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Pete's head twitches slightly. A weak, broken sound escapes him. "Audra…?"

My heart shatters.

"I'm here," I whisper.

I realize something else. We're not alone. There are more men in the shadows. Watching. Waiting. Suddenly, the bright lights don't make the room feel safe at all. They make it feel like a stage. And we're the show.

A bald man steps out of the darkness. He's short and fat. His shirt strains against his stomach, and sweat gleams on his scalp under the fluorescent lights. He smiles. It's not a nice smile.

"About time," he appears almost cheerful. "Maybe he'll talk now."

Pete lifts his head with visible effort. His eyes find me. "Audra…"

The bald man moves faster than I expect. His fist slams into my stomach. The air explodes out of my lungs in a violentoomphas I crumple to the concrete floor. Pain tears through me like fire. I retch, coughing, gasping desperately for air that refuses to come. It's not the first time I've been punched in the stomach. God knows I had my share of fights—boys, girls, it didn't matter. Kindergarten, grammar school, middle school, High school. Later, a bar fight. A jealous girl with rings on her fingers. But never like this. Never this hard.

"AUDRA!" Pete screams. "NO! Leave her alone!"

The bald man steps back casually, like he's swatted a fly.

"She doesn't know anything!" Pete's voice cracks, desperation tearing through every word. "Idon't know anything! I told you!" His voice breaks. "Audra… I'm sorry…"

The words slice through me worse than the punch. I push myself up slowly, wiping the bile from my mouth with the back of my hand. My stomach still burns, my lungs still struggle to pull in air, but I force myself upright. The bald man watches me with amusement. I meet his eyes.

"What do you want?" I ask.

His grin widens. "Ah. Theputamight have more sense than her husband."

The word is meant to bait me, but I say nothing. He tilts his head toward Pete. "Why is he looking into our accounts?"

For a moment, I just stare at him. Flabbergasted. Accounts? My mind flashes back to the bedroom. Pete's laptop. The maze of shell companies. Four and a half million dollars. Oh shit. Pete didn't stumble onto something weird. He stumbled ontothem. Shit, shit, shit. The realization lands cold and sharp in my chest. Cartel. These men have to be Cartel. I've seen them operate a few times when I was with Razor. They're ruthless. They don'tcare who they kill. They would rather kill ten innocents than leave one rat alive. That's what this is. Who these men are. Not random criminals. Not a mistake. Not something we can explain our way out of. These men don't leave witnesses. Even if they believe Pete… we're already dead.

The bald man grabs my hair and jerks my head up. Pain rips across my scalp.

"I like you on your knees," he snarls into my face. His breath smells sour. "How about you suck my cock first?"

He glances at Pete. "What do you think, Pete? Will you talk then? Or will you enjoy the show?"

"NO!" Pete screams. The chair rattles as he struggles against the ropes. "Leave her alone! She doesn't know anything!"

His voice cracks. "We don't know anything! I just work for a bank!"

Blood is everywhere. His ruined hands shake violently against the ropes. The terror on his face tears something open inside my chest. I know he's already been through hell. I know he's breaking. But seeing him sob and plead like this… it fills me with a strange, aching shame—not just for what's happening to us, but for how small and helpless he looks in this moment.

Then the panic inside me simply… stops.

A cold calm washes over me. I straighten my spine and lift my chin despite the fist still gripping my hair. If this is how it ends, I won't meet it screaming and crying. I refuse.

I'll face it with dignity. For both of us.

"If you shove your cock down my throat," I tell him quietly. "I'll bite it off."

His hand explodes across my face. The slap throws me sideways onto the concrete. Pain bursts through my jaw. Warm blood fills my mouth.

"Maybe we remove your teeth first," he grins, and I don't doubt him for a second, not even before one of the other mensteps forward. Holding up a pair of pliers. The metal glints underneath the bright lights. My stomach knots. I can accept the fact of dying. But what these men are planning is so much worse.

Pete thrashes in the chair. "PLEASE!" he screams. "PLEASE!"

The chair scrapes loudly across the floor. But the ropes don't give. I push myself upright. Everything feels strangely distant now. Like I'm floating somewhere above the room watching this happen. Pete is still begging. Still crying. Still trying to save… him? me? I don't know for sure. Suddenly, I feel something that surprises me: embarrassment.