The second we stop moving, I start to struggle to free my arm. My captor lets go, but before I can dart away, his arm locks around my neck, and my back is yanked flush against his chest.
“Don’t fucking touch her! She has nothing to do with this,” I hear my grandfather shout. It rips my attention away from my captor, only to see my grandfather on his knees in the middle of the living room.
Another man kicks Grandpa in his stomach while roaring, “But you fucking tried to kill my wife and sister?”
Oh, Jesus.
The icy metal of the gun presses against my temple, making every muscle in my body freeze.
We’re all going to die.
Shit.
I don’t want to die.
“What’s your name, little one?” my captor asks, his tone laced with threats that cause more terror to crash over me.
I’m torn between wanting to cower at his feet, begging him to spare me and fighting back with every ounce of strength I have.
These men are ruthless. You have to fight.
I grit my teeth, and not wanting to show just how scared I am, I bite out, “Rosalie.”
I was named after my mother, who died giving birth to me.
My captor rubs his cheek against the wild strands of hair hanging around my face and shoulders, then takes a deep breath.
Dear God.
Shit.
My muscles tighten, even more, my fingers digging into the fabric covering the forearm wrapped around my neck.
“Hmm. Little Rose. You smell mouthwatering.”
NoNoNoNoNo.
There are worse things than death, and for the first time, the fear of being raped flares through me like wildfire, destroying the meager hope and sense of safety I had left.
If you don’t fight, you will not survive today. They’ll do horrible things to you before killing you.
My muscles lock up, and my jaw is clenched tight as I growl, “Fuck you.” I try to slam the back of my head against his nose in the hopes of getting free, but he easily avoids me, letting out an amused chuckle.
My nails dig deeper into his forearm, and I become highly aware that I’m wearing a pair of tight shorts and a tank top that exposes my midriff. No bra. No shoes. I might as well be standing in my underwear in front of all these men.
I only wear this outfit when I’m in the privacy of my own bedroom. I’d always cover myself with my oversized sweater whenever I needed to go to the kitchen for a snack.
Every inch of me trembles from the merciless waves of terror washing over me.
“I need plastic bags,” the scary man standing by Grandpa says.
“On it, boss.” One of the other men quickly leaves the living room.
Why? Are they going to suffocate us? Jesus.
My eyes dart around, and I count eleven men. There’s no sight of any of our guards.
I look at Uncle Ricco and notice the blood staining his clothes. His color is ashen.