Chapter 2 MY FINGERS ARE TRIGGER HAPPY.

ASHER DONOVAN – POINT OF VIEW

I walk out of the kitchen, removing my gloves. I yawn, already thinking of how little sleep I will be getting tonight, which is when I see the blood.

All the air drains from my lungs immediately. My heart slams against my ribcage, painfully and loudly. Blood rushes into my head, and I sway on my feet. Everything becomes painfully clear when I see a group of men in the restaurant, with their guns pointed at me.

“Wait,” One of them says, his finger raised. He is tall and brooding.

My ears ring loudly. I should run. I should, but I am rooted to the ground. This is how I die. I just know this is how I die. Why should I run when they will probably shoot at the same time? I haven’t even lived at all, and now, I’m going to die?

I don’t know who moves first.

One moment, I’m having an existential crisis at the worst time, my brain blanking, then he strides toward me, slow and deliberate like a predator. So I run, but I don’t make it far. The room tilts, and my knee gives out. His scared face is the last thing I see.

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I wake up suddenly to sunlight on my face. My mind is blank. I push through the fog clouding it and remember everything. The blood. The shock. The man.

I sit up immediately, because I am not in my room or sleeping on my shitty bed. Instead, I’m in a room. A big room. The bed I’m sleeping on is wide and soft. My heart pounds as I try to make sense of everything. Why am I here? What am I doing here? I should be dead, but instead, I wake up in a room that smells of sunrays and lavender.

Slowly, I get up and look around the empty room. I walk to the window, but I’m not surprised to find it locked shut. Sweat beads on my forehead as everything starts to dawn in. I rush to the door, but it is also locked. I slam my body against it and crash to the ground.

I groan and sit up, pain shooting all over my arm.

My heart slams against my ribcage. My head pounds with dread.

“Oh, God. Let me out!” I yell, looking around the room desperately trying to find respite, but I find none.

“LET ME OUT!” I roar and slam my hands on the door loudly. My voice echoes, but I don’t stop yelling. My lungs constrict, and panic claws upwards. Goosebumps break over my skin, and nausea rolls in me like a tide.

Suddenly, the door opens, cutting off my impending panic attack.

My eyes widen, and I take steps backwards. Terror sinks into my bones when he enters. The man from the restaurant. He is wearing a white shirt and black slacks. He has a cigar between his full lips. His eyes are dark and full of threats. The scar on his face runs below his right eye, deep and scary. I can not understand how he survived whatever happened.

“Sit.” He speaks, and a different kind of Goosebumps break over my skin.

He is obviously powerful, dangerous, but somehow, a deranged part of me recognises how beautiful he is.

“I don’t like to repeat myself.” His voice slid across the room like cold water.

I gulp dryly and sit on the bed. My hands are trembling, but I say nothing. I glance at the open door and wonder if I should take my chances. I don’t know where it leads, but it has to be better than being trapped with a Monster, right?

Almost like he can hear my thoughts, he pulls out a gun and places it on his thigh easily.

My stomach drops to my feet.

“Tell me everything about the Syndicate.”

Cold creeps up my arms, slow and deliberate, like my nerves understand what my mind refuses to process. I don’t know what he is talking about.

“I’m a … I’m just a Chef. I cook food at the restaurant. I don’t know what you are talking about.” I whimper, my palms growing sweaty.

A shadow fills the doorway, and another man walks in. He was at the restaurant.

He looks at me with disdain and says, “You work with Ramos. Tell us what we need to know, and this can be over quickly. Lie to us again, and I will make it hurt. You are in the Don’s home now, and there is no making it out alive. So think well about how you want to spend your last moments.”

This is how I die. Nothing I say can convince these people that I know nothing. Exhaustion and horror slam into me. Out of nowhere, I burst into hot tears.

“I don’t know anything. My name is Asher Donovan. I am a Chef. I went to culinary school. I am an orphan. I grew up in foster homes. I live in a shitty apartment a few minutes away from the restaurant. My job at the restaurant is all I have. I don’t know who you are talking about. I don’t know anyone or anything. I have no one. I live in a very shitty studio apartment. Please, please, I know nothing. I am twenty-four years old. I haven’t even lived at all. Please don’t kill me. I will do everything you want me to do. I will do anything. I am a very good cook, that is all I have.”

The words spill out of me as tears drop down my cheek. My shoulders shake as I sob. I grip onto my knees shakily. Nausea rolls in me painfully.

“Quiet.” The man with the scar snaps suddenly, and I look at him through blurry eyes.

His face is twisted in disgust.

“You are a man, and you are crying like this? How fucking pathetic.” His partner spits at me, and I muffle more tears.

“Perhaps you are right, and you are no one, but you will remain here till I say otherwise. Don’t think of anything funny. My finger is trigger-happy.” He warns, gets up and leaves.