by Lana Sky
“Relax,” he grunts while I catch myself against the end of a pool table. “He’s just here to talk. I told you that he found something out.”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t think you’d invite him over for goddamn tea.”
Jose put his big-boy clothes on today—a leather jacket and jeans.
“Hola, mi amigo,” he says. He brought a knife along to play with—Arno wouldn’t dare let him bring a gun. Knowing damn well that I’m watching, the bastard twirls it between his fingers, his eyes reflecting hints of silver. “It’s been a long time since our last chat—”
“Don’t,” Arno growls to me. “Don’t give this fucker any bait to help him get off at night.” He cocks his head the same way most men would a gun. His eyes narrow, and my nerves spark, painfully alert. I haven’t seen this version of Arno in a very, very long time. His eyes aren’t even bloodshot, and there isn’t an open beer can lying around. It’s as close to stone-cold sober as he can get. “You came here to talk,” he says to Jose. “So open your fucking mouth.”
“Watch yourself, Arno… ” Jose drags his thumb along the edge of his blade, leaving a reddish streak along the metal—a warning. “There are a lot more important things that I could be doing with my fucking mouth, ese.” When he looks up, the mocking humor from his expression is gone. Good old Jose is just as pissed as Arno. “It seems our new friends are using tactics similar to the Italians—”
“You mean the shot-back-to-hell Italians?” Arno interjects. “The same fucking Italians that scattered like roaches when their queen, Stacatto, met his goddamn maker?”
“One Italian in particular,” Jose goes on as if never interrupted. “That man had close dealings with the Russians, but you see… I don’t particularly favor the Russians—”
“You don’t trust them,” Arno says, cutting him off. “Cut to the fucking chase.”
“Hmph. Cut.” Chuckling, Jose tilts his knife so that it catches the light. While holding Arno’s gaze, he leans forward and flicks his tongue along the edge to capture any wet droplets of blood.
To his credit, Arno doesn’t even flinch.
“There is one particular son of a bitch who knew the inner workings of the Mob better than most, however,” Jose continues. His eyes get that dark gleam again. He’s thinking. It’s the same look he was wearing while he palmed his whips, trying to gauge which one best suited his needs while I bled out, chained to the wall. He made a game out of it. How to go deep into the muscle. How to draw the most blood. “I brought him home for dinner, but he doesn’t seem willing to really enjoy himself.”
“So what the fuck do you want?” Arno demands, his arms crossed. “You losing your touch when it comes to wining and dining, Jose? Want some fucking pointers?”
“Him.” With a seemingly lazy shrug, Jose gestures in my direction. He never stops twirling that knife, tossing the blade up and catching it by the handle every single time. “I want him.”
A laugh trickles out of Arno, darker and more twisted than I’ve ever heard. “You better be fucking joking—”
“You think I don’t know what little Espi gets up to while his daddy is away? Do you know...Daddy?”
Arno just stands there, his gaze flicking from Jose to me and back again. Does he know? Jose’s guess is as good as any.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Arno asks.
Jose just chuckles, the sound mingling with the warm breath ghosting my shoulder. She’s gripping me tighter than ever, her nails grazing my skin. I suffer every unusual bite of pain, letting it sink deep to counter everything else.
“Rumor has it that another one of my warehouses might be ‘shot back to hell’ tonight,” Jose says, apparently taking Arno’s advice by cutting to the fucking chase. “I suffer, and I’ll make sure the whole goddamn city suffers. So I suggest you take my advice, amigo, and convince your little friend to lend a helping hand. Let’s do brunch.”
“Hell no.” Arno shakes his head, his red hair flying, his eyes gleaming. He’s armed; I can tell that much from the way he’s standing alone—which is ironic considering that Jose would never walk into an open trap.
“Stop.” I step forward between them. My gaze lands on Jose. The bastard looks smug for a damn reason. “What are you planning?”
