by Lana Sky
I palm the camera and throw it between the heads of the two punks in front of me, leaving Mack to catch it. He does with one hand, his face expressionless. “A trap?” he wonders coldly.
“He planned to make his little video and then take the girl. The fucker even hired a few mercenaries to help him nab her right out from under your nose.” I point through the windshield as if one of the bastards in question might suddenly appear on the hood of the van. “I suggest you move.”
Gritting his teeth, Mack glances at one of the men seated behind him and inclines his head once. “You drive. Go!”
The man climbs into the front seat, and the van takes off, careening down alleys and side streets. We’re maybe a block away from the hotel when Mack finally lifts the camera; the glow of a nearby taillight makes the lens glow red. “What the fuck is this, then?”
My mouth twitches into something that could be another goddamn smile—or maybe it’s a snarl? Whatever it is, I wear it while I stare the fucker down until he turns his attention to the dashboard instead.
“We made our own video,” I say. “Send that to Stacatto.”
Mack laughs—a harsh sound punctuated by the growl of the mutt I know well. He’s bitter, snarling for his missing bone. “And what about the information? Did you forget about that while you were too busy making sure that no one else fucked your little toy?”
Anger flares...but with the scent of spice in my nose, it’s easier to fight it down. My vision stays clear, but my lungs expand, instinctively rebelling against the substance they breathe in. Her. “Watch the tape,” I tell him. “I’d hate to spoil the ending...but we got the locations.”
“And?” Mack prompts, his tone sharp.
“And, she has them—” I jab my thumb at the girl. “Locked away in her pretty little head.”
Mack goes silent, allowing the words to sink in. It’s a dangerous game to play tug-of-war with a pit bull. Years in the pit have honed Mack’s baser instincts. He can’t resist a challenge. I sense the girl stiffen, damn well aware of the fact that I’ve just made her the shiny bit of rope in this game—but prison has taught me a few tricks of my own.
I know just how far to push my newfound bit of leverage. And I know, even before he clenches his jaw in defeat, that Mack won’t be able to resist taking a bite. “And I thought prison had made you soft, Kitten,” he murmurs loudly enough for me to hear. It’s not a compliment—oh no. It’s a threat. “Just tell me what you plan to do with the locations of the girls, but no manpower to go and get them? And please, Dante, don’t insult my intelligence by claiming to go to the cops. You were always the smart one, remember?”
I know I grin again, but as usual, it doesn’t feel right; I show too many teeth. “You’re going to help, of course,” I say. As much as it fucking stung to admit, Mack was the only one in the position to spring that kind of operation—for now. “But you won’t keep the girls. You’ll get the drugs.”
“Drugs?” He tilts his head without seeming to realize it—I’ve got his interest.
“When we hit up the enclaves for the women, we launch a simultaneous attack on his distribution channels. We get the girls, you get the drugs.” From a monetary standpoint, it was the short end of the stick: a stash of hot dope could net only a single net profit if sold to the right buyer. A stash of women, however, could promise a steady flow of cash for a very long time.
Logistically though, the drugs were less risky and much easier to stash than a hoard of scared, traumatized women with mouths to feed and screams to smother. While a greedy son of a bitch, Mack wasn’t completely stupid.
“Let’s say I bite,” he says, still stroking the base of the camera in his hand. “What’s to stop me from watching your little video and discovering the locations of the enclaves all on my own?”
I don’t bother to smother my laugh. While he watches, I reach into my pocket and trap a small square of plastic between two of my fingers. I hold it up and a slash of orange light cast by a nearby streetlamp lights it up just long enough for Mack’s cocky smirk to disappear.
“You didn’t really think I left the memory card in, did you?”
He chuckles darkly, shrugs, and then tosses the camera to one of his thugs who barely manages to catch it. “Fair enough, Dante. Let’s get home and discuss this around the table like big boys. My woman’s making dinner.”
Dante wears tension the way most men wear clothing. He draws it tight around his chest, and it cloaks him all the way down to his toes. When the van comes to a stop in a section of woods I assume is near Mack’s fenced-in compound, it ratchets up until I can taste it, barreling off him in waves.
