19. Ciro
19
CIRO
T he theme from Who’s the Boss keeps playing on repeat in my head.
Only slightly less annoying than the days of torture that I just endured. Thank Danza they gave me a break. My ass was starting to itch something fierce in that chair.
I’m not sure how long I’ve been out when I wake up.
If you can call it that.
My mind becomes aware of acute pain. Very strong pain. In lots and lots of places.
“Shakal?” Her voice is angelic, like a Canadian Vegas pop star.
“Speaking,” I mutter, shifting my head. I’m lying down. On her lap.
Nice.
Somehow, despite a couple of rough days, she still smells like a hint of cinnamon. And blood, I mean definitely blood. And we both smell kinda burnt.
Hard pass on ever getting electrocuted again.
I let the warmth between us lull me back to sleep for a while, waking with her curled in my arms. Doesn’t get much more romantic than that. Minus the wet, stone-walled cell and the rats.
“Van, wake up.” I hate to disturb her.
“Hm?”
“The butler says the hot baths are ready.”
“Not funny. I would kill for a hot bath.”
“I would kill for…just kill. All of them.”
“Same.” She sits up, staying close to conserve our warmth.
“How’s your…everything?”
“Better than your face looks.”
“Why do they always go for the face?”
“At least you will have a few more sexy scars.”
“You know, most people would think you’re being sarcastic…”
“I’d kiss you, but…”
“It’s the drooling isn’t it? Doctor said it will stop eventually.”
“I am not sure which welt is your lip.”
“Oh the humanity,” I mutter in deadpan. A few years ago, I really would have been devastated by the loss of my perfect looks. Now look at me.
I make Jean Valjean look like a prince.
Shaking my head to clear the haze, I rise with a little help, pacing the room. It’s nicer than the first cell they had me in. Seems…higher up. Less deep.
Less cold.
“We really stepped in it, huh?”
“We should not have come,” Vanya grumbles, wrapping her arms around her legs.
“We had to rule out Pyotr being here. Shit, maybe he’s in the cell next door?”
Van raises an eyebrow.
“Would it make you feel better if we jump the guy in the mask when he comes back? I’ll hold his arms. You can question him.”
“I already tried asking him questions. He did not answer.”
“You do know the point of him torturing you was for you to answer…” It comes as no surprise that she would still be planning and fighting through even the worst torture.
“He must pay for Matvey. But I do not think we will get this chance.”
“He will pay. They all will.” I meet her gaze. “The Volk will not stand for it. Even if we never get out of here. Someone will come for these Mocro bastards.”
“We will get out. We must,” she says softly. “You deserve to go home. To your family. What’s left of it, anyway.”
“What are you saying, Vanya?”
“Matvey made you promise to stay with me. But I do not hold you to this if we can escape. I want you to be free. Free from Bratva. Free from Viperas, Diamantes. Whatever you want to do. Go be with your brothers, if you know where they are.”
I press my lips together, unsure of whether we are being listened to.
“I can’t leave. Not without you.”
Vanya’s composure wavers, her eyes boring into my soul.
“You would stay. Even if we must fight for the rest of our lives? Even if we die?”
“Especially if we die. I don’t think I’d be able to go anywhere after that,” I barely keep from smiling.
“Shut up, jackass.”
“It’s pronounced Shakal. And the words you meant to say were?—”
“I love you.”
No torture, no shock, no pain could ever hit me harder than her words. Only these are devastating in a totally different way.
I pull her into my arms, holding her to my chest.
“I love you too, Vanya. And we are blood. Forever.”
“ Navsegda .” She nods, closing her eyes.
“Van, look…” I pull away a fraction, holding up my hand. A tiny dot of sunlight forms a faint dot on my arm from a crack in the ceiling near the back corner.
“It’s daytime.” She breathes, tears forming at the edges of her lids.
“Don’t start, or I’ll start.”
“I will cry if I want to.”
“Is it the torture? Or my breath?”
“Both. Quiet, someone is coming.” She raises a hand.
“Get ready. If it’s the masked mannequin, I’ma kick him in the balls.”
But it’s more than just one set of boots. And Black Parade isn’t among them. Just your average, lower-level soldiers. Although, these guys dress a lot differently than the mugs we’ve seen so far. More like…palace guards.
Each of them carries an assault rifle, not to mention the way they walk.
Military, for sure. