Page 83 of Broken Honor

“Now, where were we?”

“She’s got a mouth on her. Bet she’s got other tricks too.”

I look around, desperate. My hands claw the ground and brush something hard and cold—a jagged rock, heavy and sharp.

I close my eyes, and my lips begin to move in prayer.

“Santa Madre… Blessed Mother… If it is Your will that I die like this, defiled and far from home, then let it be done. But if it’s not… then please—please give me strength.”

The men call for me again, laughing.

“Come on, sweetheart. Don’t be shy.”

I rise slowly from the bush, blood on my knees, thorns in my skin. My fingers curl tighter around the rock.

“I’ll be quick,” the fat one grins, stepping forward.

I let out a scream and swing.

The rock crashes into his face with a sickening crunch. His head snaps back, blood spraying across my arms, hot and sticky. He howls, stumbling back, clutching his face.

“Fucking bitch!”

The skinny one lunges. His boot collides with my wrist, knocking the rock free. He tackles me to the ground and his hands find my throat.

I kick. Claw. I can’t breathe. His grip tightens, and my vision begins to fade.

No. No, not like this.

My hand fumbles against the ground—and finds a glass shard.

I grip it and scream as I jam the shard into his face.

He shrieks and jerks off me, blood pouring from the gash across his cheek. I scramble backward, sobbing, choking on air. His body collapses beside his friend’s.

Both are groaning. Bleeding.

I sit there for a long moment, frozen, staring at my shaking hands.

They’re soaked in red.

My knees buckle as I rise. I stagger, limbs trembling. My chest heaves with broken breaths. I look down at the men again, then back at my hands.

And I break into sobs.

Chapter Seventeen – Vieri

Lapo’s wine-warmed voice grates against my skull like a dull saw. He’s on his third glass of Barolo, laughing at his own jokes and gesturing like a peacock in heat.

“I’m telling you, ragazzo, this contact I’ve got? Goldmine. Every week, something new falls into my lap. I’m thinking of stepping back, maybe retiring.” He smirks. “Let the next generation scramble over scraps.”

I let my mouth curve into the perfect polite smile. If this fool is squandering my diamonds, I'm going to have his head hanging on my wall.

“That sounds like a dream,” I say, just enough interest laced into my tone to keep him talking. “Who is this contact of yours?”

Lapo taps his nose, wagging a finger. “You know better than to ask that.”

My eyes stay trained on his mouth, watching for any slip, any name, anything useful. He’s too smug to be careful.

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