8. Gwen
Iknow immediately that I’m not in my bed. My mattress has never once been this comfortable. There’s a memory, half dream and half nightmare, pulsing at the back of my mind with the beat of this fucking headache. I don’t want to wake up, because I know I’m about to face something less than ideal. But I can feel the warm sun on my face, and I know it’s only a matter of time before I have to confront reality.
With all the enthusiasm of getting a tooth extracted, I force open my eyes. Light filters through the curtains, gently illuminating what is most certainly not my apartment. I’m tucked under a plush comforter of muted olive, the sheets just a shade lighter, all buttery and soft against my skin. I sit up, clear my eyes, and take in the rest of the simple bedroom—dark wood furniture, decor in camel and green.
Simple, pretty, and calm.
Three adjectives that could not be used to describe me at the moment.
I clutch the sheets in my hands and try to piece together last night. I remember meeting with Ben and getting to Catalina’s. There are a few moments from the bar that are blurry, but I vaguely recall a bartender reciting a sonnet? I definitely remember Charlie, and the tattoos, and the feeling of his eyes on me. The fear that flooded my veins when he placed my watch on the bar top.
Shame rakes through me. Getting into Charlie’s car, whether or not I thought I had a choice, was the most idiotic thing I’ve ever done. He could have turned me in. Blackmailed me. Killed me. And what would happen to Ana then? Doesn’t matter that he seemed genuinely shameful that he scared the ever living fuck out of me.
Reckless. Fucking reckless.
I wallow in my anger, searching for my phone to check the time and make sure Ana hasn’t called when I see water and pain medication on the nightstand. Well, that’s considerate. He could have laced either with something, but if we’re being honest, there were dozens of times Charlie could have drugged and murdered me last night, so playing the bit out this long would be a little ridiculous. Or that’s what I convince myself as I down three pills and chug the water.
Under the glass there’s a small envelope, with thin, neat writing. I pick it up and stretch as I read.
You fell asleep in the car last night, so I brought you here.
The cabinet under the sink has towels and toiletries.
Make yourself at home.
Again, I apologize.
-C
He could still be playing some sort of horrific mind game, but the longer I think about it, the less likely that seems. Wouldn’t someone who wanted to manipulate me into complying with his demands use my vulnerable state to his advantage? I grab my coat from the chair in the corner of the room and fish in the pockets for my phone, coming up with only another little envelope.
I put your phone on the charger in the bathroom.
-C
A chivalrous murderer, fantastic. I step into the ensuite and snag my phone from the counter, a voice in the back of my mind reminding me that I am also a murderer and can’t be all that judgemental.
It’s nearly eight in the morning, but I guess I shouldn”t be surprised. Knowing how late it was when I left Catalina’s, there’s no way we got here before three in the morning. There’s a few texts from Kenzie checking in on Ana’s radiation therapy appointment times and offering to cover my shifts. A slew from Ana, letting me know Gray’s parents are taking them to one of those medieval jousting performance things in northern Maryland. I text her back, telling her to be careful of her stitches and to call me if she needs anything.
Ana
She lives!
When’s the last time you slept in past 7?
Me
In the womb, I think. You sure you’re feeling okay?
The little typing bubble pops up, disappears, and starts again. She’s typing for a long time, but when the message comes through, it’s short.
Ana
Yeah, I’m all good.
Obviously that’s not true, but pushing her now while she’s out with Gray will not help. She’s been a little withdrawn since the surgery, but that’s to be expected, right? She may be upset right now, but she’s safe. I trust Linda and Paul with her more than anyone other than myself, and they’ll keep her distracted and cared for.
In the meantime, I’ve got a proposition to hear out.
I take less time in the shower than I want to, but invest a significant part of my time under the hot water trying to compartmentalize all my emotions. The confusion, the hope, the anger, the fear, and the tiny thread of lust wrapping them all together.
When I step out of the shower and reach for a towel under the cabinet, my hand lands on another little envelope.
What is this, Clue?
Extra clothes in the dresser.
-C
Short and less than sweet, but I’m not looking a gift horse in the mouth. When I’m dried off and my teeth are brushed, I open the drawers of the dresser in the bedroom.
They’re all empty, save for the top center one, which contains what looks like a men’s t-shirt and sweatpants, a camisole top, and a pair of thick socks.
Strange. Mildly creepy. Are these the clothes of his previous victims? If Dr. Spencer Reid has taught me anything, it’s that some people go through some serious rituals before they commit crimes.
Guess there’s only one way to find out. I drag on the clothes and gingerly peek out the door.
There’s noise coming from the end of the hallway, soft scraping and the rattling of dishes. I pad down the hall until I can see into the living area.
Charlie’s standing in the kitchen, his back turned toward me, and I can see a complex design of butterfly wings tattooed on the back of his neck.
I force my eyes to the ceiling, trying to will away the desire to trace my fingers over the ink.
