You were only 18 when you were given to Zucco , kdnpp*d by men on your way home and knocked out . When you woke up they were talking about some boss and that he'll decide if your right. Right for what?

They took the mask off your head but put a g*n up against the back of your head as they pushed you roughly into some busy bar.

They brought you over to some man in a corner of the bar and started talking to him while your wrist were still being held my a man double your size.

The man finally spoke , his voice low and mean.

"Sweetheart look at me".

You didnt look refusing to let some man bully you right after they'd kdnpp*d you straight off the street.

The man signalled to one of his men to push you over to him.

The brute shoved you forward hard, and you stumbled—barely catching yourself before crashing into the table.

Tony Zucco didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. He just sat there, one arm slung over the back of his leather booth, cigar smoke curling around his sharp features like a halo from hell.

He tilted his head slowly, dark eyes scanning your face—the fear in them not lost on him—but also that stubborn fire behind it.

"Stubborn," he mused aloud to no one in particular. Then he flicked two fingers at the goon holding your wrist: let go.

The man released you instantly.

Zucco leaned forward slightly now—close enough for that thick cologne (expensive whiskey and tobacco) to hit your nose—and said again:

"Look at me."