Page 70 of The Bonventi War
"Don't make this difficult," the Russian says, his grip tightening.
I fight back, kicking and scratching, aiming for eyes, throat, groin—anywhere vulnerable. I connect with something soft, and a man grunts in pain.
Their amusement vanishes, replaced by cold, quiet anger. A hand tangles in my hair, wrenching my head back. Another slaps me hard across the face. A bright flash of white explodes in my vision, followed by a sharp, stinging pain.
"Enough!" the first man snarls.
Through the ringing in my ears, I hear my father pleading. "Don't hurt her! You promised not to hurt her!"
"Shut the fuck up," the Russian snaps, then looks at me. "She acts like a bitch, she'll be treated like one."
I taste blood in my mouth. My cheek throbs where he struck me.
They drag me toward the stairs, two men gripping my arms so tightly I know they'll leave bruises. I struggle against them, but it's useless.
"Dad!" I scream. "Dad, please!"
Suddenly, a body-numbing blow lands in my stomach. I double over, gasping for air.
There's so much rage in me, but I can't get any words out as my lungs fight to breathe.
I hear my dad babbling, but I can't make out the words anymore.
My body finally finds air, but it comes too late. Two of the men haul me up the stairs, my feet barely touching the ground.
"Stop it!" I yell, my voice raw. "Let me go!"
The third man follows behind, laughing at my struggle. My father remains frozen at the bottom of the stairs, his hands covering his face.
"Dad!" I scream. "Don't do this! Don't let them take me!"
He doesn't respond.
We reach the top of the stairs, and they drag me through the darkened gallery.
A glimpse of my reflection catches my eye. My hair is a mess, my lip is bleeding, and my face is red.
I twist violently in their grip, managing to break one arm free. I swing wildly, my nails raking the cheek of the nearest man. He curses in Russian before switching to English.
"You fucking bitch!"
He backhands me across the face with such force that stars explode behind my eyes.
I crumple to the floor. Blood leaks from my nose. For a moment, I think I might blackout, but I fight to stay conscious. Through the haze, I feel rough hands grabbing my hair, using it like a handle to drag me across the floor.
Pain sears my scalp. My hands fly up to grip his wrist, trying to alleviate the pressure, but his hold only tightens.
"Please," I gasp. "Stop?—"
"Shut up," the man growls, yanking harder.
My vision blurs as tears mix with blood. The gallery doors are getting closer, and with sickening clarity, I understand that once I'm through them, I'm gone. Disappeared. Like so many others who crossed the wrong people.
I think of Gio, of his promise to protect me. Where is he now? The irony cuts deeper than any physical pain. I pushed away the one person who could have prevented this.
They drag me through the door.
"Get the fuck up," the one gripping my hair commands, pulling hard enough to make me stand.
