“¡Qué carajo! ¡Qué carajo! ¡Qué carajo!”he screams over and over.
What a wimp.
His colleagues rush over and disarm me.
“Jesucristo!” ManBun shouts.
Amid the chaos of one man screaming bloody murder, one man shouting curses in Spanish as he uses a greasy handkerchief he pulled from his back pocket to staunch the blood spilling from Bruno’s wound, and another calmly pinning me to the wall with his forearm while smoking a blunt with his other hand, someone’s phone rings.
ManBun stops mid-curse and gets out his phone. “Sí, jefe.” He listens for a beat, rubbing the back of his neck with bloodstained fingers. “Uh,sí…She just stabbed Bruno in the face. He needs medica— ... No, he tried to touch her, like, you know... Sorry,jefe.I didn’t—... Okay... Okay... Got it, boss.”
When he hangs up, he scratches his forehead and eyes me strangely. His mouth opens, but nothing comes out. He glances down at his feet for a second, then lifts his eyes to my face and tries again. “Lo siento.” A shake of his head. “I mean, ah, sorry about what just happened.”
Huh?
He then gives the man pinning me against the wall a pointed look, conveying something. The man shrugs, cool as fresh mint, and mutters around a puff of smoke. “Sorry,hermosa. That shouldn’t have happened. If you were mine, he’d lose his hand.”
I smile shyly at him. Because clearly, I have issues.
“Bruno?” ManBun prompts.
Bruno gapes at him as if he’s insane. “Are you kidding me? I’m not apologizing to that bitch!”
“Boss’s orders,” ManBun says.
“Fuck boss’s orders! She stabbed me in the fucking face!”
“You knowjefewill ask, and even if I do lie for you”—he jerks his head to the man who has me pinned—“Carlos won’t.”
Hmm. Seems there’s some bad blood between Bruno and Carlos.
Bruno huffs and puffs, pacing back and forth, the handkerchief pressed to his wound now soaked with blood. He’s bound to pass out from heavy blood loss if he doesn’t get medical help soon.
Eventually, he stops pacing and throws me a perfunctory, “Lo siento.”
With that, ManBun jerks a nod at Carlos.
Carlos looks at me, blunt tucked in the corner of his mouth. “Me and you, we cool?”
“You really think I’m pretty?”
A crooked smile. “Eres preciosa. Breathtaking.Muy caliente.”
I hold my hands out in front of me, wrists together. “We cool, then.”
He secures the cuffs around my wrists again then puts a bag over my head like they did when they brought me here.
Their conversation after that is all Spanish as I’m guided out of the room, up a long flight of stairs, out into fresh air, and ushered into a van. Despite being more fluent in Spanish than Italian and can mostly understand their conversation, I tune them out.
There’s driving. Alotof driving and turning and spinning and speeding. More so than when they first nabbed me. Which means they’re probably doing a heat run.
In time, the van screeches to a halt, the door is slid open, the handcuffs are removed, and I’m haphazardly thrown out, my hands and knees scraping against asphalt.
No mystery as to which one booted me out so roughly.
Only when the squealing tires and growling engine fade off in the distance do I reach up and rip the bag off my head.
I take in my environment.
