1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Lucy...Three Months Ago

"D o you see that man over there?" the asshole standing over me asks, squeezing my cheeks together so close they hurt. He'll leave finger marks for sure, but I don't dare move his hand.

I nod, and a tear runs down my face. Four men standing over you and asking for money will do that to a girl. My eyes flick to the man he points to, and I can't help but notice how much the man looks like a stereotypical mob boss. White suit with black tie. Dark hair combed over to hide his balding hairline. The man wears glasses and is about sixty pounds overweight. He sits on my couch, looking out of place. He's a long-haired, Siamese cat away from full movie mobster.

"That man doesn't like to be left hanging when money is on the line. You understand?"

I nod, another tear rolling down my cheek as the man lets go of my face. I wish he was still holding my chin, though, since his hand moves to my V-neck shirt and slides into my bra.

I shiver but don't dare move, especially since the knife the man holds in his other hand is precariously close to my rib cage. Something in his smirking expression tells me he won't have any problem using it on me. His hands tremble with excitement. This isn't his first time holding a knife on someone.

The man holding my breast is half a foot taller than me with a gold tooth instead of one of his canines. His dark hair is long and tied back in a ponytail at the nape of his neck. He's in all black, a contrast to his boss. The other men in the room all wear black shirts and pants. Is there a thug uniform meant to showcase the boss? Did they decide that in an email or group chat?

"Where's your husband?"

"I already told you I have no fucking clue. He left. No trace. I can't even find him for divorce papers."

The man bites his lip and drags the knife up to the breast he palms under my shirt. "What man would leave this fine piece of ass? I say you're full of shit."

"Totally full of shit," another thug echoes. "Maybe we should fuck it out of her." He toys with the belt on his pants, but the boss raises his hand on the couch. When he puts it down again, the thug backs away from me and puts his hands at his side.

The fact that the boss can control his crew with a mere hand movement scares the shit out of me more than the idea of gang rape. Thoughts of the old gladiator movies my dad liked to watch enter my mind. Will the boss give a thumbs-down movement when it's time for one of his men to slit my throat?

"There's no need for that. You can check my phone records," I plead, searching my pockets for my phone. "I've sent texts and called. Nothing. No response. I reported it to the police, but they don't seem to care. I swear to fucking God."

Terror boils the chicken soup I had for dinner in my stomach. My heart pounds, and my fight-or-flight instinct that ramped up as soon as these guys kicked in my door makes my fingers twitch. Flight wasn't an option since there was a guy at my back door. Fighting wasn't an option. Self-defense only goes so far with three hired mafia bouncers and a boss.

In addition to terror, there's shame rattling around in my body. Shame that I let them force me to my knees as they interrogated me about Beck's whereabouts. Beck forced me to my knees several times for other reasons during our marriage, and I swore I'd never be forced to ever do anything I didn't have control of on my knees again.

The man takes his hand off my breast and moves it to my sore chin, this time tilting it until I look so far up that my neck hurts. He looks at the boss, and the boss snaps his fingers. What the fuck does that mean? Death by strangling? Leaving?

The man holding my chin nods and bends down until he's an inch from my nose. His breath smells like beer and something spicy. Hot sauce? Nothing like stopping for a bucket of wings on your way to threaten an innocent woman who never took a dime from you.

"This is what's going to happen. Listen up because the next time we come back here, we won't be nearly as friendly or nice. Do we understand each other?"

I nod. What am I going to do? Say no?

"Your shit husband borrowed money from my boss over there. He doesn't like it when people don't pay money back, and he certainly doesn't like it when they disappear before paying the bill." The man's knife trails down my cheek.

I mentally scream at the universe, begging the man not to use it. Not my face.

I can only afford soup for dinner and am broke as a joke. I need my face to find a job. I won't find one when I have a weird knife mark carved into my face.

"Beck's never bailed on his debt to my boss, and we want to know where he is."

Beck has done business with these guys before? Great. Not only did he beat me daily for our entire marriage, but he's been wheeling and dealing with the mafia.

I search my memory for any sign he was involved with organized crime. Did the checking account show any proof of gambling?

Not that I had access to a lot of accounts. Beck ran most of that, only allowing me a credit card to buy makeup, pay for a gym membership, get filler once a year, and buy clothes. He even monitored that, probably to make sure I spent the money on things to make me attractive to him. Since he's gone missing, I've searched his office and found a ledger, but there's nothing in it that shows anything unusual.

The man sticks his tongue out and runs it up my cheek as I try not to gag. I'll just sit still and worry about how I'm going to get their money after they leave. Stay cool. My hands flex, but I don't dare take a swing at him as he finishes the lick at my forehead. He pulls back, smiles an evil grin, and spits straight in my face.

I blink, trying to clear his spit from my eyes, but there's nothing I can do about his drool stuck to my eyelashes.

"You owe us fifty thousand dollars, bitch."

Fifty thousand dollars? What was Beck planning? Running away with Ellen Quarry? I can't even afford fresh fruit. How do these guys think I'm going to get fifty thousand dollars?

"If Beck's missing like you say, we can be benevolent and charitable. We'll give you…" He trails off and looks at the boss, who holds up three fingers. "We'll give you three months to pay us back. Do you understand, you dumb fucking cunt?"

I nod and try to control my heaving breaths. What will they do to me if I don't pay? "I understand," I say, and it comes out as a husky whisper, fear controlling my ability to speak.

The man backs away from me, and the other thugs walk toward the door. The big boss rises from his seat and rubs his hand down the back of his pants like my couch filth ruined them.

"If you don't have our money when we come back, Beck won't be the only one that goes missing. We may even start with your family and friends."

The men leave, closing the door quietly when they go, and I fall on the floor in a heap of tears and breathless sobbing.

Where am I going to get that kind of money? I don't have a job. Beck wouldn't allow me to have one even though I was fully capable of working. He wanted me home and at his every whim with a perfectly clean and decorated home. I've been out of the job market for years. My skills with computers are outdated, and I can't make fifty thousand dollars plus my own living expenses working at Target. I've been living off my allowance money Beck left.

The joke's on these guys, though. They didn't research me before they came here tonight. If they did, they'd know I don't have friends to unalive since Beck scared the shit out of them too, and the only family I have left is my skeezy cousin, Peter, who was disowned by the rest of my now-dead family years ago for opening a strip club.

My head comes up, and I fist the carpet under me with ambition I didn't have an hour ago.

Peter owns a strip club.