Vinny rarely got nervous, but he didn’t handle it well. It made him antsy and more liable to lash out at anyone who so much as looked at him wrong. Lucifer, on the other hand, shoulders his nerves with pride. Calm, the man is untouchable, uneasy; he is a creature one might find only in the pits of hell itself. Some beast who would thrive in the relentless heat of the fire.
I don’t know what to make of it as Mack climbs out of the van first, quickly followed by his two men. I expect Lucifer to exit as well, but he lingers and pins me there right beside him, his hand gripping my wrist. His free hand pries open my fist and prods the crumbled piece of paper hidden inside it.
“Read it,” he tells me, his voice a harsh rasp. “Memorize it. Swallow it.”
I know in an instant what he means—the weapon he’s just given me—and a part of me wants to ask why. Why make me such a central piece in his plan? He’d told Mack that only I knew the locations: a lie. He made sure to maintain control of the only other object that might ruin his hand, and he positioned the pieces on this twisted game of chess to get me exactly what I wanted.
So why? His broad face, guarded by the shadows of the van offers no answers. I’m not stupid enough to risk tempting him, so I nod once and crush the paper against my palm. The next second, Lucifer has the van door open, and he pulls me along by the wrist, coincidentally keeping me close. Mack’s men can’t muscle in to separate us, and Lucifer makes sure of that by wrenching me even closer when they try.
Like hound dogs, Mack and his men sniff at the air instead, so eager for a little taste of the treats Lucifer holds over their heads. But he’s a good master, and he wields the figurative whip well. Without waiting for the others, he hauls me forward and starts up what I realize is a driveway paved in loose gravel. I have to cling to him more than I like—more than he likes. My nails clutch at his coat, sensing the bulk of the man underneath. His heat is a flare in the darkness, guiding my way until the vague outline of a structure comes into view, illuminated by the light spilling out of sparse windows. It’s the building that houses the pit, I realize as we pass it and my ears pick up the howl of barking dogs. Up ahead lies the garage and then the bar.
“Food’s in the Chain,” Mack says, referring to the bar I suppose. His voice tickles the lobe of my good ear, a fact that doesn’t go unnoticed by Dante. Suddenly, I’m wrenched to stand on his other side. I turn my head just in time to catch Mack’s trickle of laughter. His eyes gleam in the faint light as he jerks his head toward the bar. “See you inside, Kitty. Though if you do decide that you aren’t hungry, I’ll have Darcy send you a little doggy bag.”
He breaks away, and his men fall into step behind him. Dante slows, waiting until the moment they nearly reach the one-story structure. Then he turns and marshals me toward the garage. When he reaches the door, he opens it first and peeks inside, every bit the cautious cat Mack teases him to be. Whomever he finds there makes him stiffen, but he steps inside anyway, allowing me to follow him in on my own.
“Dante...” I glance over Dante’s shoulder to make out Arno leaning against the base of the steps, his arms crossed. When he sees me, his eyes narrow. “You might want to get her out of here—”
“That him?” The door to the apartment opens, and someone else appears at the top of the stairs. A man, tall and slender...the moment those blue eyes meet mine—
so similar to Lucifer’s—I sense everything in the entire room stiffen. Unease rides the atmosphere. Lucifer doesn’t know whether to take Arno’s advice and shove me from the door and the artist—Espi—can’t seem to decide what to make of my outfit or the new bruise shaping up over my chin, courtesy of Donahugh.
There are only seconds to react. Seconds to break the tension on my own before it spills over. In Vinny’s world, I would go with the first option and obediently hide out of sight. This time, I step free of Dante’s shadow. Looking past the red-haired man, I face the artist directly. “H-Hey...”
He sighs, and some of the tension that crept into his posture eases up. “You’re okay.”