Last night at the bar, before I was scared half to fucking death, it was fun, feeling this little attraction to him. But now? He already has the upper hand between us, and I hate the idea of giving him even more leverage, even if he never knows about it. I shake myself, trying to fortify my resolve. I can compartmentalize.
I clear my throat and move toward the kitchen slowly, trying not to startle him. But he only throws a slightly reserved grin over his shoulder, turning back to the stove.
“Good morning,” he says quietly, placing what looks like omelets on two plates. “I hope you slept okay, and weren’t too unsettled when you woke up.”
“I mean, I’m as settled as I can be, all things considered,” I mutter, the last remnants of annoyance about last night seeping into my words. Charlie turns fully now, sliding the plates onto the peninsula, and something in his gaze flashes as he assesses me.
“I made breakfast,” he says, and I know how flushed my cheeks and neck are. Being a redhead is a curse.
“Um, okay?” I say in place of a thank you, because I really don’t know how to react.
I perch myself on one of the stools tucked under the counter and pull a plate toward me, eyeing Charlie hesitantly. He seems to fight a sly smile, and I’m pretty pissed at my body for somehow losing its fear instinct overnight, because all I feel is a low simmering in my belly.
“Ana doing okay this morning?” He’s leaning his hip against the counter, eating his eggs, like this is the most normal thing on the planet.
I tell him she’s got plans with friends, that she seems to be feeling okay, as I beg my brain to find the fear, the panic. To have some sort of logical response to whatever’s happening here.
When I finally bite into my food, I try not to show my shock. I’m not a picky eater by any means, but this is my favorite breakfast. Fluffy eggs, sauteed mushrooms, sharp cheese, onions, but no green peppers. Judging from the way Charlie’s eyes shine with something bordering on glee, it’s not a coincidence.
I shrug my shoulders and dig back in, and Charlie lets out a laugh under his breath.
“So, I agreed to hear a proposition,” I say, gesturing between us with my fork. “So, you know. Proposition me.”
A full smile blooms across his face. I pretend it doesn’t make my heart skip.
“Straight to business,” he mutters under his breath. He turns around and reaches on top of his refrigerator, pulling out a paperback.
Not a paperback. My paperback.
He slides it in front of me, and a tense silence settles over the room. Not because of the wildly not-safe-for-work cover, but because we know what’s written in both of our handwriting inside.
“You have a problem that needs resolving,” he starts quietly, flipping open the back cover and folding the pages down, creasing the spine. “And right now, you have two options. First, Ben.”
My jaw twitches, but I stare at my little pro-con list. It’s not pretty, but it’s known.
But my eyes are drawn automatically to Charlie’s list, a mirror to mine. It looks like he’s added a few more items to each side, and I lean forward to see them more clearly.
“I know I didn’t make myself clear last night,” he says, circling the peninsula and sliding into the stool next to mine. He keeps a safe distance, giving me room to breathe. “But I think we can offer each other something that we both desperately need. Support. Financial, logistical, familial, and emotional. I’d like to explain more fully, but you have to know that hearing this, even if you don’t agree to my proposition, will change your life. Even if you decline my offer, The Syndicate will monitor you for the rest of your life, ensuring that you never reveal any of the information I’m about to tell you. And if you do, I won’t be able to control the consequences.”
The intensity radiating off him raises the hairs on the back of my neck. In any other circumstances, a name like The Syndicate would seem ridiculous, cartoonish even, but it’s clear how serious he is. I swallow thickly, considering the risk. It’s unsettling, sure, but I know how to keep a secret.
“I’m listening,” I say finally, leaning back in my chair and crossing my arms over my chest.
He assesses me for a few beats, his eyes coasting over my face, my hands, my shoulders. There’s something weighty behind his gaze, like he’s searching for a sign that I’m ready to cross this line.
But I’m not afraid of what he’s about to say. Despite the way I reacted last night, today I feel like I did last summer, where fear wasn’t even a consideration. Maybe it’s delusional, or my mind trying to protect me, but I know there’s nothing he could say that would make me more afraid than I am of Ana’s diagnosis. And he must realize it, because he matches my posture before he begins.
“There’s a long and drawn out history. My family and our work go back centuries, to Isabella of Aragon and the Black Plague. We’ve survived the rise and fall of empires, and it’s a story I’m happy to tell you one day. But what matters for tonight is that The Syndicate of Fate is the Costa family’s—my family’s—legacy. The full network spans thousands of people, in their own silos, employed to do what we need to find justice. And my family sits at the center, directing our priorities and determining what sins we address.”
He pauses for a minute, and I take a moment to process. In any other circumstance, my automatic assumption would be that he’s making this up. It’s too outlandish, like a plot from one of Ana’s comics. But I can’t seem to doubt the way he’s looking at me.
“And exactly what kind of justice do you find?” My voice is a little hesitant, and his mouth ticks up into a soft smile.
