Which makes him useless.
I could press further. That’s what the old me would’ve done. The twelve-year-old kid who watched his brother learn the ropes of this dark business would’ve julienned this man alive until he gave up every last piece of information.
But I’m not that kid anymore. Haven’t been for sixteen years.
And I’m already too close to becoming him again.
I step back, lowering the knife. Petya sags against the wall, gasping for air.
“Listen carefully,” I say. “You’re going to disappear. Tonight. You’re going to pack a bag, get on the first bus out of Chicago, and you’re never coming back. You don’t call Aleksei. You don’t tell him what happened here. You just fucking vanish.”
He nods frantically. “Yeah. Yes. I can do that.”
“Good.” I grab his right hand and force it flat against the wall. “But first, a reminder.”
“Wait, what are you?—”
I take his pinky with the knife. One swift, downward chop, just below the first knuckle. He screams, and I clamp my other hand over his mouth.
Then I drop the knife, grab his ring finger, andtwist.
The snap is audible. He tries to scream again, but my hand muffles it. I break the next finger. Then the next. By the time I’m done with his right hand, he’s sobbing, snot running down his face.
I release him and he crumples to the floor, cradling his ruined, bleeding hand against his chest.
“Remember,” I say as I wipe the knife on my jeans, “you never saw me. You never touched her. And if I ever see your face again, I’ll do a lot worse than break your fingers.”
I leave him there, whimpering on the floor of his apartment, and walk out into the hallway.
The knife goes in a dumpster two blocks away.
My hands don’t stop shaking until the sun is up.
44
ELIANA
heat lamp: /het lamp/: noun
1: an infrared lamp used to keep prepared food warm.
2: the artificial warmth of pretending everything’s fine, even when you know damn well it can’t last.
By Monday morning, I have bruises on my ass and way more questions than answers.
I catalog them—the bruises, not the questions—while I’m getting dressed for work. I twist in front of my bathroom mirror to examine the damage. Purple splotches spread across both cheeks, unmistakably spatula-shaped. They’ll fade in a week or so, but for now, they’re a constant reminder of what happened on my kitchen floor.
Of whathedid to me.
Of what Ilethim do.
I pull on my loosest pair of trousers and wince when the fabric grazes the tender skin. Every step on my walk to the L station is a fresh reminder. Every time I sit down, I feel him.
Bastian never came back after he left Sunday morning. He didn’t text or call, either. Pure radio silence. I told myself he was giving me space. But the bigger the space got, the louder my doubts became.What if he regrets it? What if he hates me? What if he’s ghosting me worse than my retinas are?
By the time I swipe into the Hale Hospitality building, I’ve worked myself into a full spiral.
The office is buzzing with its usual morning chaos. Patricia waves at me from her desk outside Bastian’s office. I wave back and head straight for the conference room where our weekly Project Olympus status meeting is scheduled.
