The blow sent my vision black. I nearly passed out. The sound of it was worse than the pain. A sharp, flat crack that echoed in the small room, and behind it the absolute stillness of men who had watched their Don strike his wife and understood that no one was permitted to react.
I was already unsteady on my feet. My body crumpled and I hit the floor. My knees struck the cold tile first, then my palms, and the shock of it traveled up through my wrists and into my shoulders. The fluorescent light above me buzzed. Someone's shoe leather creaked. No one moved to help me.
The pain in my abdomen sharpened. I pressed both hands against my stomach, hard, while cold sweat beaded across my forehead and rolled down my temples. The room tilted. I could hear the baby crying, could hear Catarina's practiced sobbing, could hear the low murmur of the men by the door. All of it reached me as if through water.