She got me four or five times between the creases of my abdomen muscles before she grabbed the chain between her wrists and tossed her to the floor. I got down on my knees over her body, clasping my hands around her neck. She kicked and fought, yelling, but I knew no one could hear over the music.
"Who the f**k is the distributor? What's his name? In the pinstripes!" I yelled, watching her claw at my hands.
"I'm not telling you shit." Blood from my wounds sprinkled from my body to hers as I held her down, my teeth gritted against the pain, my grip on her throat tightening.
"I'll kill you right here. All it takes is a squeeze and a pop," I threatened. "What is his name?"
"Tommy," she gasped, struggling for air against my knuckles. "His name is Tommy Chino," I told her.
"I'd leave this
