Page 9 of Razor

As Sultan takes his seat, one of the prospects returns with two beers and Sultan roars, “Fucking knock next time you ignorant bastard!”

He almost spills the beers as he nods, handing them to us in turn, and as he heads outside, Sultan yells, “And close the fucking door behind you!”

He sighs as the door slams and thumps his fist on his desk.

“What hope have I got with the kids of today? There’s not a decent one among them and I’m losing the will to live.”

I note his lined face, a few battle scars and his graying hair, and wonder about his life here. He is ferocious, for sure. I’m guessing he didn’t get to survive this long without being ruthless, but I understand his concern. A club is only as good as itsmembers, and it appears this one has a lot to learn. The ease with which I took on four of his patched-in members tells me they are weak, and this man will suffer the consequences of that if a rival gang heads into town intent on taking over.

Sultan downs the beer before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and says gruffly, “I’m guessing this is about Sunday.”

I lean forward and he sighs heavily.

“A pretty girl, popular in the town. She was taken by strangers and hasn’t been seen since. That’s all I know.”

Fuck.

I lean back, my mind racing.

Silence surrounds us as he waits for me to speak, and after a very long time, I lean forward, catching him hard between the eyes as I growl, “Not good enough, Sultan. I understand your club runs this town, so how would it look to your rivals that when a stranger came rolling into town and took one of your own, you did nothing. This club–’’ I jerk my thumb at his photos on the wall.

“This club’s days are numbered unless you prove your fucking worth and find those fuckers who took my girl.”

As the seriousness of his situation dawns, he nods, defeated already under the realization that where it concerns family, failure is definitely not an option.

CHAPTER 4

SUNDAY

Where the fuck am I?

I can’t move. My limbs are restricted. I can’t see.

I listen for any other sign of life and hear the steady tick of a clock somewhere behind me. My eyes are blinded by fabric, a blindfold for sure.

My heart is frantic, my breathing erratic, and then a low voice hisses in my ear that tears my soul to shreds in a heartbeat.

“Welcome home, Josephine.”

I stiffen, every nerve on me on edge as the voice from my past derails me, burning down my brave new life with one touch of the flame.

Santiago De Sauro. My worst nightmare is living and breathing, and he is right beside me.

I’m fucked.

His fingers slide around my neck, cruel, dominant, possessive. The thumbs pressing into my vocal cords, restricting my air.

“You’ve been a bad girl.”

I pray he finishes the job because if he does, I will consider that a win.

I don’t fight. It would only excite him, and I welcome oblivion, praying for it in fact.

Then he releases me, air charging into my lungs, bringing me to life, although right now I would rather be dead.

He whips off the blindfold, and my eyes immediately close, the light blinding me, the sight in front of them too awful to contemplate.

His fingers trail a path down my face, the heavy rings on his fingers pressing into the skin, deep enough to hurt, not deep enough to disfigure. Yet, anyway.