by Lana Sky
Chapter 4
Espi
I don’t stop running until the wail of sirens fades to a distant hum. Though it could just be that the woman moaning in my ear drowns the sound out.
She’s in bad shape. I’m drenched in her blood, and it splatters the sidewalk with every step I take like someone painted our trail in ruby red. We won’t escape notice for long. I feel eyes on the back of my neck already, hunting my every move as I weave through an alley and cut onto a back street. All the stealth does no good.
Someone is on my tail.
He’s good, staying in the shadows. From what I glimpse out of the corner of my eye, he’s tall and wearing a hoodie with the hood drawn low to disguise his face.
But I’d know that shape anywhere.
My footsteps slow as guilt wars with the part of me I’ve smothered for the past six months. The Espi who wants some goddamn answers. The Espi who’s pissed. The Espi who doesn’t care that some woman is about to bleed out on his watch.
He wants to say his fucking piece.
Gritting my teeth, I look over my shoulder and make my voice loud enough to carry to the entrance of the alley I’m in. I know he’s there. “You’ve picked the perfect time for a reunion,” I tell him.
The figure lingers just beyond the corner of the nearest building for a second. Then he steps forward, and I see his face. “You want to tell me what the hell you were doing there?” he wonders.
Typical Dante. Five seconds and he’s already waltzed right back into the role of big brother.
“You want to tell me where you’ve been since you skipped out on me?” With nothing more than a crummy note and a few thousand dollars, I might add. That’s all I’m good for, apparently. Always pity, never the truth.
“Did Arno put you up to this?” He cuts his gaze to my chest, coldly taking in the new tattoo there. Then he looks down at my feet, and his eyes widen.
I glance in the same direction and wince. “It’s not my blood,” I blurt out. But it’s a lot. And I’m just wasting time.
“Is that so?” He finally seems to notice the woman I’m carrying. “Trust me, this isn’t something you want to stick your nose into—”
“What were you doing there?” I ask, cutting him off. Sure enough, the line of his jaw tightens. Once again, I’m not good enough for a solid answer. “Whatever. Tell Danny I say hi.”
Damn. I don’t know where the venom came from. Jealousy? No. Not really. You have to want something in order to be jealous of whoever has it. After all this time, I’m not really sure I need someone who sticks around out of pity.
“Espi…” Dante sighs in that heavy, exhausted way only he can. Like the weight of the world is on his shoulders and he’s the sole person who can hold it. Fuck asking for help. It simply isn’t his style. “You know I wouldn’t do this if it weren’t to protect you. Right?”
“I…” The unmistakable tone of a police siren snags my attention. “Shit.” I readjust my grip on the blonde while juggling my med kit. It’s only as I bounce on the heels of my feet that I realize I’m hesitating. For the first time, I register how fucking naked I feel without my shirt. Show and tell through old scars is a game I don’t want to play right now.
In the end, he’s the one who leaves first, fading into the dreary landscape. “I’ll draw them away,” he calls back.
I take my out and run.
The farther I go, the easier it is to refocus. When I reach my house, I’m already counting how many stitches it will take to sew the woman up. Twenty, maybe. She’ll need to be numbed too, and I just pray that she still has a pulse.
I enter through the back door, hoping my neighbors aren’t watching at this time of night. My place is a mess. I have to flick a light on and carefully pick my way through stacks of blank canvas just to reach my bedroom.
Hopefully, Domi got away, because I won’t have much cash left to help her after this. I’ll need new sheets. There’s no time to strip the mattress, and the blonde leaves a vivid splotch of red the moment I set her down. She’s pale as shit. It’s an ominous sign paired with the state of her arm. I have to roll the sleeve of my shirt up just to get a good look at the wound. Vlad fucked her up good.
Forget stitches. If I don’t stop the bleeding soon, she’s dead anyway.
I leave her there against my better judgment and race into the bathroom. I only have one clean towel. When I return to the room, I use it to apply pressure to her arm. Within seconds, the material is already damp and colored scarlet.
