Page 4 of Forgotten Sacrifice
“Oww!”
“Cut yourself again, and I’ll teach you what real pain feels like,” he threatens, squeezing my wrist so hard I’m afraid he’s going to snap bone. “Understand me?’
“Yes.” I whimper.
“Get dressed.” He releases his hold, and I fumble to pull my dress over my head. He makes a call on his cellphone in Italian before his eyes land back on me. “Let’s go.”
“Please,” I beg, tears stinging my eyes.
Chapter
Two
Vince
This girl better thank her lucky stars it was me here this evening and not the boss of AC, Sergio, because that sick fuck might have taken Mr. Barone up on his offer. Not that I believe in luck; superstitions are for suckers.
Leading the girl down the hall, we pass the kitchen, and her stomach rumbles violently. Making a pitstop, I grab a box of cookies and continue ushering her out the back and to my waiting vehicle. I open the passenger door for her, but instead of getting in, she takes off running.
Smart girl.
I take off in a sprint and easily catch up to her, wrapping my arms around her as we skitter to a stop. “I don’t want to have to kill you, so don’t make me,” I warn her.
Her body shakes like a leaf as I pick her up and easily hoist her over my shoulder. Walking us back to my car, I toss her in the passenger seat and hustle to slide behind the wheel. “Eat,” I tell her, shoving the box at her as I pull out of the back lot.
She eyes the box suspiciously, but opens it and dives in like a ravenous dog. “You stay hungry,” I comment, and she shrugs. “How old are you for real?”
“Seventeen,” she admits, continuing to attack the Italian wedding cookies.
“You got old-soul eyes, kid. I’m guessing you’ve seen some shit.”
“Is this the part where you act like we’re friends right before you slit my throat?” she asks quietly, finishing off the last of the cookies as she licks her fingers clean.
“Don’t ever mistake me for a friend,piccola,” I warn her. “And if I wanted to slit your throat, you’d be bleeding out right now.” Although I’m not a knife man; that’s more Sam’s bag. Why get that personal when a good bullet lodged between the temples gets the job done?
I glance over to Luna, and she meets my eyes, refusing to look away. She’s brave; that, or she’s in shock. Maybe a little bit of both.
“What’s wrong with your left eye?” she blurts out before averting her gaze.
“Nothing’s ‘wrong’ with it; my glass eye does the job.”
“How’d you lose your real eye?” she asks, sneaking another glance at me.
“Is this the part where you act like we’re friends so I’ll show you mercy?” I muse.
“Don’t ever mistake me for a friend, Vince,” she parrots.
I howl with laughter. “Kid’s got some fire in her.”
A hint of a smile reaches her lips, but she doesn’t comment.
“What’s your dream?” I ask.
She raises an eyebrow. “I’m sorry?”
“You’ve got fire, so you’ve gotta have a dream.”
“To be a Grandmaster in chess,” she answers without hesitation.
