I sit on the bottom of the staircase, nervously biting my nails as I wait for the bastards to return. I comb my fingers through my hair as I watch Trent's goons wander the corridors in pairs with their guns tucked into the side of their pants.
"Questa cagna ha le palle." (This b***h has balls) I hear one of them chuckle as he looks me up and down.
When I feel a primal instinct to flip him the bird, I bite my tongue. They all assume I have not picked up any Italiano throughout my stay here. I've learned to gnaw on the inside of my cheek to keep my secret, despite the fact that I occasionally want to scream and yell at them for the crude things they say to me.
I swiftly decide against it, as I believe I can leverage it to my benefit when the time is perfect.
I take out my pho
