Page 10 of The Red Queen

Giovanni nodded grimly.

“She will need new bandaging every few days, but otherwise, time will heal the worst of her wounds.” He handed Giovanni several packages of gauze and bandages as well as a tube of antibiotic ointment. A sharp look entered his faded gaze. “The psychological impact of losing her finger may last far longer than the physical injury. If you plan on keeping her, you may want to address the mental damage done to her.”

As Giovanni watched the other man walk to his car and navigate the driveway, he thought about Desi’s psychological issues. They went far beyond the loss of a finger. In fact, he suspected the finger was the least of what had been done to her. Under the tutelage of Nicolas Garza, she had suffered more than most could survive.

Now, the question was, did he pursue his original plan to exploit the damage a lifetime of brutal training had caused? Or did he grant her wish and put her in the ground.

Chapter Five

Desi woke with a start.

Fuck, had she been sleeping? She hadn’t meant to. The flight and the doctor’s visit had exhausted her. The drug Giovanni had given her hadn’t made her feel rested. Quite the opposite. She desperately needed sleep, and she had a slight headache.

She couldn’t give into the urge to lie down though. She had to remain alert, watch for opportunities to escape.

She rolled off the side of the bed, catching herself before she hit the floor, then climbing unsteadily to her feet. The stump of her finger hurt like a bitch, which took most of her attention away from her gunshot wounds. Though she felt the one in her leg when she tried to walk, nearly hitting the floor as she stumbled. Still, she persevered. Couldn’t escape if she couldn’t walk.

She forced herself to walk the stiffness out of her limbs while cataloguing her prison.

It wasn’t huge. The room was big enough to contain the queen-size bed she’d been laying on, a privacy screen in the corner and a separate washroom at the back. There was a trunk at the end of the bed. When she bent to open it, she discovered it was empty. She supposed it was for clothes, but she had nothing except what she was wearing. A shirt and stretchy pants. Both were black, torn, bloody, and smelly. She was still wearing her running shoes, also splattered in blood.

There was a large standing mirror, which she avoided. She didn’t want to look at herself. She’d never enjoyed the sensation of seeing herself in a mirror. It brought up feelings of anger, hate, and bitterness. She didn’t like that person, the woman who was so terrible she couldn’t even look at herself.

Unfortunately, the mirror was starting to look like her only means of a weapon. She didn’t hesitate. She looked around for an object to break it with, and seeing nothing, went into the washroom. She pulled the ceramic lid from the toilet tank. It was heavy, and her finger ached unbearably when she hefted it up to her shoulder.

It was too heavy and unwieldy to use as a weapon, but it would break glass.

She strode into the bedroom and hurled it into the mirror. Broken glass shattered and fell to her feet. She dropped to her knees and reached for a chunk that would work as a weapon. Big enough to do some damage, small enough to fit in her palm.

She wrapped the hand towel from the washroom around the bottom section and held it in the palm of her left hand. She would have preferred to use her right, but until she healed, she had no choice. Then she sat on the edge of her bed and waited.

She had one goal. Get out.

She didn’t care how it happened, didn’t care if the person who walked through the door lived or died, she only cared about escape.

It took longer than she expected for someone to come to her. She debated whether she should stay on the bed or stand by the door. She stood and sat down multiple times, went over her training in her head as she prepared herself for combat.

In her state, Giovanni could overpower her. He was strong, and had at least as much fighting skill as she had. No, she hoped for the woman. The housekeeper with the sour expression. Or the doctor. She could take either of them down, both at once if necessary.

She was halfway between the bed and the door when she heard the scrape of the lock. She whirled around and watched wide-eyed as Giovanni strode through the door. He was holding his gun at the ready, prepared for an attack.

Desi didn’t hesitate. She launched herself at him, swinging the piece of glass at his jugular.

He was forced to jump back, blocking the door.

She leapt at him again, jabbing the glass toward his face.

He swung his arm up protectively, and she took advantage, slicing the makeshift blade into his arm.

He growled his annoyance and quickly switched to the offensive. As she attempted to stab him again, he grabbed her wrist in one hand and her hair in the other. He whirled her around and slammed her face first into the wall beside the door.

“Drop it,” he snarled in her ear.

She twisted and heaved herself back into him, trying to wriggle out of his grip long enough to slice him somewhere fatal. She flung her head back, intending to smash him in the nose, but he tightened his hand in her hair and dragged her away from the wall, flinging her forward into the room.

Unable to catch herself, she landed on her hands and knees.

Before she could get up, he kicked her in the stomach, sending her onto her side and winding her. She was helpless as she tried to drag air into her lungs while pain radiated through her middle.

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