by Lana Sky
A dangerous sound rumbles up in Arno’s chest. “A dead man,” he says. “Some asshole punk who fell into good fortune. He used to run with Capella, back when the bastard was living. Was his little pet prick. When Capella’s ‘organization’ folded seven years ago, Stacatto took over the shit storm that remained, and now the asshole thinks he runs the fucking city.”
“Capella.” The name holds a flavor of recognition. I picture a face: old and worn with a mole on the chin. “I remember him.” An Italian bastard who liked to think of himself as the last bastion of the old mob.
“May he rest in hell,” Arno growls, spitting onto the floor. “Vinny used to be content with his side of the fucking river. But now he’s starting to overstep his boundaries. Needs to be taught his goddamn place in the pecking order.”
I nod. Arno not only got territorial—he got greedy. “What did you do?”
“I...” He clenches his fists and shakes his head. “I sent him a little present that he didn’t take to kindly to.”
“You tried to kill him.” I scoff and take another sip of my beer.
He doesn’t deny it. “It’s business. But the asshole crossed a line with Parish. You don’t—” He breaks off, gritting his teeth so fiercely I can hear them grinding together. “There are just some fucking lines you don’t cross.”
It’s all bullshit of course. Something he tells himself out loud to relieve the burning sting of guilt he feels for his sister. But given the chance to do it all over again, I know that Arno wouldn’t hesitate. A mad dog had to fight for his share of the junkyard, after all.
“So, your idea of revenge is torturing his fiancée.” While not exactly my method of choice, I can’t fault the bastard for flair. An eye for an eye; a woman for a woman.
Arno chuckles darkly and swipes a mass of red hair from his face. “It comes with the territory.”
Vincent Stacatto. He’s the same man Van Hallen was bitching about, apparently for good reason. “I guess there’s a reason why you haven’t shown that video to the cops?”
Arno gives me an odd look. “Stacatto owns the fucking police. The bastard’s even got judges in his pocket. They’d arrest my ass for possessing illegal pornography or some shit without even touching Stacatto.”
“Hmph.” I digest that newest tidbit of information while downing another sip of beer. Van Hallen hadn’t bothered to mention that.
“So, where is she?” Arno asks suddenly. He stands up and begins to pace. Something tells me that part of what kept him up all night is plotting ways to use her to make Stacatto suffer.
I jab my thumb at the ceiling. “Upstairs.”
“Alone?” Arno raises an eyebrow. “You lock her in a closet or something?”
I shake my head, feeling no need to lie. “She’s in the room.”
Arno comes to a complete stop. “You left her unguarded?”
“You told me to keep an eye on her,” I point out. “She won’t run.”
My voice comes out self-assured. Despite not being restrained or beaten or threatened, I know without being able to explain how that the woman won’t run. Besides, to leave the upper level, she’d have to march right through this very room on her way out or take her chances by jumping out of the damn window—and suicide isn’t very ladylike.
“You better fucking hope not,” Arno mutters darkly, but he has enough sense to keep the words from becoming a threat. “I’ll do it today,” he swears. “I’ll gather the boys. Make a game of it. Tie the little bitch up like a pig.”
“Where?” I ask, purely out of curiosity. Arno has my loyalty, but I won’t stick around for his little party. There are more important bones for this mutt to sniff at. Other old hydrants to check for new piss. First and foremost, I need to find Espi.
“The basement,” Arno says, but he doesn’t sound sure. It’s like he’s pulling the details out of his ass, too blinded by rage to come up with a solid plan.
“And what if her man comes looking for her?”
The thought makes him chuckle. “He can try, but he won’t find her here.” He shoots me an icy grin from over his shoulder. “Don’t forget: even you couldn’t sniff me out when I didn’t want you to, Kitty.”