I force a nod, though Dante’s gaze is like a knife that cuts through me. He hides his shock well, however. His fingers twitch to reach for me, but he doesn’t. He eyes the artist...his brother, instead, and I can almost taste the amount of control it takes him to keep his voice steady. “Espi. Where the hell have you been—”
“That’s none of your damn business,” Espi counters. There’s a duffle hanging from his shoulder, and he wrenches it higher while descending the steps two at a time. He shoulders past Arno and then approaches the door, his narrowed gaze focused solely on Dante.
The two brothers eye each other, one fallen and one still above reproach. All you’d need is a sheet of glass between them, and you would have a twisted mirror. I eye the artist’s wiry frame and the lack of shadows lurking within his blue irises. Was this how Lucifer looked before his tumultuous fall from grace? The thought tugs at something inside my chest, and I have to brush it aside.
They communicate in their own silent language, more ancient than any spoken tongue. I can almost see the emotions that spark between them. In the end, Espi has the last word, and Dante shifts his weight ever-so-slightly to the side in defeat.
“I’ll see you around, Pyro,” he tells me, cocking his head in my direction. “Take this for now. I’ll try to bring you something more girly next time.”
“N...next time?” Without answering, he shrugs the duffle from his shoulder and presses the straps into my hand. I take them, testing the weight that dangles from them. There are more clothes inside of it, I suspect. Maybe another case of deodorant. All in all, it’s just one more simple act of kindness that I will never be able to repay, but he’s gone before I can even get out a thank-you.
Dante watches him head out of the door, his jaw clenched. “Espi...”
Whether the artist doesn’t hear him or just ignores him...I can’t tell. He disappears into the darkness, and for a moment, my devil almost looks human. Pain softens the intensity of those eyes before even more cold ice replaces it.
“He knew about her,” Arno says, starting forward. “Espi. He asked about the little bitch.” His eyes cut over to me, blazing with suspicion. “Did you hear what the fuck I’ve just said? Dan—”
“We’ll talk about this later.” Lucifer rakes a hand through his hair, displacing the black strands across his forehead. The look only serves to intensify the hard expression bolstering his words. He’s a wolf, his hackles raised, and the red-haired man knows when to back off.
He chuckles darkly and then waves a hand through the air before strolling to the door. Over the threshold, he hesitates and glances back at Dante. “Let’s say that I want her. Now. Would you give her to me?”
I don’t know what terrifies me more—the thought of truly being at Arno’s mercy or the look in Lucifer’s eyes when he stares down the man he called his brother. It’s completely unreadable. Stone. Once again, Lucifer proves to be a code that I’m not adept enough to crack. Arno, however, has no trouble.
He shakes his head suddenly, choking out a scoff. “I thought so.”
He’s gone in an instant, and in his absence, Lucifer switches from stone to...lightning. His gaze is piercing when it finds mine. His fingers flex at his sides, hungry. I know I have a second to save myself and for some reason, I take it rather than do the smart thing, which would be to let him flatten me beneath his rage.
“I knew him,” I choke out, taking a step backward until the railing of the staircase juts into my spine. “Espi. I m-met him once...before.”
“How?” It’s a simple question made dangerous by the harsh undercurrent of anger it carries.
“A few days before...before I was taken,” I admit. “He was painting in the alley near Vinny’s hotel. When we were at the apartment, I met him again. He made me answer the door for him—”
I hear a sound like something striking wood and the world sways—my foot, I realize, glancing down. I’ve mounted the first step of the staircase without even realizing it. Unconcerned, the devil continues his slow advance toward me, and I find myself climbing yet another step.
“He told me he’d call the police, if I didn’t,” I say, though for some reason my voice doesn’t hold an ounce of fear, even as my heart threatens to pound its way right out of my chest. “I let him think—”
“What did you tell him?” Lucifer’s demand rivals the insistent howl of the barking dogs I can hear even from here. The blistering rage gives way to the tumult of emotions that lurk underneath. Fear. It’s the strongest, breaking through before he even seems to realize it. What did you tell him?
“I told him...” My tongue shoots out to coat my bottom lip as if that bit of moisture might protect me from the heat he gives off through those scorching eyes. “I told him that I was a prostitute and that you were helping me escape my pimp.”
