1
Galina
Two months ago
I was pushed from behind so hard I lost my balance and fell forward, my hands instinctively reaching out to stop the impact. My knees and palms connected with the dirty ground, tearing at skin, pain lancing up my arms and legs.
I’d been brought to an abandoned warehouse. This could very well be where I died.
I heard snickering from the two men behind me, the ones who’d forcefully taken me out of my bed. I clenched my jaw, the familiar anger I felt whenever I thought of my father and the shit he dragged me into moving through me.
I was here because of him. My father. The lowlife drug addict who had a gambling problem and made a bet he couldn’t talk his way out of. And he’d finally included me personally in his hellhole.
I should have left Vegas long ago, I thought. I should have never convinced myself that I was stronger than all this shit, that I didn’t have to leave to make a life for myself. Damn it, I should have put him and everything he stood for behind me for good.
Would’ve, could’ve, should’ve, and all that bullshit.
For a second I contemplated just staying on my hands and knees. I wasn’t sure if I was going to get kicked back down if I tried to rise, but I didn’t want to seem weak. I refused to let these assholes think I was easy prey.
I gathered my pride and pushed myself up, the sound of the men in the room laughing causing me to grit my teeth and ignore them.
Because it was the middle of the night, I wore nothing but a white tank top and a pair of loose lounge pants. They hadn’t even given me time to put on shoes or a jacket, and with it being October—even though we were in Vegas—the temperature dropped below fifty. Coupled with this dank, old warehouse and the fear that I’d probably die tonight—or worse—I started shivering.
I wrapped my arms around myself, wanting to conserve heat, and also because I could feel how hard my nipples were and didn’t want the sick fucks getting a boner at the sight. I didn’t look behind me at the two men who still stood there, blocking the entrance.
There were a handful of men standing in front of me, and I was surprised they needed so many bodies just for me. The warehouse I had been taken to was clearly abandoned, the floors filthy, age and rust covering every inch of this place. The scent of dirt, mold, and something rotting filled the air.
Given the fact that I was surrounded by a bunch of lowlifes, the smell of what was rotting could’ve very well been a body for all I knew.
I heard some shuffling to my side and turned my head to see my father stepping out from a doorway.
My father. The man I’d written off more than a year ago, pushed him out of my life because I was tired of him constantly pulling me into the vortex of his shit.
The steel door hung from rusted-out hinges and leaned half against the wall as he cleared the entryway. At first I was confused why he didn’t have anyone dragging his sorry ass forward. Was he here of his own free will? Seemed unlikely, given his track record.
But then I saw the barrel of a gun that was pointed right behind his head.
The man who stepped out from behind my father was tall and heavily muscled, his face expressionless.
When my father and the gunman cleared the doorway, I spotted another man stepping through. The master to these fucking puppets.
Henry Taedoni.
He was the only one I was familiar with in this shithole, but then again, that was only because of my father and all the trouble he constantly brought down in all our lives.
Henry was what many people in our circle would’ve called a gangster, although “many people in our circle” consisted of meth heads, gambling addicts, and anyone who owed him money. Henry was nothing more than a low-level loan shark, a drug dealer, and an all-around piece of shit.
He wasn’t part of any official organized crime faction. I would’ve placed them in the white trash category, the kind of “leader” who kept addicts, criminals, and degenerates of the trashier variety on his payroll and as his clientele.
Because they were easily manipulated and wouldn’t fight back.
Henry and his people weren’t organized or smart. They used sloppy force and fear tactics toward an already weak population to get what they wanted.
“Galina Michone,” he drawled in a way that made my skin prickle with awareness and disgust. He came closer and stopped when he was a few feet from me. A nasty grin spread across his face, a gold tooth in the side of his mouth flashing under the dirty, muted light. The way he let his gaze move up and down my body made me feel slimy and naked.