Sloane
I wake up in a dim room—a warehouse, maybe—because there’s concrete under my feet and lots of space overhead. I’m tied to a chair and my head hurts so badly I can’t think.
“Hello, Sloane.” A familiar smooth voice says. A salt-and-pepper haired man in an expensive suit appears in front of me. Mafia don. I missed when he got there.
I blink, trying to bring him into focus.
“You haven’t delivered on your promise.” He strokes my cheek with the back of my fingers and chills run down my spine.
My heart hammers in my chest. “I-I just need a little more time. I thought I had another week or two. I’m still working on it.”
He backhands me across the face and my neck wrenches with the impact, stars dance in front of my eyes. “You’re not working on it. You’re screwing around stealing cars.
