Page 15 of Twisted Vows

My feet scrape the ground as they drag me toward the van and throw me inside. I hit the metal floor hard, and pain shoots through my shoulder on impact. I see a couple of men get into the van before they slam the door.

Of course. I didn’t heed Dad’s warning. I ran, and then I got caught.

I shriek with all my might, but no one can hear. No one’s coming to rescue me.

A faint yellow dome light flickers on, allowing me to see the men who abducted me. They don’t wear masks to hide their identity. Two of them sit in the back of the van with me. The man I saw at the school rides shotgun.

The guy I struck earlier with the splintered wood is one of the two in the back. He sits against the side panel, clutching an ice pack to his temple. Blood stains his fingers and collar. His face is twisted with rage, his jaw clenched. A vein pulses at his temple. “Shut up, girl!” he roars. “Before I shut you up myself.”

Tears blur my vision, and as my chest heaves, the words tumble out between gasps. “You have the wrong person. I’m just a schoolteacher. Please.”

He bangs his fist against the van wall. “We know who you are. Sophia Martinelli. Daughter of Vincent the Rat.”

My stomach sinks.

I swallow the bout of nausea rising in my throat. “This is about him? I don’t know where my father is. Haven’t seen him in years.”

“Don’t lie.” He leans forward and cuffs my right hand to the side bar.

The younger bald one—the one who grabbed me—snickers from the driver’s seat while glancing back through the rearview mirror. “Vito got whacked by a schoolgirl. Migraine of his life.”

Snickers bounce around the van like ricocheting bullets.

“Quiet, Gio,” Vito growls while pressing the ice pack tighter. “It was a slip. I don’t hit women.”

The others howl harder. “Soft spot already? Careful, brother.”

Silence follows. Heavy, awkward, and thick with menace.

I force my breath and press my palms into my thighs. I have to think of a way out of this.

My father’s warnings echo in my mind. “Those tattooed with a snake and dagger intertwined mark soldiers bound by blood to the Benedetti family. Men who’ve taken a vow they’d rather die than break.”

“You’re cowards. Kidnapping a woman for her father’s sins.” My voice cracks but steadies. “That’s not honor. That’s filth.”

Mocking laughter fills the van.

Baldy drops his face close to mine, his hot breath reeking of smoke. “Big mouth for someone bound.”

“Let me go,” I spit.

“Not your call.” He grins, displaying yellow teeth.

The van twists through backstreets, the tires thumping over potholes. The city lights thin and then vanish. Half an hour later, a skeletal warehouse looms ahead. It has rusted siding and shattered windows, and the air around is thick with gasoline and mold.

Doors fly open, and two pairs of hands haul me out like cargo. My feet hit the ground. As the men drag me inside, my legs wobble and my boots scrape across cracked cement.

My palm is slick, and my pulse pounds in my ears.

The air reeks of oil, rust, and blood…enough to clog my throat. I can’t breathe. I also can’t think.

Just like that, the life I built from lesson plans and bouquets for my mother shatters. Ghosts from the past claw forward. Hushed phone calls and men in suits at our door. My mother’s terrified whispers. Dad’s sins reach through bloodlines, dragging me back into the darkness I swore never to touch.

The warehouse breathes rot, and grease stains slick the concrete floor. Dripping pipes tap overhead, and rusted, empty, half-collapsed metal shelves line the walls. A single flickering bulb hangs from a frayed wire, casting long shadows that twist and stretch. There’s one couch in the middle of the large space, and a rundown car with flat tires and shattered windows sits in the eastern corner.

They shove me into the wall, which causes dust to rain down. Cold seeps into my skin as I slide down to the ground. My shoes pinch my feet. I’d normally be out of them at this time, with my feet up on the center table as I watch TV or eat takeout. If I see an opportunity to run, the shoes won’t help, so I strip them off while the bickering men head to the couch.

Vito, still clutching his head from earlier, paces like a rabid dog. “Let’s rough her up. Quick answers. Quick dinner. And I’m starving.”