“I’m Violet,” I say, because I refuse to be nameless in front of this man.
His gaze sweeps over me, making me feel like I’m sitting on the surgeon’s table about to be cut to pieces.
“I know exactly who you are, Miss Murphy.” He takes a step closer. “The American girl who’s got my son distracted from his duties.”
Notthe woman. Not eventhe girl. The American girl. Like I’m a species. A category. Something to be classified and dealt with.
He circles me. His steps are slow, movements deliberate. Unhurried. Certain. Nothing in this room threatens him and he knows it.
His cologne reaches me before he does. Expensive and wrong. Floral and chemical, so overpowering it turns my stomach. Nothing like Elio’s clean citrus and wood. This is artificial. Cloying. Like perfume sprayed on rot.
I want to step back, but have nowhere to go. My spine is already against the desk.
“Let me see you properly.” His hand lifts to my chin.
Not asking. Just taking.
Cold fingers grip my jaw. Firm enough to hurt if he wanted. Controlled enough that it doesn’t. Yet. He tilts my face side to side, examining me the way someone examines livestock at auction. Checking teeth. Looking for flaws.
I’ve been looked at before. Catcalled on the street. Leered at by colleagues who should know better. Even Elio’s obsessive gaze, as unsettling as it is, containswant. Contains something human.
This is different.
With Elio, even at his worst, there was hunger. Desire. The weight of his attention meant Imattered.
With Cicero, I’m an inconvenience. A variable in an equation. A thing to be evaluated and discarded. I’m inventory. Interchangeable. Disposable.
He releases my chin and takes a step back.
Still too close for my liking.
“Pretty enough.” His voice is clinical. Detached. Like he’s reading from a checklist. “Breakable, though.” A pause. “Porcelain has always shattered so easily.”
His words don’t feel like a metaphor. They feel like a threat.
My heart hammers against my ribs, but I force myself to speak anyway.
“I’m not?—”
He smiles. Cruel. Patient. Then, he lifts one finger to his lips.
“Shh.”Shut up. You don’t get to speak.
The temperature drops further. I didn’t think that was possible.
“The last girl who distracted my son?” His voice remains pleasant. Conversational. Like we’re discussing the weather. “We sent her home in pieces. To six different addresses.” The room tilts. “Do you know how long it takes to disassemble a human body?” He straightens his cuffs. Picks an invisible pieceof lint from his sleeve. “Longer than you’d think. But my men are efficient.”
I can’t breathe.
Can’t speak. Can’t move.
The image he’s painting is precise. Surgical. Six addresses. Six pieces. Some woman who made the mistake of catching Elio’s eye, dismembered and mailed home like a warning.
Is this what happens? Is this where I end up?
My lungs refuse to work. My vision narrows. The edges of the room go dark.
Breathe. Breathe, Murphy. Don’t give him the satisfaction.