Fair enough. I stare up at the ceiling and picture the woman whose fate is about as fragile as the bottle in my fist. How a woman like that fell into the hands of a man like Stacatto I’ll never know. Maybe boarding schools don’t keep a tight enough grip on their budding debutantes these days? She has to be some rich man’s daughter. There’s an air of aristocracy about her—though definitely the degenerate kind with more debts to their name than money. Her mask is similar to the ones worn by disgraced stockbrokers or vengeful widows who were desperate enough to seek out a man like me in order to enact their “due justice.” Every little breath she takes is a carefully crafted lie. A part of me wants to dissect it—the meaning behind those scars on her ass or the dark hint of a tattoo that crosses her torso. The fact that I’m curious makes me clench my jaw, and I drain my beer of every last drop. Everyone knew what happened when curiosity met the fucking cat.
“You gonna stick around?” Arno doesn’t seem surprised when I shake my head.
“I have business to take care of,” I say.
“You mean finding Espi?” I don’t deny it. I don’t exactly use the opportunity to have a fucking heart-to-heart either. While I trusted Arno with my life, some things were best kept only between brothers.
“I’ll try to keep a low profile.” It’s the least I could do. Van Hallen’s countdown was still going. I have three days left to make a full week free from bars. Maybe I’d send the bastard a thank-you card when I finally passed that deadline. On the other hand, maybe he’d gloat over my ass in a prison cell by that time.
“Can...” Arno hesitates. He won’t make eye contact. “Can you at least bring the bitch down to the cellar? I’ll have one of my boys watch her. I know you’re not a fucking babysitter,” he says before I can respond. “But I can’t...I’ll kill her, Dante. With my own fucking hands—” he flexes the limbs in question as if imagining them wrapped around her throat. “It’s best if there’s a fucking camera around when I see her again.”
I nod. “No problem.”
My muscles protest when I stand, stretching both arms over my head. How ironic. I thought it might take longer than four days to fall back into some semblance of my old life. The shackles of the animal I am have found me again without my even having to seek them out. It’s one thing I’ve always been good at, letting trouble find me first before I even begin to hunt for it.
With a sigh, I leave Arno and head for the stairs. It’s a short trip to the upper level where a handful of doors lead to separate apartments. Mine is the third from the right, and when I brace my hand against the knob, I’m surprised to find that I’d left it unlocked. Entirely by accident or out of some sick test devised for the woman within? Even I’m not sure. Not really.
An unexpected tension tightens my spine when I push the door open and enter the narrow entryway. Excitement? Anticipation? The thrill of the hunt never ceases to amuse a rabid dog, after all—but I don’t find her in the small living room or the tiny kitchen nook that branches off it. The entire level is silent. The little bitch could have truly pressed her luck and run, if I couldn’t still sense her scent, even from here. It’s faint, but with a pull like that of a fishing line, dragging me forward, down the hall and to the doorway of the only bedroom.
She’s on the bed. Scratch that—she’s passed out, deep-as-fuck-asleep on the bed. Her hair is a nest around her shoulders. One of her legs is twisted within the navy comforter and something that could be drool dribbles from her slightly parted lips and onto the pillowcase. Her chest rises and falls heavily. It’s like she’s sleeping on a fucking cloud. Hell, it’s almost ironic: she’s Goldilocks, curled up on the bed of a killer.
“Get up.” I cross over the mattress in two strides and kick the edge of it—hard.
She jolts awake, her eyes bli
nking as she struggles to get her bearings. She mumbles something, and her right hand flies out toward me, the fingers outstretched. It’s a silent but universal command. Help me up.
That act more than anything proves that the little bitch is old money, used to having someone wait on her hand and fucking foot. She seems dazed when I don’t take the hand she offers. I see her eyelids flutter as she slowly registers the unfamiliar scenery of the room. Then she sees me, and her hand flies to her side, the fingers clenching tight.
It takes her three tries to stand upright on her own, but she’s already steadier than she’d been less than an hour ago. I know she’ll follow when I jerk my head toward the doorway and turn on my heel, leaving her to catch up. She staggers after me, clinging to the wall for balance. The steps are tricky. She takes her time, and I have to wait at the foot of them for nearly five minutes before she finally descends the bottom step.