“A surprise,” he says, not even trying to deny it. “While we’ve been chatting, I had one of my men do some interior decorating in your cellar, ese,” he says to Arno over my shoulder. “You have six hours before the bomb goes off and blows your little bar…well, back to hell. I die, and the fireworks happen sooner,” he adds before Arno can draw his gun. “As I said, let’s do brunch.” He slides from the stool, tucking the knife into his pocket. “When little Espi helps me persuade our guest to tell what he knows, I’ll deactivate my present, and we’ll call it a day. But if you feel like trying to fuck me over…just keep in mind that you can tear this fucking piece-of-shit place apart, nail by nail, and never find my little surprise. At least not before you do some ‘interior decorating’ yourself. Comprende?”
“Fine,” I say, beating Arno to the punch. “Where is he?”
“Wonderful.” Jose beams. “Allow me and my men to escort you back to my home. Our meal should be ready any minute.”
From the outside, the bike stop looks the same. The same rundown buildings. The same piece-of-shit chain-link fence surrounding the entire property. Jose’s switched up his interior decoration though. He’s into open spaces now, unlike the clusterfuck of boxes and equipment that littered the place back when he strung me up. The middle of the floor is cleared, the perfect focal point for his latest piece of artwork—a man dangling from chains hanging from the ceiling.
Recognition shoots through me like a lance. Despite the blood caking the bastard’s face, I know that bulky shape. The flashing, dark eyes. That telltale chuckle. Like Arno said, Mack always had a certain look about him. Though the cocky bastard’s taken quite a few hits these past few months. Scars riddle the skin not covered by overgrown stubble on his jaw. Arno and Dante got their revenge, all right.
“Well, lookie here,” he rasps the moment he sees us approaching from the end of the warehouse. One of his eyes is swollen shut, but he does his best to sneer with the good one. “The Mex brought along some little friends…” He trails off once he recognizes one “little friend” in particular
Arno returns the glare directed his way with one of his own.
“The traitor and the puppy,” Mack says, turning his attention to me. “Shouldn’t you be licking Dante’s boots, little boy?”
I don’t react to the taunt. My eyes are on Jose; he’s grinning. Without a single glance spared in Mack’s direction, he heads to a table against the wall. Even from the short distance, I can clearly make out what’s on it. Knives—sharp ones.
Fuck. My fingers clench. I can’t shake the murmurs of a conscience I long thought had been snuffed out by blood and nicotine. Walk away. Don’t do this.
“So, what shall it be?” Jose wonders out loud, slicing through the drone. Only the look he directs my way reveals just who he’s speaking to. “Word on the street is that you prefer another method over the typical slice and dice.”
“I prefer to think of it as freelance art,” I counter, taking a step forward.
Mack’s still laughing, spouting some more dumb shit, but Arno… He’s watching me. I feel his gaze on the back of my neck. I know that look. It’s the same one he used to shoot Dante whenever he went nuts and started a fight in the bar. That one of fear. That one of goddamn pity.
“Espi, what the fuck is he talking about?”
“Business, Daddy,” Jose says. “Don’t worry. Your little baby is in safe hands.” He looks at Mack, and the playful grin falls flat. “Let’s see how you work. Get him to talk.”
I look up at Mack again, and I don’t have to strain my neck too far. Hanging by two giant hooks caught right at the indents of each shoulder blade, he’s only about a foot from the ground. Blood drips down and forms a p
uddle underneath him. The bastard has to be in an insane amount of pain, but he just grins.
“Don’t fucking tell me. Little Espi. You’re going to try to make me talk?” His body jerks on the hooks as he throws his head back and laughs, long and loud. “You must be losing your fucking touch, Jose—” He breaks off in a grunt of pain.
I glance down as his body twists in grotesque slow motion and see why—Someone jammed a knife into the meat of his upper thigh.
“I gave you a head start,” Jose says, shrugging when my gaze finds him by the wall. “But we don’t have all day to play around, boy. Show me what you’ve learned.”
The words work like a trigger on my memories. Oh, I learned from the master. How to break someone. How to push them just far enough for them to beg for the end. Only to slowly reel them back…and then push them again. Harder. Further.
They’re past praying for death at that point. They’d endure anything to make the merry-go-round of agony stop. Say anything. Do anything.
