves as a reminder that I’m dirty and exposed and not even worthy of a fork to eat my food with. Like I might suddenly transform into some movie assassin and use cutlery to murder one of the two other people who step foot in this hellhole.

Dante is conspicuously missing. For some reason, that fact peeves me more than it should. Seriously, what was the point in ripping me away from my life just to dump me in a cage and forget about me?

I’m not surprised, though. My dad threw me away just as easily.

My appetite dwindles to nothing. At night, I’m too afraid of accidentally strangling myself with the manacle to sleep more than a few fitful hours here and there, and during the day, I’m too on edge to nod off for more than a few minutes here and there. I’ve spent a lot of time staring at the cement walls,praying to whoever’s listening to help me escape and get back to Jeremy.

One morning after I pick at my apple slices and dry toast, Angela unlocks the cell. I’m so relieved to see a familiar face that I throw my arms around her and hug her tightly. “He didn’t hurt you, did he?”

Her solemn laugh bears no resemblance to her usual cackle. “Nope. Scared the hell out of me, though.” She pats my back. “But you know how he gets. I’m used to it by now.”

No. Idon’tknow how he gets.

Painfully aware of how terrible I must smell, I release her. Angela glances over her shoulder at Gregor, who observes from the doorway. He hesitates before nodding, and Angela presses a phone into my hands.

I blink, confused. “Why are you giving me this?”

“Jeremy’s been looking for you. Dante messaged him as you the night he took you, but your brother’s sharp. And he’s getting antsy. Dante wants you to text and reassure him you’re all right. You have two minutes.” Her voice lowers. “Don’t do anything stupid, Sara. Please.”

My fingers shake as I type out a weak explanation about how a different hospital called me in to cover for an injured nurse, claiming that I’m not sure when I’ll be back. I hope it’s enough. I’ve transferred to other locations before with little notice, specifically during the pandemic when other hospitals were short-staffed, so this isn’t completely new. The excuse should buy me some time to figure out how to get out of here.