What do I do? Open the door and run for my life or hide? No, this place has no other exit that I know of. If they find me here, they could kill me in an instant. I’m just a sitting duck here waiting to be slaughtered. I have to move.
With my tray covering my chest to protect myself, I open the door slowly and peek through. Men are standing near the entrance to block people from running out while bullets fly. Scattered across the floor are customers and waitresses, blood seeping from their bodies.
Jesus, it’s a fucking massacre.
And there are so many armed men, there’s no way I’m going to get out unseen.
I search for my phone, but I can’t find it.
Fuck. It just hit me. I left it in the locker room. I want to slap myself for being so stupid, but it won’t help me now.
Okay, think of something else. I look around to see if there’s another exit even though Mafia guys are everywhere. They’re still shooting, and bullets ricochet off the walls and tables right next to me. But I have to move. It’s that or I’ll have to die trying.
Glancing to my right, I spot the back exit. It’s my only shot.
Holding up the tray to protect my face, I lower myself to the floor and crawl toward the exit, hoping no one will see me. I stick close to the wall. I’m almost there. I’m so fucking close …
And then a hand grips my shirt from behind, pulling me up by my neck.
I scream, but the sound is blocked by the shirt wrapped tightly around my neck, choking me. I claw at the arm slithering around my skin.
“Where do you think you’re going?” a bulky, muscular man with a thick Russian accent says.
I’m coughing and gasping for air as I hiss, “Let me go.”
He smiles viciously and lifts me in the air like I’m a rag doll to play with. I throw a fist, left and right, but none of them affects him in the slightest. Not even a kick to the dick makes him flinch. This guy is made of stone. All these years of self-defense have been rendered me useless, and I’ve never felt more powerless than I do now.
“Boss, I’ve got a feisty one over here …” he growls, still looking at me like I’m a special prize he won.
I keep stomping at him, giving it my all to free myself. I won’t stop. I can’t. I have to live so I can find that guy … Marcello. Right now, he’s the only link to my parents’ murder, and I’m not about to die before I have a chance to avenge their deaths.
Some of the attackers are still shooting at people lying on the floor to make sure they’re actually dead, and it terrifies me … because the man holding me in a firm grip right this very second has a gun in his other hand, and it’s pointed straight at my head.
What if this is my last breath?
Oh god.
No!
No, I can’t think like that. I have to keep calm and figure out a way to get out of this mess.
“Don’t fucking move,” the scary guy growls, “unless you want me to pull the trigger and paint the walls with your pretty brains.”
“Don’t, please,” I squeak. It’s pathetic, but I have no choice. If begging will get me out alive, it’s worth a try. Right now, my pride doesn’t matter.
He licks his filthy lips and yanks me tight against his body. “You’re a pretty one. I think I’ll keep you for myself.”
Fuck that. Disgusting pig.
I spit in his face, and growl, “Fuck you.”
For a moment, he lets go of me but before I can move another muscle, he slaps me so hard I feel dizzy. He throws me onto the ground, facedown on the floor, and the force knocks all the air out of my lungs. I groan in pain as I try to scramble to my feet, but he pins me down on the floor.
“No one spits in my face, not even a pretty girl like you,” he says, leaning in to whisper into my ear. “I think I need to teach you a lesson on how to behave. You want it rough? You got it.”
Shit, my fighting is only turning the fucker on.
He licks my earlobe and my cheek, leaving a disgusting trail that makes me want to hurl. His dirty hands are all over me, and I let out a frightened shriek as he rips down my panties right from underneath the skirt. I punch and kick and reach for the tray that’s fallen next to me, but to no avail. He’s pinned down my wrists as he sits down on top of my back. A belt buckle clicks as he undoes it, and tears well up in my eyes.