by LP Lovell
He takes a deep breath and tips his head back. “So you can find her yourself and sell me out?” We stare at each other for long moments, those whisky brown eyes of his, so hard, so calculating. Finally, he releases a long breath and pushes his chair back, bending down and pulling open the bottom drawer. He takes out a photograph, holding it against his chest until I look up and meet his gaze. “If you betray me, if you cut and run, I will send this photograph to Nicholai Ivanov,” he says coldly.
Why would he do that? How does he know? Does he know about Alex? My expression must give something away because he places the picture on the desk. Ignoring him, I rush forward to look at the photo. It’s blurry and distorted; the image zoomed in from a distance. It’s dark, but there’s a line of girls, all of them bound at the wrists. Two men stand with guns, on either side of the women. In the middle of the image is a girl. She can be no older than eighteen. Her white-blonde hair hangs over her face, and I can barely make out her profile, but it’s a face I would know anywhere. Anna.
“Where did you get this?” I whisper.
“This was taken three years ago in Juarez. A shipment of slaves were sold to the Sinaloa Cartel.”
My blood runs cold and it feels like someone has wrapped a fist around my heart. “A slave? In the cartel?”
His lips press into a flat line. He says nothing, but his silence is answer enough. My fingers tighten on the edge of the desk, and I feel. I feel…everything. Emotion bubbles up my throat, and I bite hard on the inside of my cheek in an attempt to channel it, but I can’t. My long dormant heart feels like it’s breaking, splintering open and bleeding out. My mind flashes through memories, only instead of seeing them as myself, I imagine it’s her. Men holding her down, laughing as they tear her clothing from her body, hands clamping around her delicate throat, nails raking over soft skin as they force her legs apart. Only she won’t have a Nicholai to save her. My nails scream in protest as I grip the wood hard enough to bend them back. White-hot rage rips over my skin, and I want nothing more than to make the rivers of Mexico run red until I find her. Images blink behind my eyelids like a faulty film reel, and it makes me want to scream.
“Una!” Fingers brush over my jaw, and I flinch back as Nero tears me from the screaming in my mind. He’s standing in front of me, staring at me. “Look at me.” My heart is hammering, and I can feel the thin layer of sweat coating my skin. “Una, look at me.” He repeats. Hands land on either side of my face, his grip strong and deliberate, forcing me to lift my eyes.
Meeting Nero’s gaze, his perceptive eyes search mine. I’m frozen, stuck in a place between the past and the present, reality and nightmare. His thumb strokes over my cheek and it’s like breaking the surface after being submerged in water for several minutes. I drag in a staggered breath, sucking the oxygen into my lungs. My focus snaps back into place almost instantly and I slam my palm against his chest with enough force that he moves back a step, his hands falling away from me. Backing up, I begin pacing around the desk, putting distance between us. Of all the people to have a relapse in front of. We all have our demons; mine are just a little closer to the surface than most.
“Do we have a deal?” His expression shutters once again.
My jaw hurts from gritting my teeth so hard. “I’ll kill your people, but I want more than just your information on Anna.” He lifts his chin. “I want you to help me get her back.” It’s a small price to pay. For her.
Whatever his plan, it must be important because he nods quickly. “Done.” He puts the photo back in the drawer and slides it shut. “I have to handle something, and then I’ll take you home.” Great. I’d almost forgotten that I’m going to have to live with him.
Fifteen minutes pass, and when Nero doesn’t come back I get annoyed and bored. I’m not some staff member he can just keep at his beck and call. Screw this. I leave the office and make my way through the house, ducking into doorways whenever I see any of his men. The place is heavily guarded. I manage to make it into the sunroom where I slip outside unnoticed. Making my way across the sloping lawns, I inhale the cool night air, allowing it to help calm my racing mind.
Pulling out my phone, I dial Sasha’s number and wait impatiently, listening to the foreign ring tone. “Hello,” he answers in Russian. I smile. Sasha is one of the few people I trust in this world. We grew up together, were trained together and shaped into what we now are. He’s as close to a brother as I will ever get.
