Page 114 of Resist Me (Forget the Past 3)

“She’s my daughter! I can do whatever the hell I want with her.”

Uh, no, you fucking cannot.

But then I pause at my father’s phrasing.

Is he arguing with someone about this? Is he arguing with my mother? The woman who has never stood up for me in her entire life?

The idea doesn’t compute.

Then a deeper voice sounds through the flimsy wood.

“When I say let her the fuck out, I mean it. Now!” Uncle Mike’s booming bass rattles the window. I wonder if maybe he’ll create my escape route just with his anger.

“You don’t get it!” There’s a note of whining in my father’s voice, as if his big brother is taking away a toy he wants to play with instead of telling him to free his kidnapped daughter. “She’s got money. I just need to keep her here until she gives it up. Then we’re good. And I’ll give you your ten percent like always.” My father says this last bit with an air of coaxing. Like he’s offering some tasty morsel.

I almost laugh.

“I know about the money, you fuck-up.” The doorknob rattles, and I can envision Mike’s meaty fist wrapped around it. “She’s paying it to me. All of it.”

“What?” Panic brings a sharp edge to Bill’s words. “No. She’d never agree to that.”

“She’s paying for Leo!” Mike snarls. “That girl of yours wants both her brothers out of the game, and she’ll pay just about anything to make it happen. She’s sure as hell got a lot more family loyalty than you’ve ever shown.”

“Mike—”

“Bet you weren’t planning on telling me about the cash, you greedy fucking bastard.”

“I was.” Through the door, I can hear the lie in his voice.

Maybe, going off this conversation, I could hope to put my faith in Uncle Mike. The problem is my father has this persuasive knack that works particularly well on my mother and his brother. Time and again, Bill talks the two out of getting mad at him. He even goes so far as to persuade them to his way of thinking.

His bullshit doesn’t work on me. It hasn’t since I was six years old. Maybe it’s because he never tried too hard until I got older. And by that time, I saw through his flimsy veneer of sincerity.

And no way his persuasion will work now. Not after he threatened Charlie.

But Bill could get my uncle to change his mind. No way am I sticking around, hoping the chop-shop owner will maintain his slippery grip on his honor.

“Open the door,” I hear my uncle growl from the other side of the wood.

A long pause, then there’s a slip of a key into a heavier lock than I remember. Sounds like even if I’d picked my way out of here, I would have come up against a dead bolt.

Through the hanging dresses, I watch the door open.

“What the hell?”

The first rule is run.

I burst out from behind the clothes, grab my father’s shoulder, and whip him around straight into my fist.

Guess I won’t tell anyone about how bad I am at following my own rules.

The crunch of his nose is a beautiful sound, but not as lovely as the pained squeak he lets out when I knee him straight in the balls. Shoving him to the floor, I bring my heel down hard on his right hand. The one he used to hold the gun against my head. More bones crack, and my father screams.

Violence pounds through my veins. I want to keep going. Draw more blood. Shatter more bones. Strike terror into his heart whenever he thinks of my name.

But I want to leave this room, this house, even more.

I turn on my uncle, who actually holds his hands up in surrender, despite the foot of height and hundred pounds he has on me.

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