“Hello, Siena. It’s very nice to have you back.”
I sit up, rubbing my right shoulder and breathing hard. “What is this?”
“I’m sorry about the confusion. Turns out that Mira is totally fine. She’s upstairs getting humped by some old fat man right now, and I suspect she won’t hear a thing.”
“What are you doing?” I scoot away from them, kicking at the comforter. Renato comes at me from the left side and Ben comes from the right.
I try to jump toward Renato, but he catches me. He shoves me back on the bed and Ben pounces. They pin me down, holding my arms down to the side as my legs kick and flail at nothing. I roar and shout, but Ben only slaps me hard in the mouth. “Jesus, fuck you, Siena,” Renato growls. “Stop fighting so damn much.”
I’m panicking. Freaking out. My heart’s racing wildly and my brain’s screaming for me to run, run, run, to get out of here, get away. Zita’s grinning so big as she reaches into the back pocket of her jeans and produces a thick, metal handle. She flips it—and a long, gleaming knife flicks out.
My eyes go wide. She laughs like it’s the funniest thing in the world.
“When you first came back, I thought to myself, I better not fuck with her. That Russian guy might come back. And if he does, I’m toast. But you’ve been here for, what, nine days? And he’s nowhere to be seen. So last night I realized nobody gives a shit about you anymore, Siena. Not your father, not your brothers, and not your Russian. You’re all alone and you’re all mine.”
“Fuck you, Zita. Don’t come near me.” Ben slaps me again with an annoyed hiss. I blink away the tears and the stinging pain in my cheek.
“Or what? You’ll scream?” She laughs and crawls up onto the bed. I want to throw up as she puts her weight on me, straddling my hips and sitting down onto my stomach. I groan and struggle to breathe as she leans forward, her putrid breath blowing into my face. “You’re too fucking pretty, Siena. Let’s do something about that.”
“No,” I whisper, tears in my eyes. I’m begging and I hate myself. Zita raises the knife. “Please, don’t. Maxim will find you. He’ll hurt you.” It’s a lie. I know it’s a lie. It hurts so fucking bad to say his name like that, but I’m desperate and terrified.
She clucks her tongue and shakes her head. “No, Siena. He won’t.”
She jabs the knife against my right cheek and rips an ugly jagged line down my face, from my earlobe to the corner of my mouth. I feel the flesh part in a hot, searing agony, and blood drips down my chin and throat.
Zita laughs and the bouncers release me as I scream and scream and bleed all over the sheets.
“He’s not coming back for you, little bitch,” Zita says as I groan in blinding pain. “And now you’ll have that scar to always remember that I own you. If you don’t play by my rules, there are plenty of other places I can cut.”
I groan and roll to the side. The tears mingle with blood in my mouth and I vomit onto the floor. It splashes onto the carpet and Renato jumps back. “Fucking shit, Siena,” he says, trying to avoid my puke. “These are new shoes, you dumb bitch.”
Zita laughs as she walks to the door. “Come on, boys. You two have real girls to watch over. This one doesn’t need our help.”
“Better be careful, Siena,” Ben mumbles as he walks after Zita.
Renato spits in my direction and follows after them.
“And don’t forget to clean this up,” Zita calls out as the trio leaves me alone on the bed.
I curl into a ball and sob. I sob so hard I think my jaw’s going to fall off. The cut’s a horrible, painful gash in my face, and Zita’s words sink deep into my body.
Nobody cares.
I’m alone, all alone. Maxim’s gone. My father’s losing his mind. Enzo and Santo and Franco are too busy dealing with their own problems to help me.
I’m alone and Zita’s going to kill me, piece by piece.
I cry until I can’t anymore, until the sour puke taste in the back of my throat gets too awful to ignore, and crawl off to find my cleaning supplies.
Chapter 25
Maxim
The vodka burns on the way down. I like the warmth that spreads through my limbs. I like the numbness that follows even better.
I lean my elbows on the dark, grimy bar and gesture for another. The bartender’s a quiet old guy that doesn’t ask questions and keeps them coming. I like him a lot. He’s got sad eyes and no hair.
“To killing the pain,” I say, holding up my drink.