“Sasha, it’s me.” I slip easily into my native tongue, although it feels strangely foreign on my tongue. I’ve been away for so long now.
“Una. Where are you?”
“On a job in New York.” I don’t say more than that and he doesn’t ask. This is our life, this is what we do. Although, he’d be disappointed if he knew I was selling myself out right now, not to mention he’d tell Nicholai. We were trained in the bratva, child soldiers. I went there when I was thirteen after Nicholai saved me from being raped and sold as a whore. Sasha was there since the age of nine. I’m loyal to Nicholai because he’s the only father I’ve ever known, but I see his flaws. He would kill Anna, and I know he would do it because he loves me. In many ways, I see his logic, I even agree with it. I just can’t allow it, not when it’s Anna. Sasha, on the other hand, has complete loyalty to Nicholai. He has no weakness such as a long-lost sister. I care for him like a brother and he cares for me too, but ultimately, he would betray me before he would breach Nicholai’s trust. I have to be careful. “I need a favour.”
“Oh?”
“But you have to promise me you won’t breathe a word of this to anyone.” The pleading tone in my voice is pathetic really, but I am pathetic when it comes to Anna. It’s just the way it is.
“Fine,” he says, reluctantly.
“I need you to locate where the Sinaloa Cartel keep their sex slaves.”
He goes silent. “You do realise they keep thousands of slaves?”
I sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose.
“Are you looking for someone specific?”
“Yes.”
He says nothing for long seconds and then releases a long breath. “Well, are you going to tell me who?”
"She won’t be under the same name now. You’re looking for a girl sold into the Sinaloa about three years ago. White-blonde hair, blue eyes,” I say.
He clears his throat. “Okay, I can’t promise anything, but I’ll have a look.” The other thing Sasha specializes in is hacking. The dark web, bank accounts, emails, even CCTV footage. If there is a trace of Anna to be found, he’ll find it. I admit, it’s a long shot.
“Thank you.” I hang up and drag a hand through my hair. We now live in an online world, and even the criminals have moved into a new era. Weapons dealers, sex traffickers, drug dealers…you can buy rocket launchers on the dark web. Gun traffickers have their own version of eBay. Just as they always have done, they have a dark and sordid underground, even within our own Internet. It’s here that Sasha and I often find our prey. Don’t mistake us for some kind of martyrs though. We take them out for someone else who probably wants to take their place or whose own illicit trade is threatened by them. That’s the way the world keeps turning, with those who have power garnering more on the backs of someone else. People like Anna are sold and traded like cattle, and for the most part, no one can touch the men who do it. Every so often though, someone like me crawls out of the woodwork. In many ways, I’ve been equally robbed of my life, but I have a purpose. When I find Anna, and I will find her one way or another, I’m going to slaughter anyone who had a hand in taking her.
Nero may know roughly where Anna is but I’m not about to sit back and let him take his sweet time in finding her, just so he can get what he wants from me. He wants to use me, but I’m no one’s pawn. I need more information though. If Sasha can’t find anything, then I’m left with Nero as my only hope of ever finding her. That doesn’t sit well. I want to hate Nero. I want to kill him and smile as I watch him bleed out, but I can’
t and I won’t. He found Anna. Despite the unlimited resources at my disposal and a reputation that tends to make people talk, I couldn’t find her. He succeeded where I failed. How? I’ve looked, but I guess I never really thought I would find her, and now that I’m faced with the possibility, now that I’ve seen her, she’s suddenly more than a fading memory.
My thoughts are interrupted when I hear footsteps brushing over the grass. The distraction is a welcome reprieve from my thoughts, and part of me hopes it’s an attacker. I need a fight right now. I need the violence and bloodshed to remind me what I am. Listening, I blow out a breath that fogs around my face. Despite the days being warm in April, the nights are still cold here in New York. Of course, compared to Russia it’s positively sweltering. I don’t miss those freezing cold winters in that concrete fortress.
