Instead of walking in as instructed, I climb the fire escape of a nearby building and get to the roof to scout the area. From here, I can settle into a sniper’s perch and look down onto the drop zone. Not that I have a gun.
A few minutes pass. I’m early, but something tells me my client is earlier still.
The moon drifts across the sky. A rat pokes its head out of a hole and inches toward a dumpster.
A match flares in the dark for a second before being snuffed out, but it’s enough. The tiny, mean eye of a cigarette remains, burning red gold.
And there he is. Broad shoulders, shaved head.
I wait in the shadows, contemplating my next steps.
15
Lula
Victor leaves me alone.For hours. Maybe days. I try to break down the door leading to the hallway where he’s gone but have no luck. I even try to break into the dungeon. I stand on a stool and poke into the vents, but they’re too small to fit more than a hand and covered in a steel grid. I leave it alone, not wanting to mess with the only source of fresh air in my cushy prison.
I have nothing to do but eat the food in the fridge, take the painkillers he left me, and imagine what I’ll do to my brother if I get my hands on him.
I refuse to think of Victor. He’s nothing to me. He was never more than my captor. My enemy. And if I am a bullet in a gun, a dagger with a poisoned edge, let me maim him. Let me kill him.
I sleep every so often, fitful and restless, dreaming of a hitman with silver blond hair and shadows under his eyes. At some point, I wake to the door to the long hallway open. But it’s a dead end. There’s nothing but more locked doors, an attack dummy, and a few knives.
I could carve my wrath into the walls and locked doors. Instead, I practice fighting, only stopping to eat or rest. Without windows or a clock, I don’t know if I sleep for years or merely a nap. The bedroom is as dark as an underground bunker. A tomb. I can’t think about this too much, or I’ll go mad.
I sleep with a knife in my hand. After one particular spell of sleep, I wake up knowing I’m not alone.He’sstanding in the shadows, wearing a dark suit.
I snap to my feet, knife outstretched.
“Ah, you’re awake,” he says, as if I’m not ready to stab him. “Get dressed.” He nods to the foot of the bed, where he’s laid out a black dress and long, tan trench coat.
Clothes. For the first time in. . . as long as I’ve been here.
“Why?”
“I thought you might enjoy going to a party.”
“What sort of party?”
“At Cavalli’s. You’ve been there once. Remember?”
I remember the smoke, the bark of the gun. The cool air wafting up my bare legs under the trench coat.
“What’s this about?” As soon as I ask, my mind flashes over the possibilities and spits out the most likely explanation. “Stephanos will be there.” My voice is flat.
“He might be. He owes me, you see. And I always collect what I’m owed. He wants to meet me.” He leans down and straightens the slinky black dress he’s laid out for me. “It turns out you’re an excellent bargaining chip.”
My heart sinks to my feet. Any hope I had that Victor wasn’t one of them is stolen away from me.
And then Victor continues to twist the knife. “I told him I had you. At first, he didn’t believe me. But then I showed him some footage.”
I close my eyes. Of course, he did. How much footage does he have of me bound, caged, naked, and whipped? My greatest enemy, seeing my greatest humiliation. I could puke.
“And now he says he’ll meet with me. . . on the condition that I bring you to him.”
I want to stab him in the eye. I could do it if I were stronger, faster. If my opponent wasn’t Victor.
“So that’s it?” My chest is heaving, stretching the barely healed marks on my breast. Marks that mean nothing. “You’re just going to hand me over?”
