by Lana Sky
A million new secrets swirl inside my skull as I lie back against the wall, leaving my body slung horizontally across the mattress. I’ll let my eyes close only for a second, or so I tell myself. I’m not stupid enough to stay here. I’m not stupid enough to pretend that Piotr isn’t on the prowl or forget that Anna may still be out there.
I’m not stupid enough to trust.
I’m not sure what noise snaps me fully awake, but I open my eyes to a ghost. Bright-red hair is all that gives her contrast against the wall.
“An…Anna?” Hope wells up in my throat as I greedily seek out each childish feature.
It dies in vain, of course, swallowed down like vomit. This girl is too old, her nose too big, and I would pray to never see such darkness in the eyes of a child.
“No. It’s me—Domi. Did I wake you?” She’s already fully dressed, sitting on the opposite bed.
Apparently, she helped herself to the spare clothing but somehow managed to pick the most risqué items to wear. Her outfit of choice is a black lace bra she’s paired with one of Espisido’s hoodies, the only saving grace.
“No,” I lie. “I was already awake.”
“Good.” She kicks her feet into the air while her wide eyes scan my face. “So, it really is you. Number ten. Piotr’s angel.”
She gives the word a nasty twist. How strange is it that such a name can have so many variants depending on how it’s uttered? Reverently by some and reviled by others.
“I would have thought…” My throat is too dry, and I have to swallow hard to clear it. “I would have thought that he wouldn’t talk of me much.”
“He didn’t,” Domi admits. “But we still listened. We all knew of the girl he used to have. His prized little pet. The things he made her do…” She shudders and wraps her arms around her slender front. “She was our bedtime story. A reminder of all the ways that, no matter how fucking awful it was, it could always get worse.”
I turn my face toward a threadbare pillow. It’s hard to stomach this mythical version of myself—the girl who strayed too close to a monster and got eaten alive. If only that were where the story ended.
“And what impression do I make?”
Her gaze sweeps over me once she’s given permission to truly stare. “You’re pretty,” she says carefully. “I thought you’d be prettier.”
I shrug. “Fair enough.”
“So… Did you really do it? You really killed Vlad?”
I don’t answer. I don’t have to. She’s already heard the story from somewhere, and I can see the curiosity burning within her eyes. There’s hunger too. Espisido’s not the only one familiar with violence.
“What was it like?”
“Messy,” I tell her. “Very, very messy.”
“Oh.” Her teeth click together noisily, as if they’re trapping more questions behind them. Exuding nervous energy, she jumps to her feet. Her outfit seems even more garish when I take her in—an underage demon in a hooker’s clothing, draped beneath the cloak of a fallen angel.
“How did you…” I trail off, unsure of how to phrase the question. How did you wander into hell?
“Family debt,” she says simply, as though we’re merely discussing the weather. “I was sold to pay it off. It was okay though.” She glances back at me over her shoulder and shrugs. “I had three other sisters.”
That awful ache in my gut—is that pity? I’ve spent so long suppressing it. Guilt, empathy, pain—they aren’t emotions prized in either Piotr’s slave or a cop.
“Can I ask you something?” She’s looking at the floor, her expression unreadable.
“Yes?”
“Piotr. If you saw him again. If he came after you. Would you kill him?”
It’s a dangerous question. The most alarming aspect is how quickly I come up with an answer. “Yes.”
“Good.” She meets my gaze again, her eyes blazing. For a split second, she seems eons older than she should. Someone who’s experienced more suffering than most people do in a lifetime. “Anyway, Frank said we could come downstairs early,” she says, effortlessly changing the subject. “He said he’ll give us some food and show us the ropes before the bar opens.”
“Frank?”
“Francisco.” She takes her time, pronouncing every syllable. “He got pissed with how I was butchering his name and told me to just call him that. He let me in last night too. You fell asleep with the door locked.” She flashes a mischievous grin I don’t have the energy to return.
“Sorry.”