Turning as the footsteps get closer, I see one of Nero’s guys approaching, the quiet one. His black suit blends into the darkness as though he were a part of it. When he reaches me his face breaks into a small smile. His eyes scan the night as though looking for any hidden threats. I keep my face tilted down, shielding it from his view.
“My name is Gio. I’m Nero’s second,” he says, his voice clear and concise with just a hint of the New York accent, and not a trace of the Italian.
“Does that mean I’m supposed to trust you?”
He laughs. “It means he has my loyalty. And for now, so do you.”
“Pretty words, but you and I both know I’m a threat to him.”
He smiles, and the motion causes the thin lines to set into the corners of his eyes. “Nero doesn’t need my protection. Trust me.” I believe him. “Why are you out here?” he asks, his brows pulling together.
Rolling my eyes and sighing, I scoop my hood off my face. He’s Nero’s second, and if I’m to do this job for him, I have no doubt I’ll be working with him. I can’t hide my face forever. “I’m not running. Yet.” He has all the traditional Italian features but his brown eyes are flecked with green, mixing and swirling into his irises like paints on a palette. “I made a deal.”
“A deal you’re not happy with.” He counters.
Nero’s clearly filled him in. I tilt my head to the side and smirk. “Whatever gave you that idea?” I startle when two black shapes come barrelling down the sloped gardens towards us. My muscles tense but Gio doesn’t move. When they’re a few feet away I see that they’re dogs. Two black Dobermans circle his legs excitedly until he barks a command at them and they drop to a sit, one on each side.
“Nice dogs,” I remark, watching the way they study me intently.
“They’re Nero’s. This is Zeus.” He places his hand on the one on his right. “And George.” He points to the one on the left. It’s George who breaks his vigil, as though he can’t contain himself. He jumps up and rushes towards me, his ears back and his little stump of a tail wagging. Smiling, I lean over and run my hands over his slick, black coat. “Real smooth, George,” Gio huffs. “Some guard dog you are.” Zeus stays where he is while George leans against my legs, begging me for attention.
“He called his dog George?” I look up at him, cocking a brow.
He shrugs. “Come on. I’ll show you around.”
I glance back at the ugly house sitting just above us on the hill. “I’m good. Where’s Nero?”
His gaze skirts over my face. “He’s unexpectedly pre-occupied.”
I roll my eyes. “Okay, either you take me to him or I’m leaving. And you can tell him that I don’t wait around for anyone.”
He throws his head back on a laugh and starts walking towards the house. “Okay.”
Falling in beside him, we walk in silence. The smell of night lilies assaults me as we pass through the gardens. Roses adorn the flowerbeds, their crimson petals bleeding against the night. The dogs break away, running ahead of us into the sunroom at the back of the house. I pull my hood up as we enter. It makes me uneasy being around all these people, being seen. Gio leads me along a corridor until we come to a door. He opens it, ushering me through. A set of concrete stairs descend downwards into the basement and a burst of cool air seems to drift up them, like fingers, reaching for us. Gio’s footsteps echo around the stairwell, and when we reach the bottom, he passes me, approaching an old, rusted metal door. He presses a code into a keypad and a loud click sounds. With a rough shove he pushes the old door open, its hinges screaming in protest.
“Here you go.” He stands back, gesturing me to move ahead of him. I don’t like it but I steel my spine and step inside, keeping my focus on him. Gio is the worst kind of dangerous. The first impression is that he’s nice, intelligent, smiles easily and has an air of kindness to him. Everything about him makes you forget that he would put a bullet in your head quick as look at you if the situation called for it. I don’t forget though. He didn’t make it to Nero’s second by being soft.
As I step through the door, a gruesome scene unfolds before me. The room is nothing more than a large, empty space with concrete walls and floor. A small metal drain is set into the middle of the floor, which gently slopes in towards it. The entire room smells of blood and death, and the floor is stained with evidence of the acts committed within these walls. It reminds me of the facility I grew up in, concrete and blood. Directly above the drain is a body, suspended by the ankles via thick metal chains that hang from a hook in the ceiling. The man is barely more than pulverised flesh, his face completely unrecognisable. The big guy that was in Nero’s office earlier stands in front of him, his shirtsleeves rolled up and a set of brass knuckles clutched in his hand. Blood coats his fingers, spreading up his forearms and catching the edge of his shirtsleeves. Nero and the other guy that were in the office are off to the side. Nero leans against the wall, a cigarette hanging between his lips. He almost seems casual, but I know better.