“One I’m sure you can appreciate.” He passes his thumb over his bottom lip and huffs a little laugh. “We’ve developed our own moral code of sorts. The focus shifts depending on who is in charge. My mother, for instance, has been intent on breaking up human trafficking rings. Stories of drug runners lacing their product with cheap and deadly additives particularly affected her father, so The Syndicate spent a significant amount of time hunting down those who were intentionally causing harm.” He drums his fingers against the table, shoulders tight. “There is a lot of evil in the world, and almost every definition is based on perspective. We’re powerful, sure, but we are small relative to the sea of potential targets.”
I shouldn’t believe him. I shouldn’t even engage with this. But instead of following that logic, I open my mouth and ask another question.
“I imagine you also have to stay relatively under the radar, right?” I ask. “Can’t disrupt governments, give anyone a reason to look too closely?”
He shrugs, his casual demeanor about this doing nothing to cool the simmering in my blood.
“Sometimes, yes. Although we would be na?ve to think that we’re not on the organized crime watch list of most countries’ investigative agencies. We’re careful and selective about our targets.”
“I can only imagine. Even Capone got caught.”
It will one day be evidence against me in a court of law that I’m bantering in this situation.
“I pay my taxes.” The deadpan rebuttal earns him a little laugh, but I’m already spinning my next question.
“So what exactly is your role, then?”
“Technically, I am Clara’s spare, in case anything happens to her or her future children. But I’m also her sword. If I was bitter about it, I’d call myself her attack dog.” He seems to find that funny. “She tells me to kill, I kill. I go on whatever missions she assigns me, or follow her on ones she wants to attend to personally. Theoretically, she could assign me to any position, but I’m good at…” he trails off, glancing up and then back at me, resolution settling in his stare. “Well, to be blunt, I’m skilled at torture. At information extraction. My mother taught me, and I use it sparingly, only when necessary, but it’s my speciality.”
Anticipation and a little worry flash across his expression. He can’t seriously be concerned that this is the admission that will get me to bolt, right? The irony would be astounding.
I try to sort through the emotions swimming through me, but the overwhelming one is understanding. He and his family have obviously professionalized the concept, but I’ve proven to both of us that cruel retribution is a response I can sympathize with.
There’s also something less professional heating my blood beneath the surface. But I shove it down, refusing to name it. This is essentially a business agreement, nothing more. I keep my face as smooth as possible as I respond.
“And the reason you need a wife?” I ask, and I can’t help glance at his mouth, his tattooed fingers lightly stroking his bottom lip.
He’s made it clear multiple times. This is a job offer. A partnership. Any tension I feel is one sided. Plus, I nearly ripped his head off when I thought he was suggesting something more. I can’t have it both ways.
“It’s tradition for those taking generational positions in the organization—really, just Clara and I—to be married before we take our permanent roles. My parents had an arranged marriage. They were confident in the match and found love and respect over time, but they wanted to give Clara and I more autonomy over the decision. But my mother’s been hurt. Severely.” He stares over my shoulder, his gaze distant and pained. “She will live, but she won’t be able to lead us anymore. So Clara and I need to fulfill our duties, and part of that is finding spouses.”
I move without conscious decision, and suddenly I have his hand tucked in mine, my fingers slipping under his palm and my thumb rubbing calming circles against his skin. His eyes snap to where we’re connected, crawling up my arm until they settle on my face. Empathy rolls through me like a wave.
“I understand,” I say, squeezing his hand lightly. “You’re the kind of person who would do anything for your family. I get it.”
The recall of his own words to me last night loosens his tense shoulders, smooths his furrowed brow. He doesn’t pull his hand from mine, and I try to ignore the way his touch radiates throughout my body.
“And between you and me.” I let go of his hand and wave mine between us, avoiding his eyes. “Are there expectations…”
“No,” he cuts me off, his voice harsh and final. “As I promised last night, there are no expectations like that between us.” The heat continues to spread until I’m fully flushed, though embarrassment is driving it now. Why the fuck did I ask that? “There will be a contract.” He declares, looking a little flustered himself. Probably appalled that I even implied anything different. “You can suggest changes, and it can be amended over time. But it’ll include the expectations of both of us, okay?”
I collect myself as much as possible, breathing through my nose and trying to will the blush from my face. It would actually really help to see this all written out, to lay expectations on the table, to be sure I know what I’m getting into.
“Yeah, a contract would be good,” I nod, and as both of us relax back into our seats.
Maybe I’m certifiable for considering this. Maybe the safe, predictable route is to accept Ben’s offer, pay for Ana’s treatment, and close my eyes and pretend I’m anywhere else while he fucks me. Maybe the person I was before last summer would have made that choice.
But I haven’t been her for a long time. Charlie is witnessing whoever this version of me is, and he’s not balking. He’s giving me a chance to embrace it, to find my footing, to immerse myself in it. All while caring for me and Ana for far longer than we could have ever hoped.
The vision of her happy, healthy, without a worry in the world, is what makes me close my eyes and nod.
“Okay.”
My eyes are still closed, but I can almost hear him cock his head to the side.
“Okay?” He asks, and I nod again.
“Okay, I’m in.”