“Oh.” She attempted a smile as she took the tray loaded with a plate of chicken tenders, fries, and bottled water. Howie squeezed her shoulder, and she left.
Feeling like her head was on the chopping block, Crystal dashed down the private hall and rounded the corner that led to the basement steps. Damn, did she hate going anywhere near this part of the club. Horrendous memories and a desperate, miserable energy clung to the walls down here as if they were the varnish on the old, dark paneling. With a deep breath, she glanced around the tray and double-checked her footing on the first step down.
Commotion erupted from below, then a pounding sounded from in front of her. Two men barreled up the steps wearing masks. The first guy carried a gun aimed straight at her chest. And the guy in the rear held an unconscious man over his shoulder.
She rushed back, causing the bottle of water to fly off the tray, though her hands clutched onto the plastic as hard as her throat held on to the scream suddenly lodged there. Her brain attempted to process what was happening. Jimmy Church’s operation had been infiltrated here, too? Jesus, who would risk pissing off the most notorious gang in Baltimore? And, oh God, no way this was a coincidence after whatever Bruno’d learned on the phone. She’d win some big-time favor if she sounded the alert, if she could just get her voice to work.
All of a sudden, the men reached the top of the stairs, and, though they wore masks, Crystal recognized the steel gray eyes peering through the holes, the way that dark shirt hung over obviously defined muscles, the clean, masculine scent.
Pretty Boy.
Who the hell was this guy? And what kind of a death wish did he have?
Whoever these men were, they were busting Church’s tortured prisoner out of here, and she couldn’t help but think escaping this basement was an absolute good. No one deserved to be held against their will, tortured, abused, or—the thing that terrified her most—sold.
When she spoke, she wasn’t sure what she would say until the words were coming out of her mouth. “There was a call. They’ll be coming,” she whispered, her chin dipped in case she was within the shot of the camera trained on the exterior door. “I have to scream now, and you have to hit me.”
“What?” the first man rasped under his breath. Through the hole in the mask, his eyes were horrified by her demand.
“If you don’t, they’ll know I helped you. And I can’t . . .” What am I doing? Jesus, what am I doing? “You have to. Please.”
Hating her reality, she screamed so loud her throat hurt.
She didn’t have time for his morals, and neither did they. “Please.”
A storm rolled across those eyes. “Pretend to fall and cradle your stomach.” The man swung a fist at her gut. She braced for an impact that never came. Relief and gratitude flooded through her as she played her part for the camera and threw herself backward, the tray of food flying to the ground with a thud. Her head and shoulder glanced off the wall, setting off immediate aches that had her moaning.
When she looked up, the space where the men had stood was empty.
But her scream had worked. Church’s men came running. Crystal curled into a ball on the floor, attempting to make herself as small as possible to avoid getting trampled by the boots pounding down the hall toward the exterior door. The one through which two masked men had just stolen her corrupt and violent boss’s prize prisoner.
With her help. Or, at least, without her hindrance.
Gunshots, shouts, and the squeal of tires against pavement erupted outside the heavy industrial door. More men ran past her. No one stopped or paid her any mind, like she was invisible. And in all the ways that mattered, she very nearly was.
Her head throbbed in time with the pulsing bass beat out in the main part of Confessions, the walls nearly alive with the sound. Fear and adrenaline barreled through Crystal’s veins, making her shaky and unsteady as she pushed to her feet, trying not to step on the food scattered across the floor. Being upright exacerbated the ache in the back of her head. The one she’d caused herself. Because the man hadn’t hit her like she’d demanded. He’d only pretended to.
Pretended.
Why had he only pretended? She’d told him to hit her. She’d had no choice. From the moment she’d seen him and his buddy hauling the unconscious prisoner up the basement steps, she’d known she would have to scream. On the injured guy’s behalf, she was glad that he’d gotten free because she knew firsthand how many people got trapped in the clutches of Baltimore’s Church Gang and never got out again, herself included. But no way could she be seen as helping them. Not if she wanted to live. And, more importantly, if she wanted Jenna to live.
Except, Pretty Boy had refused to hit her . . . A man who refused to hit a woman.
How freaking miserable was her life that a man such as that was so damn unique? Then again, maybe his seeming decency was just because she’d helped him.
“Crystal,” came a voice full of menace.
Bruno. She adopted her meekest posture and cradled her stomach as if she’d really been struck, then turned toward her boyfriend and two of his lackeys, stalking down the hall toward her.
A wall of rage slammed into her a moment before his fingers dug into her upper arms. He nearly lifted her off the floor. “What the hell happened?”
Knowing how much he got off on his role as her protector, she let every bit of the fear she felt seep into her voice, swallowed hard, and shook her head. “I don’t know. I was taking food downstairs, just like I’d been told. All of a sudden”—she gulped for air—“two armed men crashed into me, and one of them punched me and pushed me down.” Crystal gingerly cupped the back of her head. “And then . . . I’m not sure. I . . .”
Bruno let out a sound that was almost a growl as he turned to the men behind him. “Check downstairs. Anyone else down there, shoot only to maim. We need answers first.” The men hustled to obey, their feet heavy on the carpeted steps.
“What else did you see? Think.” He shook her, the grip of his hands tightening, not an ounce of kindness visible in his gaze.
“Um, they were dressed in dark clothes. Had masks and guns. One seemed to be carrying something on his shoulder, but then the other guy hit me and I fell and they were out the door.” No way she could admit to what else she knew. That she’d seen the faces under the mask when she’d given them directions, especially since she’d known something wasn’t right. Such an admission would serve as a one-way ticket to hell of one variety or another—for her and maybe even her sister, too.
And she would do anything to make sure that never happened to either of them. Been there, done that, had the scars to prove it.
Bruno’s callused hands eased on her skin. Suddenly, he yanked her into a fierce, breath-stealing embrace. “I will kill them for touching you,” he said. The declaration was based more on outrage that his “property rights” had been violated when another man had dared touch her than actual concern. She knew that. But better his anger over her than suspicion of her.
Crystal burrowed into him, like she found solace in his arms. “I was so scared,” she whispered, relishing the adrenaline shakes that gave credibility to her words. Sometimes she worried she was too damn good at acting, that maybe every time she put on one of these little shows, she lost a little more of whatever capability for honesty she’d once possessed.
As abruptly as he’d pulled her in, he pushed her away. She wobbled on her heels. “Wait in my office. I’ll be back.” Grasping her jaw almost painfully, Bruno kissed her hard. His lips and tongue demanded she respond, so she did. And then he was gone, out the same door through which the prisoner’s saviors had gone.