Page 3 of The Bratva Sinner

A sob bubbles up as I replay those last moments.

I shut that down. A place in me knows I can’t grieve right now. There will be time later. Or maybe there won’t be. Maybe they’ll kill me before I have to feel that pain. Would that be so bad?

No.

I’m not giving them that.

I want revenge, and Mama would want me to fight. She taught me how to fight and shoot because she wanted me to protect myself. It’s like she was preparing me for this moment my whole life.

A little voice whispers through my mind.

She was.

She knew this day was coming.

A sharp turn sends me sliding across the seat, and before I can fight it down, I’m puking again. The man in the passenger seat turns and slaps me.

“Stop that! You’re stinking up the fucking car!”

I want to tell him to fuck off, but the blackness is pulling me under again. I have a concussion. I’ve had one before. I’m not supposed to sleep, but I can’t fight it. The blackness offers peace. No pain. No grief.

“Grab her.”

I startle awake, and my heart rate spikes. I’m being grabbed by my ankles and pulled across the seat. The blindfold slides off. They don’t care. I blink several times to adjust to the bright sunlight. The last time I was awake, it was dark. One of them took me to the bathroom at a gas station. The humiliation of having to pee in front of him makes my cheeks burn all over again.

I take in the swaying palm trees and the thick humidity that wraps around me. They’re pushing me toward the front door of a house with black shutters.

We’re in a neighborhood of older, rundown homes, all with flat roofs. I don’t get the chance to look for an escape before I’m shoved through the door. They drag me down a hall and into a room. The tall man pulls out a knife.

I step back, but he reaches out, grabs my hand and slices through the zip ties.

And then, he’s gone.

The door is locked from the outside. I try the handle, and it doesn’t budge, which isn’t a surprise.

I turn around to survey my new prison.

There's a bed, a window with bars on it, and a bathroom with a cracked mirror. The ceiling fan clicks with every turn. I sit on the edge of the bed and look at my hands. The zip ties have left marks on my wrists. How long were we driving? A day? Two days? I think I slept most of the time. My brain is foggy. Definitely a concussion, but I think they drugged me. I remember drinking some water and then feeling tired.

I get to my feet, feeling as weak as one of the newborn foals I helped bring into the world. The bathroom offers very little. I look at myself in the shitty mirror. Heavy, dark circles under my eyes. A bruise on the side of my face. My blonde hair, streaked with blood. I reach up and feel the bump, wincing when my fingers find the cut.

I’m a mess.

I turn on the faucet and wash my hands and face. I’d kill for a toothbrush. I’m not sure how many times I vomited. Too many. They definitely drugged me.

I extend my arms and look for needle marks. Thank God there are none.

I hear a key in the door. My eyes dart around the room looking for a weapon, but there’s nothing.

A woman in her mid-forties steps inside. Her dark hair is going grey at the temples. She's carrying a dress and heels.

"Shower," she says. "Change."

"Where am I?"

"Shower. Change. He'll want to see you clean."

“Who?”