Page 44 of Shattered Hearts
The room is a disaster.
My mattress is halfway off the bed. My bedside table is in splinters, broken glass from the lamp sparkling all over the floor. My closet has vomited up all my clothes. The walls feature fresh holes, and I will too, too, if I don’t come up with a plan.
My gun is nowhere in sight. For all I know, the bastard took it.
Rock music suddenly blares from the hallway. A loudpopfollows.
I hit the ground, head whipping around to find Troy firing blindly from my living room floor, probably cranking up the music to hide the sound of the gunshots.
With my gun gone, my only hope of survival is getting past the lunatic in the den, back up the hall, and out my front door.
I’m going to die.
Hot, enraged tears spring to my eyes.
Fright swallows me whole as Troy draws himself up from the floor.
He opens his eyes to slits. “There you are.”
He lifts his arm in my direction and trains the gun on me.
Doing the only thing I can, I throw my bedroom door closed with so much force, the frame shakes. Trembling, I engage the lock and dart to the side, my mind and body spiraling through waves and waves of panic.
“Troy, don’t!”
I recoil from the phantom pain as Troy’s arm, thick as a tree limb, breaks across my body. He backhands me right into a brick wall, and blood drips into my eye.
My bedroom door bucks, jolting me from the memory.
Troy must be barreling straight into my bedroom door like an offensive lineman. The door creaks and strains beneath his weight, causing my heart to lurch down to my toes.
The lock holds.
Not that it matters. He’s going to get me this time.
“Open this door!” Troy thunders, rattling the antique doorknob as he fights for entry.
Hands shaking, I wedge myself into the corner of my bedroom farthest from the door, away from the glass and splintered wood. I wish I was strong enough to face him on my own. Three years gone, and I’m more afraid of him now than I was at twenty.
A tear streams down my face and onto the purse still slung over my shoulder.
Oh my god, my phone!
Fumbling inside, I find my phone and start to dial. But then, my numb fingers go rigid.
Who am I going to call? The police?
Never call the cops. You got a problem, call me first.
My father drilled that into my head. To the mafia, calling the cops was the equivalent of summoning hellfire. One call could create a chain reaction that puts the Kings behind bars and incinerates their business empire. I’d end up with a serious target on my back.
Which isn’t so scary, actually, considering Troy is going to kill me today anyway.
Tears fill my eyes, blurring my vision.
The last time Troy attacked me, I went to my father for help, but he proved he didn’t give a shit about his daughter. Only about how the situation affected him.
Be a good girl and don’t upset your fiancé. A lot is riding on this.