But that’s the least of my problems.
She’s awake, her eyes glazed and unfocused. They stare beyond my head as her mouth contorts, but she never forms a single word. Just a piercing scream that cuts me to the core. The kind of bloodcurdling sound that would make anyone within a mile radius immediately call the cops.
“Shit. It’s okay,” I say, trying to make my voice soothing.
Either she doesn’t hear me, or she doesn’t care. Her limbs flail, the injured one spraying blood across the wall in a violent arc. My first instinct is to cover her mouth beneath my palm, but her teeth sink in deep. She’s strong—I’ll give her that much credit. Her fingers clutch at my shoulder, the nails slicing through my skin. I’m panting with the effort it takes to shrug her off.
My med kit is at my feet, and I kick it open without thinking. In ten seconds, I have a syringe drawn and stuck within a vial of sedative. The last of it fills the barrel just as the blonde gets her feet on the floor and tries to stand.
I clench my teeth at the sound she makes. It’s pained and wild, like a trapped animal. With one hand, I pin her down while the other stabs the needle into the crook of her uninjured arm.
The drug won’t work immediately. After rummaging through my kit, I find two objects I’ve only had to use a few times—a pair of handcuffs. She kicks me as I get one set around her right wrist and secure it to the bed. Her fist weakly slams into my shoulder as I capture her other wrist and slap a cuff onto it as well.
Jesus, she’s loud. Hysterical. I briefly consider using a pillow to shut her up, but she finally dies down, her eyes sliding shut.
Thank god I invest in the good narcotics.
Not that I have much time for relief. Someone’s at my front door. Pounding on it.
The cops?
I grab a new shirt from my closet and wipe off as much blood as I can on the sheets. As much good as that does. Now, I just resemble a serial killer rather than the survivor of a bloodbath.
“Give me a minute!” I shout on my way into the kitchen. I risk making Officer Do-Gooder suspicious just long enough to wash my hands. Breathless, I dart down the hall and throw the front door open.
“It’s about fucking time!”
I nearly barrel over in relief at the sound of that voice. The man standing on my porch is no police officer. Hell, Arno would probably take offense to the comparison. I bet he came straight from the bar. His eyes are bloodshot, nearly the same shade as his hair.
“What the fuck happened? I tried calling your cell, but you never answered.” He pushes his way past me and strides into my kitchen as though he owns the place. Facing me, he crosses his arms over his chest. “The Russians’ territory is swarming with fucking pigs. What the hell happened?”
Despite everything, I shrug. “I thought you could tell me.”
Though maybe the blonde woman can. She knew that place. Something tells me she knew Vlad too, considering the greeting she gave him.
“So much for doing business with the Syndicate,” I tell Arno. I can’t keep the relief out of my tone.
“No shit,” he says and braces his hands against my kitchen table. “Now, tell me. What happened?”
After taking a deep breath, I start from the beginning—but for some reason, I don’t mention the blonde or Vlad’s happy ending.
Maybe it’s out of selfishness, one of the few traits Dante and I seem to share. I want to hear her story myself, before anyone else can drag it out of her.
&nbs
p; Maybe she’ll spill what she knows if I ask nicely?
Though, with Domi’s life on the line, I’m not sure if I can afford to wait.
Chapter 5
Chloe
There’re three of them. They’re playing cards in the larger room, while the rest of us huddle together, two to a cot, our arms strapped down. One of them comes in, brandishing a syringe. Spotting me, he smiles. “This one is ready to make us some money…”
I jolt awake. Or did I? Pieces of my nightmare chase me into the present. It’s too dark. A metallic stench taints the air, and my inner elbow throbs. Terror claws through my belly as my thoughts dissolve and collide—and that’s not the worst part. My arms are positioned on either side of me, weighed down by my wrists. Bound.
Don’t panic. I suck in air to avoid just that. One breath. Two. It’s cleaner than I’m used to. My new prison isn’t quite a cellar. Something above ground but still enclosed. A closet?
