Page 105 of I Would Beg For You

Oh, God. His voice sounds so lascivious, and he’s licking his lips. I can almost imagine him pulling me closer to run his tongue up my face or something. Next, he might…

He mumbles something in a language I don’t know and spits again as he tugs on my hair before releasing me with a violent push.

I thud into the concrete wall hard, my naked shoulder taking the brunt of the hit. Pain radiates on my right side, but all I can do is breathe out in relief as the man leaves the room without a backward glance at me.

Tears start to course down my cheeks.

Who is he? Why has he taken me? What does he hope to gain from this?

A shock of horror makes me sit upright. Valentino! Is he here? Did the man get him, too?

I didn’t see them forcing him out of our room. I remember the man with the police badge placing a small baggie of white powder in a little box on the vanity table. To frame him? The police would then arrest him, wouldn’t they?

But this man here, he’s no police. I recall someone dragging me from the room, clocking me with the butt of a gun, and then it all went dark. They must’ve brought me here… Oh my God, where’s my husband? What have they done to him?

Panic builds inside me, and at one point, I can’t stop myself from free-falling into the doom. I bend over the bed and upchuck bitter bile onto the floor. On top of the damp and must now, the room smells acrid. There’s no air, no water, no food. Just bare concrete all around and this uncomfortable cot.

Despair wants to take over, but I force myself to breathe.

I can’t let it win. Because if there’s one thing I know, it’s that Valentino will find me. I just have to hold on for long enough so he can come to me. And when he does, that beefy jerk outside will be a dead man.

Something he said rankles, and I focus on his words. The way he said ‘bitch’… The man who’d grabbed me from the room had had a similar inflection in his tone. Not the same person—different pitches. But the accent is similar.

It’s not one I’ve heard before, so I can’t place it, but I’m sure these men are from the same region.

I don’t know how much time passes. I keep mulling over the abduction, trying to find clues, anything that might help make the picture clearer. How did it all happen? Can I remember anything from after being taken?

The groaning of the door tears me out of my reflections.

This time, they leave the panel ajar. I can hear voices, speaking in English.

And one of them is so familiar…

I gasp, refusing to believe he has anything to do with this…at first. Then it all falls into place. Of course it’s him behind all this.

The betrayal cuts deep, reopening all the barely-healed scars his past treachery carved inside my heart, the cuts nowextending to my entire being. But tears refuse to come. I’ve used up my supply where he is concerned.

The big man with the heavy bling comes in again. I slide to the edge of the cot, trying to peer behind him into the adjoining room, trying to see my father. I expect him to come in, too, but I catch only a glimpse of his portly frame and a puff of white hair before my captor blocks the view.

I rake my eyes over him, not afraid of him this time. He’s not the one in control, pulling the strings. He’s just a little bitch—Joel Smith’s bitch. Nothing but a bully, and what should one do against bullies? Not give in. He can do what he wants to me, I won’t crumple. And my husband will kill him when he comes for me. This man doesn’t have long to live, and he has no fucking clue.

Guess he doesn’t like to see a smile on my face. I receive a back-handed slap to my mouth, which opens the cut on my lip again. But instead of yelping, I laugh softly.

His pale face goes red. He unfurls a barrage of words onto me, in that language I don’t know—it doesn’t sound like it comes from any major linguistic family, to be honest. Where on Earth is he from? I do know he’s cursing me out, though.

He thrusts a wad of paper in front of me, along with a pen. “Sign.”

“What’s this?”

“Just sign it, you whore.”

I throw a quick glance at the papers. It’s hard to see the words, but in the glow of natural light coming from the next room, I can angle the sheets to make out what’s written.

Trust. Hand over. Beneficiary.

My heart starts galloping. No! He can’t be doing this…

I skim the sheets, looking for a name. I find it on the last page, next to the place where I’m to put my signature.

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