When you visit our website, if you give your consent, we will use cookies to allow us to collect data for aggregated statistics to improve our service and remember your choice for future visits. Cookie Policy & Privacy Policy
Dear Reader, we use the permissions associated with cookies to keep our website running smoothly and to provide you with personalized content that better meets your needs and ensure the best reading experience. At any time, you can change your permissions for the cookie settings below.
If you would like to learn more about our Cookie, you can click on Privacy Policy.
Eleni I blink awake to an ache in the back of my head so intense that, for a moment, I expect to see a cheap couch and smell gas like I did in the basement of Frank Lombardi’s garage. But the surface underneath me is cheap vinyl, like a couch from the fifties, and I smell…salt? I run my hand over the back of my head and find a huge bump. Wait, I run my hand over my head? I’m not restrained. For a split second, I let myself hope I missed the fight while unconscious, that I’m already in some new safe house of Dante’s. I open my eyes a crack and peek around. No such luck. Men with guns parade through the warehouse around me. I lay on exactly the sort of couch I was picturing, which happens to be blue, against one wall. Most of the men wear T-shirts from the garage and barely ever stop touc