Page 88 of Sinfully Savage Mafia

I jog toward them and a faint shriek pierces the still air.

Molly.

I pull off my boots because I can’t risk them hearing me coming.

And the thought occurs to me that I might need to use them as weapons.

I ignore the pain of sharp stone edges digging into my feet as I run.

More angry yelling ensues and this time, they aren’t speaking English at all. They’re arguing in their own native tongue, and it’s vicious judging by the disdain dripping from their words. I strain to hear something, anything I can recognize.

One thing makes bile rise in my throat…one spoken name makes my throat clench.

“…Eamon Mulligan…”

I clap a hand over my mouth.

Uncle Eamon.

Molly’s dead father.

He died only recently. It was an ‘accident,’ although I’d never heard that anyone found the people who caused it.

Hairs on my nape stand on end. I creep closer. Another whimper and plea breaks the air. I reach a desolate parking lot surrounded by trees and brush and I inch closer, peering around a bush.

Molly, oh God, Molly, what have they done to her?

My cousin’s sprawled on the ground, fighting against a guy with his jeans around his ankles. Another guy has his hand slapped against her mouth to silence her, holding her down while the other…Oh, God, the other pounds into her. He finishes and zips up and Molly lies there, just lies there.

“Do we kill her and let her family find her?”

“No,” another guy mutters. “Get her into the car and go. Now! They’ll find her when we want them to.”

“No!” I scream, darting toward the group, my heels in my outstretched hand. I swing, kick, and yell until the guy who had me pressed up against him in the club pulls out a gun.

He walks toward me slowly, pointing it at my forehead. “Your job is to notify the family. Can you handle that for us?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see one of the guys shove a needle into Molly’s arm. Her body goes limp almost instantly, and they throw her in the back of a nondescript sedan with no license plate.

Laughter rises not far from me and I take a chance.

“Help!” I scream. “Please, help me!”

The guy’s face is a tangled mess of fury, his lips twisted into a scowl. “Shut up,” he growls.

“Help me!” I jump at him, slashing his face with one of my boots.

The narrow heel catches on his cheek and he sputters, blood streaming down his face. “You can’t save her, Heaven. You never could.”

I recoil at his words, my eyes wide, my body rooted to the spot as he comes at me, swinging the gun at my temple.

As I crash to the ground, one last thought paralyzes my mind.

He’s right. I couldn’t save her. I couldn’t save myself. Dad and Granddad were right.

I didn’t…I couldn’t…I won’t…

And the world, as if it wasn’t black enough before, drowns out all remaining hope.

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