The Hanging Noose

Fifty-Four

Polly storms in to Tommy's office. The phone having been yanked out of the wall lays distortedly on the floor.
"I want my fucking daughter back! Thomas!"

Tommy nods, standing at the large family table in the betting den. "We'll get her back, Pol, but first—"

"I swear to Christ, I want her back! I want her back now!"

"Alright, Pol, but business first—"

Polly glares. Her eyes bulging with anger. "Business? You want to conduct fucking business when my daughter was shot and abducted in your fucking territory?"

Arthur looks down at the table, a lump forming in his throat. "Pol, we need everyone to think we haven't been affected by Dottie being taken, ain't that right, Tom?"

Tommy nods, "we need those fuckers to think we don't give a shit about her. And if they believe us, Pol, they'll leave her alone."

Shaking her head, Polly scoffs. "My daughter is not even part of this fucking business yet she's done more for this family than you ever have!"

"Polly," Lizzie says in a soft voice, "sit down, please—"

Polly ignores Lizzie, still glaring angrily at Tommy.
"When my daughter is brought back, she and I are leaving. I refuse to let her be apart of this fucking family any longer!"

—

Dottie, although unconscious, was stitched up. The bullet was removed from her shoulder, and the wound closed with some stitches and cleaned with alcohol. The wound was then kept clean as Dottie's shallow breathes could be heard.

She was unconscious for just over twenty four hours. Shen she woke up, she found herself in pain, her shoulder stung and burnt from the moment her eyes peeled open. She could remember everything, even as her head seemed foggy. She found herself in a small and empty room, with nothing but a mattress and a pillow in the middle of the floor.

Dottie pulled herself up to her feet, carefully jot to strain her shoulder. Her bare feet itch against the wooden floor. She curls her toes up, feeling the roof edges of the wooden slats beneath her.

The room itself is bare, with wallpaper peeling and moulding all around her. Her eyes continue to skim across the room, seeing a small bed pan in the corner of the room. She shivers upon thinking of using it.

She jumps when she hears a key turning in a lock. She looks round at the door, seeing a large and blackened out door. She then turns her head, looking for anything to use as a weapon.

The door thrusts open.

A man, the same man who shot her, walks in to the room cockily. He has dark hair, and a large nose poking out from his skin. His olive skin seems pale in the room. He reeks authority and danger as she steps in to the room.

"Dorothea."

His voice creates shivers down Dottie's spine. She doesn't respond, and he cocks his head.

"That's not polite, is it?"

Dottie's chest rises and falls quick as she stares at him. Her fingertips curl in to her thighs.

The man smiles. A cocky smile as the door behind him shuts.
"Now, Dorothea, who would I be if I let you walked out, hmm?"

Dottie doesn't answer. She looks him up and down.

"My men stitched your shoulder up. Nasty wound."

Dottie's eyebrows furrow together. "They wouldn't have had to stitch me up if you didn't shoot me."