Page 83 of The Bonventi Secret
I need to try and sit up.
I try to push myself up, but dizziness sends me crashing back down. My cheek scrapes against the rough concrete, and I taste blood where I've bitten my tongue.
Another wave of nausea hits. This time I can't fight it. I manage to turn my head enough to avoid choking as my body convulses, bringing up nothing but bile that burns my already raw throat.
Waiting to get away from my throat, I give everything I have to sit up, and I finally manage to prop myself up.
Fragments of memory flash through my mind again. The car. Alex. A cloth pressed over my face, the sweet smell overwhelming me as everything went dark.
Oh God, Alex. Is he...?
I push the thought away, unable to face it. Instead, I focus on assessing my own condition. Besides the headache and nausea—likely from whatever drug they used—I don't seem to be seriously injured. My shirt is torn at the shoulder, and I can feel a scrape on my cheek, but nothing seems broken.
A distant sound makes me freeze. Footsteps, growing closer. Heavy boots on wooden stairs.
Fear clutches at my throat, threatening to choke me. I struggle to sit up straighter, ignoring the way the room spins around me. If someone's coming, I refuse to be found lying helpless on the floor.
Enzo, I think, a mixture of longing and anger washing over me. Where are you?
The footsteps stop just outside what must be a door.
"Have you checked on her?" a man asks.
"Fifteen minutes ago. Still out."
“She’s been out for a long time. She's not dead, is she?"
"No, she was breathing last I checked."
I hear the scrape of a key in a lock, and my heart pounds so hard I'm sure a heart attack is imminent.
Please, I think, though I'm not sure who I'm pleading with. Please let me survive this.
The door begins to open, and I brace myself for whoever is about to enter.
The door creaks open, and a harsh fluorescent light spills into the room. Two men enter—one tall and lean, the other shorter but stocky. Both wear expensive suits that can't quite hide the bulge of shoulder holsters.
"Well, well. Sleeping Beauty's awake," the taller one says, his accent distinctly Italian-American.
I try to speak, but my throat is so dry, all that comes out is a raspy croak. The shorter man laughs.
The tall man crouches in front of me, his cologne mixing unpleasantly with the musty air. "Thirsty, sweetheart?" he asks, pulling out a water bottle. "Let's see if we can fix that."
I want to refuse, to turn away, but I'm so thirsty. As soon as the bottle touches my lips, I'm gulping desperately, not caring that half of it spills down my chin.
"Easy there," the man says, pulling the bottle away. "Don't want you choking before we've had our fun."
The short, stocky one laughs again.
"By the way, I'm Vincent Rossi. But you can call me Vinnie," the tall man says.
I stay silent, fighting back another wave of nausea. My head throbs with each word he speaks.
"Not feeling chatty?" Vinnie reaches out and grabs my chin, forcing me to look at him. His fingers dig into my skin. "That's okay. The drugs take a while to wear off completely."
I jerk my face away from his touch.
"Feisty," the shorter one comments. "Just like Enzo likes them."
