The Demand
The ringing slices through the room like a blade.
Sharp. Shrill. Wrong.
For a second, nobody moves. Even the gun at the back of my head goes still. The sound ricochets off concrete and rusted beams, bouncing around the warehouse like it’s hunting something to cut.
Carlo sighs, annoyed, patting his pockets.
The phone keeps screaming.
My stomach drops.
Please don’t be him.Please don’t be him.Please don’t—
Carlo pulls a cheap black burner from his jacket and looks at the screen.
His mouth curves. “Speak of the devil,” he murmurs.
My heart stutters.No.
He flicks the call open and leans back on his heels like he’s settling into a good show. “Yes?” he drawls.
Silence holds for a beat.
Then a voice fills the room.
Not loud. Not shouting.Just controlled. Tight. Dragged over broken glass.
“If you touch her,” Santino says, “I’ll bring God down on your heads myself.”
Every hair on my body stands up.
For a second, the warehouse disappears and I’m back in the tunnels—his hand at my throat, confession on his lips, violence coiled under his skin like a living thing. The Bishop. The man who swore he belonged to God and has been bleeding for me ever since.
Carlo’s eyebrows lift, delighted.“Ah,” he says. “Bishop.”
He taps the speaker icon and sets the phone on a cracked metal table like a centerpiece.
Santino’s breath ghosts through the line, steady and quiet. No tremor. No hesitation.
He sounds like a judgment.
“If a single bruise appears on her that I can trace to you,” he says, “I will burn your operation down to foundations and salt the ground over the ashes. You understand me?”
My lungs forget how to work.
He shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t be doing this. He should be in his church, safe behind stained glass and lies, pretending he can still tell the difference between faith and murder.
Carlo laughs, low and mean. “Bring yourself instead,” he says. “We can discuss building codes in person.”
Silence.
It stretches long enough that the guard behind me shifts, uneasy.
“Santino,” I whisper, useless, because he can’t hear me. My voice doesn’t make it past the gun at my skull or the fist in my hair holding my head bowed like some fucked-up offering.
The line crackles once.