Either Grey has a funny concept of punishment, or someone else grabbed me in the aftermath of whatever happened at the club.
“Get off my case, Arno,” a man snaps, his voice sounding muffled but close. In another room? Deciphering his location takes a back seat to the name he said. Arno. It rings a bell. An alarming one. “I told you I don’t fucking know what happened. Someone tipped their hand, but it wasn’t me—”
“You don’t think I fucking know that?” a deeper voice cuts in. “But that’s it. Six fucking months down the damn drain—”
“You think it was the Cartel?”
“Fuck no!” Unstable laughter echoes off the walls. “Those fuckers couldn’t get in the door without shooting themselves in the foot. No. That shit was too clean. I’m just glad you got out okay. If I had known there was any risk, I fucking swear I would have never let you—”
“I know. I know.” A tired sigh follows. “Don’t sweat it. The Ruskies must have pissed off someone else. You’ll find out who. You always do.”
“You’re damn fucking right I will,” the other man agrees.
They sound closer now, as if they’ve been walking while chatting, nearing my darkened prison. The lack of urgency unsettles my stomach. They’re comfortable.
“Lie low for a while until I figure out what the fuck is going on. If anything happened to you, Dante would—” The man cuts off with a sharp intake of air.
“You can stop worrying now, Mom,” the other voice finally pipes up. “I did get a few boo-boos though. Want to kiss them better for me?”
“Knock it off, you little shit.” Another gruff laugh echoes off the walls, followed by a few more minutes of unnatural silence. “Take it easy, Espi. I fucking mean it. Come to the bar once you’ve gotten some rest, okay?”
“Okay.”
A door opens and closes. I think… My eyelids feel heavier by the second. To conserve energy, I rely only on what little clues my senses can gather. Judging from the muffled sound, a solid wall separates me from the room where a lone figure starts to pace. One of Vlad’s men? No. They aren’t built like a typical guard. Their footsteps barely make a sound, their path aimless, bringing them closer. Then farther away. Closer. Away. Closer.
On their next trip in my direction, the doorknob jiggles, and my nerves prickle to life. Get ready… I flex my wrists, testing the give of the manacles. One is loose enough to slip it off—if I can move, that is. My muscles react sluggishly to my brain’s commands.
Wake up! A few of my fingers twitch in response to the plea. Good enough. I even manage to peel one eye open as a rush of air alludes to a door opening. The entering figure must switch a light on nearby. Suddenly, everything is bright.
“Shit. You’re awake.” His surprise is a bad sign. In my experience, captors were only that confident if their victims were drugged. “Try not to move,” he warns, his tone gruff. “You’ll bleed through the—”
Move! The word triggers every instinct I have. My loose arm twists and I pull, ignoring the burning, icy scrape of my flesh against metal. Two agonizing tugs free it, but a smattering of rushing footsteps warns me that I’m too late.
“Shit—”
I kick my feet out only to feel air. Taking a risk, I throw my weight toward the empty space.
It’s a mistake. My head explodes, my thoughts splintering. As if the agony surging down my spine jumpstarts my vision, it clears. I’m in a room. The floor beneath me is smooth tile, and the lone window across from me isn’t barred. An ebony sky serves as a fitting backdrop for the figure standing in the center of the room, watching me.
I blink rapidly to register his features. Glinting, blue eyes. Black hair slicked back away from a painfully innocent face. He switched the other shirt for a gray one, pairing it with ratty jeans.
“Take it easy.” He warily holds his hands out in front of him.
His voice. I recognize it from the earlier conversation. Espi. Is that his name?
Not that it matters. If he works for the Syndicate, I’m as good as dead.
“Get these handcuffs off me—now!”
He winces.
I’m shouting. I’m screaming. “Get them off! Get them off—”
“Calm down.” He’s closer.
I smell him now. Mint and cigarettes. Did he pick the habit up from Piotr?
“Look!” He pulls a key from his pocket and holds it up to the light. “You lost a lot of blood. I didn’t want you to reopen the… Shit.”
