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Enrage (Eagle Elite #8)
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Part of a world I loathe.
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THE FAMILIAR SMELL of blood invaded my nostrils as it ran down my wrists, its hot wetness fueling the anger inside.
“Again,” Nixon screamed, his eyes flashed with fury, and blood caked his face. “Do it again.”
So I did.
“Finish him,” a cold voice commanded.
“Give me one good reason why I should.” I didn’t recognize my own voice; it might as well have been a stranger talking for me.
“I’ll give you the only reason.” A gun was held in front of my face — pointed directly at her. “Now finish him.”
“GET THE HELL away from me.” I could barely control the rage as it made my body shake. Blood dripped from my lip as I held an ice pack to my face. Everything hurt. I’d only been in Chicago a few months and in that time, I’d learned one thing.
Nixon Abandonato was trying to kill me.
He told me so every day.
And every night when I went to sleep — I had images of all of the men who’d made similar threats — men I’d silenced with my fists.
Nixon wasn’t one of those men. He was too damn fast, calculating in every jab. Hell, even my liver hurt.
The bastard had me boxing blindfolded.
And when he still wasn’t satisfied, he asked the capo to rough me up… he even said please. The rest of the bosses watched while my hands were literally tied behind my back and the guy sank his fist into my stomach.
“No.” The voice was small, pretty. I would have thought she was pretty if I didn’t know who she was or what she was about. When she’d first come to us, we’d all assumed she was older, the way her ex dressed her and covered her with makeup you’d think she was at least twenty-four, not so near my age. It was easier then, to ignore her, thinking she was this used, pitiful woman.
A year younger than me, and already she was hard. It was the way she looked at a man — like I was the cause of all of her pain.
She took a step forward. “You’re injured, I think I have some arnica that I gave the boys when they were—”
I burst out laughing — it was an ugly sound — and more blood spewed from my mouth. “Fucking arnica is going to fix this shit?” I lifted up my shirt, there wasn’t an inch of skin that wasn’t marred with blue, black, or my personal favorite, green, I don’t know how the hell the guys accomplished it, but they had officially turned my body into something I didn’t recognize.
My mind was all I had left.
Which was why they kept beating me.
It was my fault.
I’d begged Sergio, my twin’s scary as hell husband, and an assassin, for proper training.
What I didn’t get when I’d asked was that training actually meant that they would bring me as close to death as possible and then give me just enough food, water, and rest to heal, only to do it again.
I spent an entire week in a dungeon-like room, damn near starving to death. And one of the guys, it was usually Chase, would walk by and drop one Cheetos through the bars, smile, and walk off.
I wasn’t sure whom I hated most.
Sergio for trying to break my spirit.
Nixon for trying to break my body with his fists.
Phoenix for trying to slit my throat with a knife.
Chase for torturing me until I wanted to die.
Mil for shooting me at point blank range and then asking me to stop my own bleeding.
Tex for tying me up and pulling me behind his car.
Or Frank, for breaking two of my fingers and then laughing.
If that was how the mafia trained someone they actually liked, then I hated to think about what they would do to their enemy.
I fought for sleep that didn’t come, and prayed that since the next day was Saturday they’d give me time to sleep rather than pulling me out of my REM cycle only to torture me again.
When minute seven came…
The door opened.
“Wake up, buttercup.” Chase’s voice sounded so pleased that I almost grabbed my gun and pointed it at his face. “It’s time to train!”
Minute eight, the lights flicked on
Minute nine, and I was on my ass on the ground getting a knee pressed against my chest while Chase’s hands wrapped around my throat. “I’ll give you one chance to change your answer.”
“The hell is wrong with you!” I croaked trying to shove his heavy body away.
He shrugged; an easy smile hit his lips. “Haven’t had sex in two days, lucky you.”
“Why, you gonna screw me?” I taunted.
His fist flew across my right cheek as he heaved me to a sitting position. No fighting back.
That was one of the rules.
Unless they asked me to.