Page 86 of Freedom’s Inferno

A harsh light snapped on above me, so sudden and bright it hit like a blade cutting through the dark.

I flinched, raising a hand against the glare. The shadows peeled back enough for me to see the shape of the room, a narrow box of corrugated metal, seams running along the walls, concrete floor stained with dark patches I didn’t want to look too closely at. I was in a storage unit, or a shipping container. My stomach turned again.

Slow and heavy footsteps echoed dully outside.

I held my breath, every muscle locking tight. Metal scraped against metal, followed by the rattle of a padlock being wrestled open. A second later, the door lifted, groaning as it rolled upward from the bottom.

The silhouette of a man loomed at the opening. He was short for a man, but broad through the shoulders, with a thick beard and a shaved head that caught the glare from the light.

I recognized him instantly as one of Costa’s men who’d been following us from the start. My body reacted before my brain could catch up. I scrambled backward, pressing myself against the far wall, my palms scraping over the cold concrete.

The man stepped inside without a word, carrying a plastic bucket in one hand and a roll of toilet paper in the other. He set them down near the wall, the casual thud of plastic against concrete echoing far too loudly in the small space.

I stared at the bucket, then at him. “Really?” My voice came out hoarse, raw from earlier vomiting. “You can’t possibly expect me to‒”

His eyes flicked to me, unimpressed. “Be grateful.” His voice was low, thick with some unplaceable accent. “I’d be happy to let you sit in your own shit and piss, if you’d prefer that.” His gaze swept the space once, sharp and assessing, before landing on the puddle of vomit near where I’d first come to. His lip curled in disgust. “You’re already making a mess.”

Anger flared through the fear, sharp enough to make my hands shake. “What is this? What do you want from me? If this is about the money‒”

He cut me off with a short, derisive snort. “You can take that up with Mr. Costa when he gets here, sweetheart.”

The words cracked through me like a whip. When Costa gets here.

He gave a low, irritated grunt and shook his head, like he couldn’t believe he’d drawn this particular job. Then, almost as an afterthought, he kicked the bucket a few inches closer to me with the toe of his boot. “Next time, use that.”

The man turned and ducked back through the doorway, not bothering to look at me again.

The metal door slammed with a shuddering clang that echoed through the walls, and just when I thought maybe he’d do me the mercy of leaving on the light, it flicked off, plunging me back into darkness.

Chapter 34

Charlie

The revolving doors spun me into the hotel lobby, and the world felt wrong. Too bright, too loud, too normal. Every step I took echoed through the space, sharp and hollow, the beat of my shoes cutting through the low murmur of conversation and the clink of glasses from the bar.

People drifted through the room in expensive coats and easy laughter, their voices light, their faces soft with comfort and ignorance.

Something ugly twisted in my chest.

How could they stand there, smiling, ordering drinks, living, while my whole world was on fire?

The marble gleamed beneath me, cold and perfect, and I hated it for not cracking open with me. Lana was gone, and I had no fucking idea what to do. My pulse still hammered in my throat as I cut across the lobby, heading for the elevators. I needed to move, pack our stuff, check out, do something. Anything to feel like I had some semblance of control.

“Chuck?” someone called out behind me but the name didn’t register. It felt like it belonged to someone else, someone I’d already buried.

I kept walking until I heard it again, clearer this time: “Chuck Sterling!” That’s when it hit me. He was talking to me.

I turned, half-expecting danger, but finding a man in a navy suit standing near the bar. Middle-aged, gold watch, I recognized him vaguely from investor meetings, one of those smooth-talking bastards who used to hang around Richard. His name wouldn’t come, but I was certain we’d done business together.

“Chuck,” he said, stepping closer with too much confidence. “It’s been too long! How have you been?”

The question was absurd.

How’ve I been? I didn’t know how I was still standing. Every muscle in my jaw locked. I didn’t have the time, or the patience, or the bandwidth to play nice.

“Busy,” I said, already turning toward the elevator.

He chuckled like I’d made a clever joke. “I know how that goes. Hey, I heard about Richard. Terrible news. Dickie was a great guy. Made me a hell of a lot of money. I’m sorry for your loss.”