“What are you, bitch?” Vince Amari snarls. His face lights up with a hungry fire the second he sees the fear I know is beginning to break through my brave facade. He’s the kind of man who feeds off a woman’s fear. I can see it on his face. He looks at me like a lover, but I see a predator standing in his place.

When his eyes roam my body with possessive longing, it makes my stomach turn. I’ve heard the talk: when he turns his attentions on a woman, they submit, or he breaks them. There’s no middle ground.

“Tell me why the fuck I hired you,” he spits.

“I’m a…” I stammer. I can’t bring myself to tear my eyes off his.

I know what he wants to do with me – and do to me, and it sends a shiver down my spine. And not in the way a lover should. I can see his desire twisting him in the way his hips push forward, and the way his nostrils flare, and –

“A runner,” he enunciates menacingly, lips pulled back to bare his teeth. “And tell me, bitch – ”

“Casey,” I say automatically – like I’m correcting a kid’s potty mouth – but before the last whisper of sound escapes my mouth, my head snaps backward. I hear the crack of his open palm connecting with my cheek a second later, dulled by the ringing of church bells.

It’s as if time has stopped, or my brain has crashed like an overheated computer. My legs turn to pillars of sand and I stumble, reaching out for support but not finding it. Hot, angry, desperate tears fill my eyes.

Why the hell did I just do that? Why couldn’t I just let him speak?

“I don’t give a fuck. You’re a runner. So run, bitch, run.”

But I don’t. I don’t know what he wants from me, and even if I knew I wouldn’t be able to give it. My legs are locked to the floor, stuck in quicksand, and I’m sinking. My brain is mush, my body broken, and I’ve only been here twenty minutes.

"I’m sorry, Vinny," I whisper. "I didn’t mean –"

"Vinny?" The Morello family enforcer hisses, leaning forward. His rotting breath blasts across my face like I’ve opened an oven, or the gates of hell.

It takes everything I have not to cover my nose, but even then I can’t tell if my eyes are watering with disgust or fear. He turns his head, and I sink backwards with relief. "You hearin’ dis? You believe da balls on dis bitch?"

Vinny – Vince’s men look at me lazily; then turn back to the flickering television. The Red Sox are playing. That’s more important than some stupid chick learning what’s what. They’ve seen this scene play out a hundred times. I’m far from the first girl Vince Amari’s chewed up and spat out, and I won’t be the last. So why bother looking?

That thought drives home my fear; the fact that this happens so often, it’s not worth their time to care.

Vince puts his hand on my chin and his heat sears my skin. "You walk like a duck, Casey? With those big balls of yours swinging from side to side, I bet you gotta –" he turns his head. "Hey Tony, what’s the word I’m looking for?"

"Waddle, boss," Tony grunts, lifting a bottle of Brooklyn to his lips and spilling it down his chin. He wipes it away with the back of his hand. "Ducks waddle."

"Yeah, waddle," Vince repeats, looking pleased with his metaphor. "You waddle, bitch? ‘Cos I ain’t paying you to waddle."

You ain’t paying me at all. Not really.

I shake my head, knocking Vince’s hand off my chin. His face flickers with mean irritation. I know I’ve got to speak – to say something, to distract him somehow – or face his wrath: and I so don’t want to face his wrath. I’ve seen what happens to girls who have crossed him in the past. He breaks their kneecaps, if they’re lucky. Their faces, if they aren’t. But first: he has his way with them…

“I’m sorry, Vince,” I say, stumbling over my words in my hurry to get them out, “I didn’t mean to insult you. I just want to get to work, that’s all. Tell me what you want, and I’ll do it.”

“That’s good of you, bitch,” he sneers. “‘Cause in my world, if it walks like a duck, and talks like a duck, you know what it fucking is?”

His anger fades into the background. I should be paying attention, but I’m not. I’m fixated on something else. That word again – bitch. I hate it. I don’t get why Vince can’t just call me by my name. Why does he have to dehumanize me as well; why must he demean me?

He already has me right where he wants me – under his boot. But he can’t bring himself to stop. He needs to squash me, to squish me into mush.

“Hey, Tony, get this,” he calls over his shoulder. “The bitch says she’ll do what I want.”

Tony burps.

“You’re a runner, bitch. You go out there into the crowd, and you do what Lenny tells you. Capisci?”

I nod quickly, anything to avoid the back of Vince’s hand colliding with my face again.

He leans forward, and his hot breath assaults me again. “You know who Lenny is?”

I shake my head warily.

“He’s the guy with the big ass gun and a face like a pineapple. Whatever you do, don’t mention the acne. He doesn’t like it when people mention his spots.”

Tony laughs in the background, and Vince’s face lights up with a sad pride. I wonder what the hell his parents did to him that made him this way. He’s twisted, and evil – and desperate for attention.

“And what do I do?” I ask. I want to be absolutely sure I understand. I can’t fuck this up, because if I do I don’t get fired, I get dead.

“At the end of each bout, he’ll point out the losers. They fight less when a girl asks them for the dough they owe – it’s a pride thing, I guess. It’s better for business that way. And with pretty red hair like yours…” He tails off and leans forward, stroking my long hair. A column of burning acid rises up my throat in reply.

“Oh yeah,” he whispers. “They won’t give you any trouble. And if you do good, Casey, I won’t have to hold you down by that pretty red hair of yours and choke you on my cock. Call it a bonus. Capisci?"

He takes a thick fistful of my hair and tugs it. When I nod, my head barely moves and my eyes water with pain. “Good girl. Now fuck off.”

He throws me to the door and I scurry out into the heat and noise of the underground fight. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t be found within ten miles of something this illegal. However, these aren’t ordinary times, and what would have seemed terrifying a week ago now feels like an escape.

I push through the crowd as my head speeds thoroughly through my options. I can run, but Vince will chase me down. I can hide, but he’ll find me. Finally, I can stay here until I’ve paid off my debt, and just hope I get out with my mind and body intact.

Either way, I’m fucked. But at least if I stay, Vince won’t be pissed off –

– and I might just survive this.