I learned from the master—and he wasn’t Jose.
“Espi.” Arno comes up behind me, his footsteps heavy. “Fuck this shit. You’re not doing this.” He jabs a finger in Jose’s direction. “He’s not doing this—”
“Arno—” I cut myself off, unsure of what the fuck I’m even trying to say. Shut the hell up? Let me think.
The bastard knows something. I can smell it. I can see it in his eyes, which glow with a mixture of pain and just plain smug fucking arrogance. Mack, the Mad Dog, was more cunning than the average dumbass punk. He covered his bases and did nothing without insurance.
“I thought this piece of shit was already dead,” Arno adds, spitting at Mack’s feet. “Where the fuck did you find him?”
Jose shrugs, his expression revealing nothing. “I have my ways. The Russians dealt with him…uniquely, but as you know, I’m not particularly fond of the Russians.” He leaves it at that, and Arno doesn’t ask him anything else.
Frankly, I don’t think he wants to know. And Mack… The bastard just laughs. And laughs. And laughs.
The sound ricochets off the inside of my skull. Loud. Insistent. I doubt even another knife in his flesh would shut him up.
“Darcy…” Her name trickles out of me before I register the guilt. It draws a reaction from Mack though; he shuts the fuck up. “You seen her lately?” When he doesn’t take the bait, I aim low. “I guess not. She’s been fucking half of the Gardai since you ‘left.’ I guess it is true what they say about you. You like getting screwed in the—”
“You watch your fucking mouth,” Mack bites back. “You tell him the truth, eh, Arno boy? About how you and that fucking cunt-eating brother of his turned on one of your own? Or maybe how you couldn’t even bother to make sure your own fucking sister was still alive—”
“Enough of this shit.” Squaring his shoulders, Arno turns on his heel and starts for the door. “Espi, come on—”
“Yeah, run, run, little Arnold,” Mack taunts. “You always were a pussy little shit.”
One second, Arno’s still walking. The next, he’s halfway to Mack, and only Jose is fast enough to get in between them.
“Not so fast, ese,” he says, shoving Arno back. “Don’t damage the merchandise. Let’s see what our little friend can get out of him.”
“No…no.” Arno shakes his head as his hand flies out and lands on my shoulder, dragging me closer. “Hell no. He’s not doing shit.”
“Why don’t we ask him?” Jose turns to me, still smiling even though his eyes have lost the playful gleam. He’s all serious again, bathed in the shadows of the warehouse. “What will it be, little Espisido? Run away and let your friend’s little establishment get blown sky high? Or…show us what you’ve learned.”
Anger and disgust flutter down my spine. My toes flex in my boots. Run. Stay. I don’t fucking know which course of action seems more appealing. A part of me wants to tell Jose to fuck off. Listen to Arno. I’ve always just listened to Arno. But another part…
My gaze drifts over to the knives, and my fingers flex, remembering the feel of the ones in my kit—specifically designed for…special work. Flaying. Slicing. They were the tools of my trade, after all, helping to create a new form of artwork Dante wouldn’t approve of.
It’s funny. I don’t even remember the first time clearly. Maybe it was when some asshole on the streets pushed me too far. Or maybe it was that night when I picked up a hammer and didn’t give a fuck as to what I had to do with it. Just that I wanted to.
I don’t know how long I stand here, staring at the wall. How long before I feel her fingertips ghost the back of my neck. Her—I know it without even having to turn around and see her there for myself. I can smell her. Feel her. This woman is in my blood, feeding off the parts of me I don’t have the stomach to acknowledge. She can fucking take them. All of them.
“Tell me.” Her voice nudges my eardrum, soft and hoarse. “What…what do you want to do?”
My shoulders slump. That’s a question I don’t get asked too often these days. What do you want, Espisido? Not What do you need? What do you feel?
What do you want?
My fingers flex, my knuckles still raw from the other night. The sound of my voice doesn’t even seem familiar. “A knife.”
She’s already moving across the room, her hair flying out behind her. Whether intentionally or not, she lets her fingers flutter from blade to blade to blade, taking her time before finally settling on one. When she returns to my side, she presents it blade-edge first.