“It’s all right,” she says, shrugging. “But let’s go now. Frank tends to yell.”
Taking the hint, I pull myself upright, groaning as every ache and pain decide to make themselves known. My left arm is on fire. My hand feels no better. I need to eat something, preferably something other than bread and alcohol.
Domi stares as I fish a clean set of clothes from Darcy’s bag, and I have to stagger down the hall and into the small bathroom to find some semblance of privacy.
I barely recognize the woman staring back at me from the mirror. She’s old. She’s haggard. Piotr’s mark taints her skin, spreading like cancer. Even with the dark curtain of hair shielding part of her face, she won’t be able to hide from him. Maybe she doesn’t really want to.
Moya lyubov.
I rinse my mouth out with water and spit every ounce of my fear into the sink. Using my wet fingers as a makeshift comb, I ease the worst of the tangles from my hair. Out of the clothing Darcy picked, I settle on a white tank top and a pair of denim shorts. In the end, I don’t know if it’s modesty or something else that drives me back into the bedroom for Espisido’s jacket. It’s long enough to cover even the shorts, and when I zip it up to my chin, it’s almost like I’m wearing nothing else.
“Let’s go,” I tell Domi, who’s still watching me from a corner.
She leads the way out into the hallway. Down below, the bar is deathly silent. It’s also a fucking wreck. Broken glass and plastic cups clutter the floor while a lone figure attempts to clean it all up.
“Grab a broom,” he snarls the moment we approach. “And I don’t want to hear shit about how it’s ‘not your job.’”
Domi and I obey without argument. An hour later, the floor is clear, at least.
After that, I help Francisco restock the shelves behind the bar with liquor from a storage closet while Domi attempts to make whatever drink he calls out within a specified amount of time.
She’s good—a realization that surprises him more than it does me. Piotr probably kept her at his personal table on the nights she worked inside the club. I recognize the unnaturally steady way she manipulates the bottles and how her dead eyes disguise all emotion.
He trained her well, too.
“The girls don’t go on stage until nine at night,” Francisco tells me when I hand him a whiskey bottle to set onto a high shelf. “You gonna stick around until then and make yourself useful?”
Rather than answer him, I grab a broom and work on the floor. By the time he opens the pub at ten in the morning, Domi’s already poised to manage the bar, and I help to minimize the mess.
Mulligan’s attracts a decent crowd, even before noon. It’s like Arno’s chosen thugs live by the closing and opening of the battered wooden doors. By midafternoon, Francisco has broken up at least four fights, and he’s in the middle of separating another brawling pair when Arno himself walks in.
Just like that, the entire atmosphere changes, feeding off the figure who dominates the doorway. He determinedly scans the crowd with his green eyes. Searching. Hunting. When they find their chosen target, they narrow.
“You,” he growls, his voice easily traveling across the bar. “Come on. We need to talk.”
I don’t meet anyone’s gaze as I set the broom aside and follow him toward that infamous “tea party” room. Once we’re inside, he slams the door shut and gestures to the table with a wave of his hand.
“Have a seat.”
I do, and he take
s the one across from me, splaying his legs on either side of the table while his hands palm the surface between us.
“What’s your name? And don’t fucking try to shit me, either. I want the truth.”
The truth? It’s a dangerous request. “Chloe Parker,” I tell him. “At least, that’s the only one you’ll find in any database.”
“Hmph.” He sits back in the chair. His eyes are bloodshot; he’s been drinking. A lot. What would make for a vulnerable state for anyone else just makes his gaze sharper. Meaner. “That doesn’t sound like the name of the captive-Russian-slave-girl sob story bullshit Espi spun about you.”
“That’s because it’s not.”
He’s already figured that out though; his eyes dart directly to my neck. He saw the mark, most likely during my audition. He’s done a little digging.
Chances are he knows all about Piotr’s infamous number ten.
“You a cop?”
“I was at Moe’s on police business, if that’s what you mean.”