“This is Tommy.” Gio points to the guy straddling a chair right next to Nero and he lifts a hand, waving at me as he grins. He’s the only one here who doesn’t have the dark hair and olive skin. His green eyes, pale skin and chestnut hair give him away as something other than Italian. “And Jackson.” He waves a hand dismissively towards the big guy. This is Nero’s inner circle, I realise. Every capo, boss or leader has one. You have to. I have people I use for certain things. No one can stand completely alone. It’s impossible.
Sighing, I move over to the wall where Nero’s standing, prepared to watch them flex their muscles and treat the guy on the chain like a piñata. Nero’s arm is a couple of feet away from mine where I brace against the cold concrete, but I’m abnormally aware of him. He stands in his silent vigil, king of all he surveys, and it’s everything that he doesn’t say or do that makes him so formidable. Nicholai always said that a man’s weight is all in how he is perceived, and perception can always be altered. Nero’s strength is in the way he projects himself. A man who makes threats, a man who is seen to commit violence is doing so because he feels he has to make a point. Nero wants me to take out his enemies. He’s not making a point, far from it, he’s deliberately trying to remove himself from it. He doesn’t need to make threats or kill people, because he knows what he is and he’s confident in his abilities. His eyes touch my face but I ignore it, crossing my arms over my chest as I school my features into a bored expression. Truthfully, once you’ve seen one interrogation, you’ve seen them all.
Gio approaches the suspended man, circling him with his hands buried deep in his pockets. “Is he dead?” he asks on a smirk. Jackson cracks his neck to the side impatiently. He’s the muscle, the most reckless of the three, the most easily riled or baited, I note.
“It can be arranged.”
“If we wanted him dead, I’d have used a bullet and saved your shirt,” Gio lilts, his voice like velvet as he says the words quietly. “Wake him up.”
Jackson picks up a bucket from beside him and throws water over the unconscious man. He gasps and jerks awake, thrashing against the chain like a fish on a line. Out of the corner of my eye I see Nero drop
the cigarette and crush it under his shoe, driving a black mark into the concrete floor. He steps forward, the atmosphere in the room changing, as though the beating so far was just a warm-up and it’s all about to kick off.
Tommy chuckles under his breath and twists his head towards me. “Hope you’re not squeamish,” he says.
I say nothing. The only reason I’m even standing here is because I have to wait for Nero to give me his royal decree. I don’t like to be kept waiting, and especially not when I’m waiting to go to his apartment…something I don’t even want to do. So I stand on the sidelines, watching the boys’ club strut around, weighing each other’s balls. Although, I will say I’m curious. I want to see what Nero does that has them all waiting on baited breath, or perhaps they don’t know.
Nero stands in front of the man. His silence might as well be a gunshot in the room. Reaching inside his jacket pocket, he removes a pack of cigarettes, taking one to replace the one he just stubbed out. His movements are slow, methodical, deliberately unhurried as he puts the packet back in his pocket and takes out the lighter. The low click gives way to the bright orange flame dancing over the end of the cigarette until it glows a bright red. I notice every tiny, inconsequential detail, because he demands it, without ever speaking a word. He has a gift, and when he finally does speak, everyone listens.
“You should know, Mr Chang, that I always get what I want.” He straightens the collar of his jacket, brushing away a non-existent piece of lint.
“Not this time!” the hanging guy rasps, though it’s lost on a choked cough.
Nero smiles; it’s almost charming and certainly disarming. “You aren’t walking out of here alive,” he tells the man. Well, he’s not going to tell him shit now. Don’t get me wrong, he knows he’s going to die, I’m sure, but hope will play tricks on the human mind. It’s that fragile hope that has them spilling their guts, not a guaranteed death penalty.