Page 11 of Contempt

“You think anyone gives a fuck about what you want?” Cree interjected sharply. “We don’t, Renzo. What we care is that you’re capable. That if, by chance, you’re put on a team, we can trust you. That you know what you’re doing. That’s what we care about. Stop being a selfish child, and get to basics.”

Renzo didn’t move. “When will I be able to leave?”

“Not for a long while.”

“That tells me nothing.”

“Ask specific questions, then,” Cree uttered.

Well, he did ask.

“I want to walk outside. And not with the rest of you. I want a cheeseburger from In-and-Out. I want to call my little brother, or my sister.” Lucia, too. God, he wanted her more than anybody else could possibly ever know. “I want—”

“You’re back to thinking I give a fuck what you want, and I don’t.”

Renzo’s jaw tightened.

Asshole.

“Other people here have outside contact,” Renzo said, trying to keep his tone level. “Why can’t I?”

Cree folded his thick arms over his chest, and leaned against the doorjamb of Renzo’s room. “Here’s what I haven’t explained to you yet, Renzo. At one year here, you’re going to be put in front of buyers. Whoever wins your bid will take over your contract from The League for the next four years, at which point, as long as you are still alive …”

The man trailed off before sighing, and adding, “You will be able to decide whether you want to go through the auction again to contract yourself out, whether you want to leave The League entirely, or if you want to remain as an independent contractor. But do you know what happens when you’re fucking useless because you’ve spent too much time whining in your room about people you want to see instead of doing what you should be doing?”

“Not particularly,” Renzo muttered.

“Well, nothing. If you can’t sell—if you can’t be the tool someone needs to add to their organization, or team … or whatever, then you are useless to The League. And they will cut their losses. You making it to the end of your contract is dependent on being useful, Renzo.”

Well, then.

Cree had delivered all of that with a cold flatness that rang heavily in Renzo’s mind long after the man was done speaking.

“They auction off my remaining term?” Renzo said.

“They spend the money to train you—to make you into … well, you see what we are. And in your case, you owe a debt to The League. You killed a trainee, Renzo.”

No, he had not. Lucia did that. Renzo was never going to tell them that, though.

“Which means,” Cree continued, “that your debt is even higher. Five years with this organization is what you owe—any money you make under the contract of your buyer, if you get a buyer, will go back to paying your debt. But if you’re going to be useless, they will cut their losses.”

Which meant death.

No Diego.

No Rose.

No Lucia.

No freedom.

Renzo swallowed the lump forming in his throat. “So—”

“You want privileges,” Cree interjected, not letting Renzo speak at all, “like contact with people outside, or the ability to get out of here once in a while, then you better fucking earn it. That’s how you get those things. Not by sitting in here doing fuck all, and wasting my time.”

Yeah, he got it.

“What’s my debt total to The League?”