"Fine. Dehydrate. See if I care."
He turns toward the door.
Something rises in my chest. Something reckless and desperate and probably stupid.
"You're going to end up dead."
The words leave my mouth before I can stop them.
He freezes.
His back is to me, but I can see the tension in his shoulders. The way his hands curl into fists at his sides.
"What did you say?"
"You heard me." My voice is steadier than I feel. "My husband is coming for me. And when he finds you—and he will find you—you're going to die."
Silence.
He turns slowly.
His face is blank, but something flickers in those empty eyes. Something that might be anger. Or amusement. Or both.
"Your husband." He walks back toward me, each step deliberate. "The cripple in the wheelchair?"
I don't flinch at the word.
"The man who runs the most powerful family in Chicago."
He stops in front of my chair.
Close enough that I can smell cigarette smoke and sweat.
"You think he scares me?"
"I think you should be scared."
His jaw tightens.
For a moment, neither of us moves.
Then he swings the water bottle.
The plastic connects with my temple.
Pain explodes through my skull—white-hot, blinding, all-consuming. The force of the blow snaps my head to the side. The room spins. The lights blur into streaks of white.
I try to hold on.
I try to stay conscious.
But the darkness is already pulling me under.
The last thing I hear is his voice, distant and distorted.
"Stupid bitch."
Then nothing.