I only see her. I don’t hear Arno. I don’t hear Mack. Jose’s a fucking speck.
Only her. Yellow. She hands me the knife when I reach for it. That’s it. No words of encouragement. No look laced with pity or doubt. Just the ice-cold scrape of metal against the flesh of my palm and the knowledge that this is all me. My choice.
My goddamn burden.
Mack’s still running his fucking mouth when I face him again. He spits out a taunt I don’t bother to decipher, his bruised jaw standing out in stark contrast against the rest of his skin. Jose did quite the number on him, but even he went easy. This was a part of his game all along. Why? I don’t fucking care.
I just feel in this moment.
I don’t hold back when I swipe the knife against Mack’s bare side, catching the design of a tattoo. I go deep, letting the blade hiss the words I don’t have the energy to say. Blood tells all. In rivulets. In drips and drops. I’m painting the floor with my own pain, and it feels…so goddamn good not to have to fucking think.
So I don’t. I tune the world out—everything but the cold fingers resting on my forearm. It’s a new kind of torture session—How far can I go before she flinches back? Withdraws? Pulls away from me?
How much blood does it take to dilute yellow?
I make another cut. Another. Another. I see the picture I’m making in my head rather than on the flesh itself. Letters. Seven of them.
T R A…
Two fingertips flutter against the crook of my elbow, and I slow the motion of my hand. But they only press deeper. The nails graze my flesh, silent and commanding. I’m here. Keep going.
Do it.
One more strike.
I
Two more cuts.
T
Another.
O
I have to shake my head to snap out of this hell. Hell—because nothing in heaven could ever feel this good. This fucking right. There’s nothing holy in the complete lack of guilt I feel as I take in the bleeding, gaping marks I’ve made right across another man’s rib cage. I went deeper than I had to. He’s going to fucking scar.
Good.
Her hand is still there when I raise my arm again, controlling the blade with the perfect fluidity needed to finish off my creation.
R
Mack’s howling when I finally shake that black-hole concentration off. Threatening. Cursing. Blah, blah, fucking blah.
I don’t bother to trade his barbs this time.
I just hold the knife up, staining the air with a new form of paint. Good old Mack will never forget what the fuck he is. Neither will I.
I wait until he falls silent to feel. Arno’s disgusted. Jose’s amused. Yellow… She’s just waiting and watching. Nothing I do seems to surprise her. Nothing shocks her.
She’s in my fucking soul, crawling through the filth and garbage. She doesn’t wrinkle her nose at the smell. She breathes me in deeper and runs her fingers along the mess. She calls it art.
“Tell us what you know,” I say to Mack. I sound so tired. So goddamn old. So much like Dante that my ears sting.
“You think you’re some kind of badass now, you little—”
“Tell us what you know, or I’ll kill you.”
Arno scoffs. Jose laughs. But I’m not joking.
Maybe Mack can see it, because he’s not so quick to counter me this time. Could I do it? I look at the knife, my bloody fingers gripping the handle. The answer is obvious, but it doesn’t make me feel proud or even ashamed to admit it. Yes. I could. I will. The sick part is that I wouldn’t even like doing it. Not like Jose. Not even like Arno.
I just would, and that’s all there fucking is to know. She makes me admit that to myself, right here and now. She makes me hammer that truth into my skull. I am what I am—murderer.
“You’re really fucking serious, huh?” Mack chokes out a long, dark chuckle. “You want to know what the funny part is? I don’t owe that bitch a damn thing. Yeah.” He chuckles again when Arno steps forward, his eyes glowing with renewed interest. “Who else would play the game just like fucking Stacatto? She’s using all of his damn tricks. Fuck, I know you dropped out of high school and all, but you really are fucking stupid, Arno.”
Gritting his teeth, Arno lets the insult fly by. “Start talking.”
He does. I don’t understand a word of what he says. I don’t try to. Adrenaline creates a fuel-soaked prison more sustaining than nicotine. Much more addictive, but with way harsher side effects. I’m shaking. The remnants of rage war with what little bit of control I have left.