“Baby, you’re going to be so pissed when you see this.”
Toro’s face darkens. “Say the line.”
I do.
Kind of.
“You chose wrong,” I say. “By choosing me.”
The room goes quieter.
Toro steps toward me.
I talk faster but not scared.
“You hear me? Or can you hear me over the sound of that plane?”
Toro grabs my hair and yanks my head back so hard pain sparks down my neck.
The camera keeps recording.
Good.
Let it.
My laugh comes out broken but real.
“Where do you get all these roses? Too much?”
He slaps me.
This one is harder.
My head snaps to the side. My ears ring. The chair rocks but doesn’t tip. The room swims for a second, roses turning into white smears.
“You hear me?” I say. “Don’t get lost. Count the beat. Two left, three right. Flowers don’t grow where planes scream and trains cry.”
“Cut it,” Toro snaps.
Boca fumbles with the phone.
The red dot disappears.
I breathe through my mouth and taste blood again.
Toro crouches in front of me, all that calm finally cracked around the edges.
“You think you’re clever.”
“I know I am.”
His hand closes around my throat.
Not enough to stop air.
Enough to remind me he could.
Fear floods me then, fast and cold. My body doesn’t care how brave my mouth is. It knows hands on throats. It knows men in rooms. It knows the math of tied wrists and locked exits.