Page 22 of Wicked Mafia Sinner

I fling the bathroom door open.

The first man is right there, mid-step in the hallway, his hand reaching for the bathroom handle. The door catches him in the face and I'm right behind it.

And yes. He’s the size of a fucking boulder.

He locks my gaze with a death glare. Then they drop. Fast. Straight to my chest, because apparently even hired killers lose brain function when a pair of naked boobs show up uninvited.

Shit. My towel.

But men. So damn predictable.

I swing the rolling pin with every ounce of upper body strength a florist who hauls fifty-pound soil bags for a living can generate.

Crack.

The vibrations that travel through the maple wood handle and up my forearm are profoundly satisfying. A thick, meaty thud against the side of his skull snaps his head sideways and drives his shoulder into the wall. The vibration rolls through my wrist and elbow and settles deep in my bone.

“You stupid bitch,” he slurs and that just makes me grin.

But he's not down. His hand shoots up, fast, and catches my wrist before I can release another blow.

Shit.

He wrenches hard enough to grind the bones together and the blade in my hand spins out of my grip, clattering down the hallway into the dark.

I kick with no real aim and he loses his hold long enough for me to free myself from his grip. With all my lack of experience fighting assholes, I manage to drive a shoulder into his gut just high enough to make the air wheeze from his lungs. I bolt past him before he can regain his composure and deliver on the death threat I see flashing across his expression.

Or that was the initial plan.

Beefy fingers wrap around my upper arm and I’m hauled back about five feet. He crushes me to him and it feels like this is the last few seconds of my life.

The soap coating my skin makes me slick enough to slide through when he tries to wrap his arms around me. Holding onto my rolling pin, I give another swing and my attacker crumbles behind me, knees buckling.

“Finally. For fuck’s sake.” With my heart doing a marathon in my chest, I grab my fallen towel and use precious time in wrapping it back around me. Moderately covered, I step over his body without looking back.

I’m so focused on Douche bag number one, I momentarily forget there are four other douches trying to check my life off their to-kill list.

Another boulder-sized man steps into the shadows at the end of the hallway that leads to my kitchen. Which happens to be the only way out of here.

“There you are. Looks like you’re gift wrapped just for me.”

He takes a heavy-footed step toward me. My stomach churns with disgust at the meaning of his words.

The grin on the man's face has goosebumps spreading over every exposed part of my body. Which is every inch of me.

He takes another step and another toward me.

“Come on, fucker,” I grit and lock every muscle in my body in preparation.

He roars and is on me in seconds.

I swing the rolling pin. He catches my arm mid-arc. Sausage fingers lock around my forearm, and his other hand grabs my waist, digging through terrycloth and into the skin beneath.

“You rotten, douche bag, yellow bellied asshole! Why don’t you fight me mano a mano?” With every ounce of my fury, I ball my fist up and lay into him, getting nothing but an infuriating chuckle in return.

“I’m going to enjoy your body after I squeeze the life out of it.” Those fingers move from my arm to my throat.

Through the muted darkness I see nothing more than a shadowed face enter my line of sight when he bends down and smiles in my face.