He cracks his knuckles one by one—purely for my benefit. The warning translates better than any verbal threat. Keep talking.
“I was supposed to get intel,” I say. “Ask a few questions. Wear a wire. I wasn’t supposed to go inside.”
“Is that so?” There is nothing comforting in the way he smiles. “And, now, we get to the good part. Somehow, you managed to kill Vladimir Olshenkov. A lot of people wanted to claim that little honor, missy. From what I hear, you killed him fucking dead.”
“I fucked up,” I correct.
He stops cracking his knuckles and resorts to resting his clenched fists on the table. I’m not sure which action alarms me more. Unlike Espi, he’s easy to read yet impossible at the same time. A bit like an open flame—You know it’s burning, you know it’s hot, but where will it go next? That depends on which way the fucking wind blows.
“If you’re worried about me, don’t be. I can’t go back,” I say. Not yet. Not without answers. Not without Anna.
“So, why are you here?”
“My handler wanted information on a gang.” I leave out the part where the gang in question just so happens to be his. “In return, he pulled some strings to get the other girl out of holding.”
“So you thought you’d spy on me? Is that it?”
I don’t bother denying it. “A girl’s gotta eat.”
He swipes his thumb across his chin. I know the look. I doubt they’re related by blood, but Espisido has picked up a few of his mannerisms. That glowering, thoughtful stare is one of them.
“All right. Let’s say I believe you. What shit were you gonna feed your boss?”
“Nothing to blow your operation. Just enough to get him off my ass.” I let him sense the part of that sentence I don’t say out loud—for now.
“Hmph.” The grunt resembles a genuine chuckle. “You do this often, huh? Just admit that you’re a fucking narc?”
“And let’s say I did go running to the cops with damaging intel,” I propose. “I killed a man in cold blood. Even if he was a criminal. Even if he was Vladimir Olshenkov—I still killed him. Any investigator worth their salt would be able to prove it. I wasn’t exactly careful. I turn you in, and no prosecutor in the country could offer me a deal of immunity. If I’d used a gun, it could have been self-defense. But I didn’t. Not only would anything I said against you be laughed out of a court as hearsay, but I’d land my own ass in prison once some justice-happy prosecutor decided to get their name in the papers.”
I wind up holding my breath in anticipation of his reaction. Coming clean to him is more than just risky. I’m laying everything on the line—my life and Domi’s. But, when everything goes to shit—and it will—only one person will be caught in the aftermath.
It won’t be Arno or me. But therein lies the real question. Why do I care?
“I take it you don’t plan on sticking around for too long?” he asks.
“I just need to make sure my handler doesn’t pay for my fuck-up.”
“I guess you need something good to feed him, then?” All at once, Arno pushes back from the table and draws his gun.
I don’t have the time to blink before he aims it squarely over my chest.
“Here. Read this.”
Pathetic bursts of air trickle into my lungs as he turns the weapon, allowing me to make out the serial numbers carved into the side.
“Memorize that. Give it to your cop friend. Say you heard me talking about a man I killed while waving this gun around. You got close enough to rip the serial. Have him run it—”
“Won’t that just lead back to you?” Better yet, it would give Grey probable cause to get a warrant for either his arrest or a search of the club.
Arno just laughs. “Trust me, sweetheart. It won’t lead back to me. I know the fucking rodeo. But, whatever they find, you bring back to me. I want a name. I want a fucking dealer. You give me that…” He cracks his knuckles in unison. “Give me that, and I don’t throw you out on your ass. For now.”
“Done.” It’s a logical headache I’ll figure out later. All that matters is…
Hell, what does matter? Running should be my primary focus. Not making sure a certain little angel doesn’t get too burned from his attempt to save a demon from the flames.
Though it’s not like I have much of a fucking choice now.
“Wait. I can’t be seen at the station if I’m associated with you.” Considering my status as an actual informant this time, I don’t think chatting with Grey in the open would be a good idea. “How should I—”
“Here.” Arno pulls something else from his pocket and tosses it to me.