I follow the direction of his gaze, wincing with every shift of muscle. My other arm is still attached to the edge of a narrow cot. Unlike the naked, industrial setup I’m used to, someone draped this mattress in red sheets—sheets that used to be white.
Vlad delivered his parting gift well. Rent flesh forms a gash from my shoulder down to my forearm—or so I gauge from the blood trail seeping through a white towel someone wadded around the limb. Had he a larger knife, good ol’ Vlad would have lived up to the little nickname Piotr bestowed upon him—The Butcher.
“There.”
The pressure on my wrist loosens, but the loss of support throws me forward. I hit the floor hard, my vision blinking in and out of focus.
“Okay? Just take it easy.”
I have to brace one hand flat against the floor to hoist myself onto my knees.
“Are you fucking listening to me? You want to bleed out all over the fucking floor?” He’s shouting, the baby-faced angel.
That’s not what leaves me reeling. His voice breaks with an emotion I’m not used to hearing in another person. Not genuinely, at least. Worry.
The same emotion makes my heart hammer against my rib cage as my knees buckle, and his arm encircles my shoulders to keep me upright.
“If you don’t let me help you, you’re going to bleed to death. You want that? Huh?”
I don’t like how he phrased the question. Coldly. Definitively. As if he’d really leave me to my fate.
I should say yes…
“Lean on me.” The surprising note of authority springs my body into action. “Can you stand up?”
With his shoulder for support, I manage to. Once on my feet, I scan the room. It’s smaller than I thought. There’s a tiny closet near the back corner, its door opened to reveal the meager contents within. A small array of T-shirts and a few ratty pairs of jeans hang from hooks. So this isn’t a dungeon, but a bedroom. His?
“Can you walk?” The gritted tone drags my attention back to him. He’s eyeing the arm sandwiched between us, held at an awkward angle. “Try to move. Come on. One foot in front of the other.”
I try. He winds up supporting most of my weight, but we eventually make it into a larger room. He must live here. Though what would serve as a living room in any conventional residence acts as storage for large, white squares. My brain sluggishly tries to put a name to them. Canvas. Some are blank, while others sport splotches of paint. Reds. Yellows. Oranges.
An inferno of color.
“All right, here we go…” He lowers me onto a gray couch that’s seen better day
s, and he has to nudge a stack of canvases out of the way to clear enough space for me. “Fuck.” Muttering under his breath, he darts to another corner of the room.
There’s a kitchen there—a small one, anyway—composed of a dingy fridge, a sink, and a single row of cabinets. He snatches something from the top of the fridge and then turns to the sink. Water runs. His shoulders move. He’s assembling something. Another syringe? I wince; the throbbing in my inner arm is too distracting to focus for long.
“You injected me with something… Didn’t you?”
Guilt laces his tension, stiffening his shoulders. He doesn’t answer, and by the time he returns to my side, I can’t remember why the question even matters.
“Let’s sit you up.” His voice deepens as he crouches in front of me.
He has a boxy object tucked under his arm and a wad of wet rags in his fist. He sets the rags aside and lifts the lid of the box. It’s plastic, with compartments inside that separate what appears to be a makeshift first aid kit—gauze, scissors, and vials of liquid.
Liquid potentially potent enough to cause the disorientation disrupting my senses.
“What did you give me?” I muster up enough strength to grab his shoulder. “What did you inject me with?”
He shrugs me off in order to hunt through the case. “A tetanus shot,” he finally grumbles.
“What else?”
He meets my gaze, appearing as if he’s trying to decide how much he can get away with hiding from me. In the end, he shrugs. “A sedative.”
Shock doesn’t have time to finish racing through my system before he rears back on his knees, his expression grim.
“Look, I don’t know if you remember or not, but you weren’t exactly jumping at the chance to have me help you.” He tugs on his collar, revealing a jagged scratch stretching toward his shoulder, and my nails throb as if in guilt. “You were going to either scream loudly enough that someone called the cops or bleed out. I couldn’t let that happen—”
“So you drugged me?”