“On the house.” He moves, grabbing my wrist. The grip isn’t just firm. It’s a bruising grip, pain shooting through my arm with the action, and he doesn’t let go. Instead, he leans in. “You gotta figure this out, bellissima. You don’t want me here again.” I should tell him off. I should draw attention to him. I should tell him to fuck off and call the cops. But I don’t. “Talk to my father, Johnny,” I say, gently trying to pull my wrist out of his grip, but he just holds tighter, causing a small squeak to fall from my lips. He just smiles before another hand comes over, grabbing the bag and
...more