The little princess’s modesty is showing now that we’re on the lower level. Her nostrils flare like a wounded doe sensing the inevitable stench of nearby predators; she can hear Arno pacing just a few feet away. Her fingers flutter to the edge of my shirt which hangs down past her knees. She flattens her hands out as if to glue the fabric in place as I lead her to the basement door.
I don’t wait for her to descend the stairs this time. She flinches when I take her wrist and haul her forward; I ignore how she pants as she’s forced to keep up. The basement’s already fully lit. Either someone was here before us, or no one had bothered to lock up after last night. The table and chair are still there. So is that fucking laptop.
“Sit,” I tell her, cutting my gaze toward the center of the room.
She takes her time, moving with such regal little steps. It’s as if no one’s told her yet that she’s no longer in her high palace. A part of me wants to ruin the fantasy for her. My hands twitch at my sides, aching to shove her forward just to see how she’d react if she’s pushed onto her knees. Arno’s invitation makes for a sick temptation. I never got off on violence against women, but something in me just can’t fucking resist the curiosity of what she’ll do when those men surround her. How she’ll react. What kind of pleas will that haughty mouth form in order to save her own life?
“It won’t work.” For a moment, I think I’ve conjured her voice—but it’s too hoarse, even for my twisted imagination. Her accent is a rare weakness she fights to rein in. “It won’t work.”
“What?” I shouldn’t respond at all, but the question is instinctive. Fucking curiosity.
“This.” She directs the word to the wall as she sits down, tucking her bare feet neatly beneath her chair, her hands settling on her lap. “Whatever you plan to do to me...for Vinny. It won’t work.” The words seem pleading enough, but she doesn’t sound like she’s begging. Her voice is too coldly detached. Factual. “Violence doesn’t faze men like him.” Her eyes seek mine out from over her shoulder, unexpectedly steady. “He’ll see it as my honor to die for him.”
“He’ll get his wish,” I say, and she nods, accepting her death with the same grace with which most people accept the weather report. She doesn’t resist her fate. The doe accepts that it’s merely a doe, caught in the middle of a rift between wolves.
In silence, she faces the wall again, her back toward me, and for the first time, I realize just how small she truly is. Just a sliver of a woman who seems liable to melt through the gaps in the structure of the metal folding chair she sits on.
Whatever her purpose, I hope Arno finishes with her quickly. I don’t want to see her when I return, and I don’t look back when one of his men descends the stairs not even a minute later to silently take my place keeping “an eye.”
In five minutes, I’m out on the street. The scent of the city calls to me, beckoning with countless toys to amuse an old dog. I’m eager to seek out every last one and discover what I’ve missed out on for five damn years. After all, Arno’s not the only one capable of learning new tricks.
I’m back in Mulligans by noon. There’s no sign of Espi among the few patrons who crowd around the bar—but the kid’s only partly the reason why I’ve returned. Irritation sings through my blood. The kind of itch you can’t scratch. That buzzing impulse you can’t shake—you can only surrender to it. It’s the same urge that drives a junkie to get high or a dog to bury its bones. That fucking burn that makes a mosquito bite sting. There’s an unbearable need to just dig at the infected wound until it bleeds; only then can you satisfy that craving.
Stacatto’s bitch is a drug—and not even the good shit like dope or coke. She is nothing more than nicotine, addicting only when it’s set on fire and left to burn.
Arno’s men pay me no mind when I barrel through the main room of the pub. It’s only when I head for the door to the basement that someone puts a hand on my shoulder, his voice a warning octave. “I wouldn’t go down there if I were you, friend.”
I don’t waste time on words when I shrug him off. Then I reach for the door and wrench it open. I’m down the rickety staircase before anyone can try to hold me back, but when I enter the room, I merely take a spot against the wall and watch.
Arno’s finally descended into hell to meet his captive. Green eyes clash with hazel ones—they’re an odd match. He towers over her, his standing body positioned above her seated one. He leans down so that his mouth rests beside her ruined ear, but she doesn’t seem to flinch. Not even when he curls his hand beneath her chin and forces her to make eye contact. It’s not long before I realize why. Her gaze is distant again. She’s anywhere but here in this room.