The devil stops in his tracks. He wasn’t expecting that answer, and he frowns as if tasting it against his mouth. Maybe he feels the same why I do: it’s uncomfortably close to the truth. The devil was helping me escape my “pimp,” but he didn’t particularly seem to relish his newfound shining armor. I flinch when he takes another step toward me, his posture hunched and loose like a predator’s right before it’s poised to lunge. His gaze sweeps along my body, but I don’t cringe backward this time. I stand still as he mounts the first step, his bulk dominating the narrow stairwell, his heat consuming me in waves.
Tilting my head back, I face my devil head-on and allow him to search my expression for any hint of a lie. “I didn’t know he was your brother,” I say. “Not until he told me.”
“So, you talked to him?” The words hiss from him like sparks from a blaze. Wherever they land, my flesh burns.
“Yes.” Suddenly, he mounts my step, bracing his feet on either side of mine. His size forces me to lean backward, clinging to the railing for balance. “He told me not to tell you.”
The devil’s mouth quirks into the twisted semblance of a smile. My breasts graze his chest as he reaches for my chin, trapping it between his fingers. There’s no real strength in his grip—I could break it if I wanted to. His gaze holds me in place, however. “Don’t...don’t keep shit from me,” he tells me in a voice that grapples to maintain control over its low, raspy baritone. In some places, it slips, and the hint of a growl licks through. “Ever. You tell me everything...or I’ll—” He breaks off and glances down at his hands; they flex, and when he glances back up to meet my gaze, Lucifer doesn’t bother to hide the murderous impulse he literally has to swallow down. “I’ll fulfill my end of our bargain on a much quicker timeline.”
He pushes past me and lopes up the staircase. When he reaches the door to the apartment, he jerks his chin in my direction. “Did you fucking read it yet?”
I feel my hand clench tighter over the page containing the addresses. Carefully, I pry the fingers open one by one and scan the words scribbled there in the dim lighting of the garage. There are ten addresses. I don’t recognize the numbers or even the street names, but I read them. I burn every single letter into my skull. While Lucifer opens the door, and barges his way inside, I read the addresses again. Again. Again. Only when the letters mingle through my thoughts as if branded there, do I finally tear it down the middle and crumple both halves into a ball.
Lucifer is waiting for me when I mount the top of
the stairs and swallow the last bit of evidence down whole. His eyes go automatically to my hip and the bag I carry. The memory of his brother makes the devil uneasy. He turns and barges into the bathroom, slamming the sliding door shut so fiercely that it nearly jumps off its track.
Closing the door behind me, I set the duffle onto the couch and pull on the zipper. Inside I find more clothes—a few sweatpants and some plain, gray hoodies—yet another package of deodorant, along with my very own toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste. I run my fingers through the gifts while the shower kicks on down the hall and Lucifer sets about erasing the night from his skin. Alone, Donahugh’s touch is harder to bear. After making sure the windows are covered by blinds, I strip off the coat and lingerie right there next to the small kitchen, and I pull on Espi’s clothing. His stuff fits me much better than Dante’s; I don’t feel like I’m swimming in cotton, at least. Once dressed, I wrestle the soiled clothing into the duffle and zip it up.
I wait there on the couch for only God knew how long. Watching. Listening. Dante was taking his sweet time. I could almost hear him from here, grinding his teeth to erase my taste and scrubbing away the topmost layer of his skin. I wasn’t sure if only an hour had passed or even longer when the door to the bathroom finally opened again, and he reappeared, wearing the same jeans and shirt. His hair is slick, dripping moisture down his back as he enters the kitchen and wrenches on the faucet. He drinks mouthfuls from his cupped hands and then shuts the tap off with a sigh.
“Stay away from Arno,” he tells me, looking over his shoulder. Strands of black hair obscure his eyes. I can’t tell if he’s threatening me or warning me instead. “From Espi too.”
“Why are you helping me?” I blurt out, crossing my arms over my chest. “When your brother asked me the first time I didn’t know what to say. I should have a better answer for if he asks me again.”