also slightly impressed, too. He turns to Dujar with a withering look. “She’s right. What do you think my father is going to make of this? My men?”
“Your father is a fossil, my friend. He is not long for this world. In fact, the shock of losing his dear son in such brutally violent fashion might be enough to kill him on its own. And we’ve already established how much we can trust your men.” Dujar pauses when Artan and the other men return to the room. Artan leans across the bar and whispers something in his ear.
When Dujar leans back, he is chuckling and staring at me with a gleam in his eyes I don’t like at all. “When were you going to tell him?”
I swallow. The only good part about this fucked-up situation is that my leg wound has stopped bleeding so profusely now. But everything else is screwed, like horror-movie-level messed-up. I know what he’s referring to, as well, which just makes it all the worse.
“Well?” Dujar grins. He turns to Angelo. “My man has been following your woman for a few days, Angelo, you know, to glean any details that might make tricking her all the easier. He has just told me something very interesting. She was seen buying several pregnancy tests, and, when she emerged from the bathroom, her face was as white as a ghost. Now …”
Dujar levels the gun at me, but this time aiming it at my belly. I feel a primitive, protective urge rise up inside of me.
That’s when I spot it, mostly concealed under the bar towel: a small knife, the kind you use for cutting fruit for cocktails. “Would you be so high and mighty if I executed your child in front of you?”
“You still haven’t told me what you want,” Angelo says. His eyes keep straying towards the knife under the towel. I wonder if he sees it, too. But his voice is choked and heavy. I can tell how much the news of the pregnancy means to him by the tightness in his face. “This is getting old, Dujar.”
“But we haven’t even started yet,” Dujar protests. “Getting old, he says. Who do you think you are, Angelo? All your life, you have never had to work for anything. I grew up in the bitter cold, boy, a place that would seem like hell to you. You wouldn’t last two seconds where I’m from, and you have the gall to talk down to me? Disrespect will not be tolerated in this city as long as I run it. Men, take the bitch.”
“Don’t you fucking dare!” Angelo roars, leaping to his feet.
Everything happens in a violent flurry. Three Albanians launch themselves at Angelo, whipping him with the butts of their pistols, beating him to the floor and then kicking him savagely in the head and chest and neck.
At the same time, Artan and the other Albanians drag me across the room and bend me over the couch. I scream, kicking my legs out, flailing with my arms. But they handle me like butcher’s meat.
“Angelo!” I cry. “Angelo!”
“Fucking bastards!” Angelo grunts in pain as a heavy boot takes him in the chin.
“Don’t fight,” Artan is whispering urgently in my ear. “It will be easier this way. The boss just wants to see you degraded.”
“Fuck you!” I spin my head, spitting in his face. He springs back, and I take my chance to kick hard at the Albanian behind me. Sickeningly, they have already arranged themselves in a fucking line. The man at the front has his dick out, stroking it, so that when I kick, it catches him right in the balls. He hunches over, looking like he might puke.
I scramble desperately across the room, thinking of how much I love Angelo, thinking of our child, thinking of how I need to be there for Wyatt. Somebody fires a shot and it hits the ceiling-high glass window, shattering and letting in a whoosh of ice-cold winter air.
Dujar turns to me, grinning, raising his gun like an indulgent parent. Now, now, enough of this ruckus; let’s get down to business, his smile says. But his grin drops when I grab the knife and launch myself over the bar at him. He yelps and makes to raise his gun higher, to my head.
At the same time, I slash with the knife, but I’ve never used a blade as a weapon before, and I end up doing it at an awkward angle. He