“Smile pretty,” Arno says, his voice a chilling murmur. “Let’s give that fiancé of yours something to keep him up at night.”
He draws his hand back and then slaps her. A choked sound rips from her throat at the impact. I assume it’s a moan. Then it comes again, and there’s no mistaking the faint haunting sound for what it truly is: a giggle.
Arno’s “boys” don’t seem to know whether to laugh or growl. Their master is stoic; he merely watches, analyzing every inch of his prey.
“It’s not enough. It won’t bruise,” the woman explains, her eyes glassy. “You’ll have to hit me harder than that—”
Arno fulfills her request. He forms a fist and smashes it against her cheek—not hard enough to break bone, but enough to knock her off the chair onto her hands and knees. She’ll bruise, all right. One of her slim hands flies up to her mouth, catching the blood that trickles from a torn corner of her lip. She’s quick and efficient about it, and the scarlet gleams against her pale skin when she braces her fingers against the floor.
“Wait for it to show,” Arno commands, slamming a digital camera down on the table. “Then take a picture. Make it pretty.”
He’s gone before he even notices me standing here, so consumed by his plans for revenge. While he stomps up the stairs, one of his men approaches the girl. He chuckles and reaches out to finger a strand of her black hair. “Don’t bruise up too badly,” he tells her. “I want to put that mouth to good use.”
She flinches and for the first time something that could be fear flashes through her dark eyes. The next second it’s smothered, whatever it is, and her gaze is blank again.
“Get up.” I take a step toward her and almost as if she’s moving in slow motion, she turns her head in my direction. She cranes her neck, sending that curtain of hair over one shoulder. It takes her eyes a few seconds to focus on me, regaining clarity like a camera’s lens is forced to adjust and dilate.
Say cheese.
She gets up slowly, wincing with every movement. One of her hands flutters as if she’s fighting down that ingrained habit of sticking it out to demand assistance. Stacatto kept her well maintained, it seems. His influence is obvious in the way that she reacts even to Arno’s men. She’s a deer desensitized to the horrors of the wolf den.
“Sit,” I tell her when she finally stands, facing me. She does so obediently, folding her hands on the table in front of her. She w
inces when her tongue shoots out to staunch the blood dribbling from her mouth. Already, the skin is starting to redden. Oddly enough, she doesn’t seem to mind the pain. There’s almost a cat-got-the-mouse expression that flits across her features too quickly to pin down. She’s like a kid, smugly rewarded with an extra scoop of ice cream after asking for it politely.
Arno’s men can’t leave her alone, though. Varying levels of anger distort their features, but I’m not impressed. How many of them fucked Parish or gave her money for drugs? How many of them treated her like shit and called her as much to her face? Her death has made her a saint. Arno’s sister will be avenged, all right.
One of the men steps forward, tugging at the clasps of his pants. “How about a little preview, sweetie?” Once his limp prick is revealed, he palms it, gasping out, and gives her an impromptu performance.
The princess doesn’t even spare a glance in his direction. I’m grudgingly curious as to why—especially when she didn’t seem to shy away from my own dick. She’s staring off again; her features blank and empty. It pisses me off, that look. She’s far from the pain. The indecency. No one can touch her wherever she flies off to, and deep down some part of me acknowledges why that dazed expression lights a burning in my fingertips. I fucking know that look.
Arno’s man jumps back when I approach, his jeans still bunched around his fucking ankles. I ignore him, my focus solely on the girl. She doesn’t react, but a part of her returns to observe me curiously the closer I come.
I expect her to wince when I reach out and seize her chin in the palm of my hand, but she doesn’t. Not even when my thumb presses into her split lip and then slides along her mouth, painting it with her own blood like canvas. I can see her chest rise and fall from here, but the movement is steady. She’s not afraid. When I lean down, close enough to bring my mouth alongside her ruined ear, her breathing doesn’t even hitch. She’s flying off again, steeling herself for whatever I’m going to say. I don’t feel the urge to whisper, but I find myself speaking gruffly anyway, for her benefit. “Tell me about Stacatto.”