Genevieve

I wake up sore and parched, and my first thought is: Fuck.

My eyes remain closed, but as my mind slowly emerges from the groggy depths, I begin to hear and feel and smell my surroundings; the smell of old books and cologne, men speaking in hushed tones, the creaking of feet on wooden floorboards.

They’re in here, I think, and then with mounting horror: They’re going to kill me.

Meanwhile, some little piece of my consciousness wakes up, probes around tentatively, and learns that my left shoulder hurts like hell. And I’m wearing different clothes; the tight Prada dress and Louboutins have been replaced by something loose and silk and incredibly thin. My body is curled against the soft, supple leather of an old armchair. My feet are bare, and my legs and crotch feel raw and vulnerable, like they’ve been freshly shaved… which, in fact, they are.

Holy shit, I realize with a start, Those assholes fucking shaved me.

This sudden understanding hits me with such shock that my eyes flutter open, and I am momentarily blinded by the muted, yet harsh lamplight. As my eyes adjust, outlines of the five motionless figures surrounding me slowly sharpen into discernable features, until I see Christof, his father and two brothers, and another man who seems familiar, although I can’t place where I’ve seen him before.

Christof is perched on the leather armchair directly across from mine, already staring intently at my face, except now all the kindness has left his eyes and he looks colder; harder. As my eyes meet his, Christof motions toward the strange man standing behind the desk, who is whispering something to Mr. Ambrosino and his two other sons.

“Sir,” Christof says, except this time his voice is devoid of any italian accent. “She’s awake.”

The man turns, visibly surprised, and glances once toward Christof before shifting his gaze to me. He’s around fifty, vaguely handsome with dark hair peppered silver at the edges, and as his eyes meet mine they widen with a look of both recognition and astonishment. There’s something in the flat, clean-shaven angles of his face that I, too, recognize, and quite honestly find a strange comfort in, but right now my thoughts are not on this oddly familiar stranger but instead on the filthy fucking liar who shot my sister.

“Genevieve, my dear-” The man begins, but stops short as I lunge toward Christof.

“What did you do with her?!” I shriek as my fist connects with his jaw, leaping to straddle Christof in his armchair and simultaneously shoving a knee to his groin. “You shot her! You filthy piece of shit, you fucking shot her!”

Christof takes the first blow with a satisfying crack, but before I can strike again I feel his bigger, stronger hands tightening around my wrists and holding my arms in place.

“Genevieve, please,” He says through clenched teeth, as I struggle in his grasp and kick my bare feet into his torso.

“You filthy liar! You filthy fucking liar!” I scream, furious, as I fight to pry my arms out from his. Almost in an instant, Christof throws me off of his lap and onto the floor, pinning my arms tight above my head with one hand and covering my mouth with the other. I’m thrown by his agility, but I continue to squirm and kick and scream out muffled profanities until Christof hikes a leg over my body and straddles my torso, effectively fixing my body to the floor. He gazes down at me, triumphant, his perfect face marred only by the red and welting mark I’ve left on his cheek.

“Good girl,” He says, and I almost sob from fury.

“Holden, that’s quite enough.” The man interjects, looking concerned and slightly pissed off. The others stare at us with mixed expressions of amusement and apprehension.

Holden? I think, momentarily confused. He sighs once, long and tired, but makes no move to get off of me.

“Sir, she’s in hysterics.” He explains, keeping his pale eyes locked on mine. “She’ll attack if she’s not sedated.”

The man scoffs and steps forward, placing his hand on the armchair. “She’s seventeen years old, Holden. I can handle her, for God’s sake. Now get off of her.”

“Sir…” Holden says, visibly tense, his body crouched over mine. “Sir, I don’t think-”

“I said, get off of my daughter.”