A burner phone. One of many, I suspect.
“Call him on that. Then toss it. Now, get the fuck out. And one last thing…” His eyes flash with a sober-like intensity. “Just so we’re clear—Stay the hell away from Espi. You got that?”
I hold his gaze without flinching, ignoring the clenching sensation gripping my chest. Maybe it’s relief. “Deal.”
Arno accepts the answer with a nod. His blazing expression doesn’t reveal any ulterior motive for the request, other than concern for his friend. The fact just feeds the cruel part of me whispering that someone else is behind the sudden need for boundaries. Espi? Perhaps I’ve disgusted the angel so greatly that he can’t even tell me himself to back off.
My jaw tightens at the possibility. I pegged him as reckless, but never a coward.
Alone, I find the upstairs hallway deserted and use the silence as cover to call Grey. He’s pissed by the protocol breach but accepts the serial, promising to call back within a few days.
“The damn analyst is backed up to shit,” he tells me.
I reenter the barroom and discover that it’s packed. From behind the bar, Domi tries to meet my gaze, but Francisco sighs. He’s relieved. I guess he knows what happens when Arno doesn’t approve of a guest.
“Get back to work!” he shouts above the din of chaos.
Already, there’s more broken glass on the floor and spills to mop up. While I set about conquering the busywork, it’s almost enough…
I almost forget. I almost stop eyeing the doorway every five fucking minutes in search of a familiar pair of eyes. Blue or dark brown?
It doesn’t fucking matter.
Chapter 14
Espi
Some people claim that blood is thicker than water—but they don’t know my family. To my brother, Dante, blood can be poison. He learned to cut it out and never look back.
Call me naïve, but I just never thought he’d do the same to me.
Even now, I can’t seem to call it what it is—him skipping out for nearly half a year. Abandonment? No. It’s just Dante being Dante.
He’ll come back. He always does.
Though maybe I’m as delusional as Arno. Rather than drown my memories with booze, I exorcise them in streaks of paint over canvas. Black for hate. Red for anger. Blue for pathetic, old Espi, the one always left behind.
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br /> It’s only when I’m knuckles-deep in acrylic that I let myself think about what I’m doing. It’s not too late to take more jobs and save up enough to skip town. Run. Hitch a one-way ride on a plane and never look back. I could pull a Dante-esque move, only I wouldn’t be self-righteous enough to pretend like I was doing it out of anything other than selfish greed.
I’m almost twenty-one years old, and I don’t know what it feels like to want something. Not really. Something real. Something worth turning my back on the whole fucking world for.
Maybe if I find it, I’ll finally understand what it’s like to be him.
Or maybe I’ll just learn what it’s like to be Espisido. Someone other than the punk kid stuck doing the dirty work or holding the short end of the stick. Someone who crawls through life alone no matter how hard it knocks them down.
Like her, Miss Yellow. She’s here beneath my fingertips, judging me from the surface of a canvas. Yellow paint forms the base of her features, sharp and focused. After picking up a brush, I use hints of green and red to flesh out the details, extending the line of her mouth until she’s no longer judging me.
Just watching. She stares beyond my head, seeing what I can’t. Like the figure I catch from the corner of my eye, lurking beyond the screen door that leads into the backyard.
The man standing there is tall, towering nearly to the doorframe. A jacket shrouds his body, the hood drawn low over his face. The line of his jaw is visible, moving as he speaks.
“You’re still smoking,” he says. “I can smell that shit out here.”
Sure enough, there’s fresh ash smoking in a bowl on my table. I step back from my easel and swipe my hands along my pants. Then I grab the makeshift ashtray and pitch the ash into the trash.
“I didn’t think you’d know where to find me,” I admit without facing the door. I eye my shadow instead as it flickers along the wall opposite from where I stand. “Considering you haven’t come around in six months—”
“I’m always watching out for you,” he says. “You know that.”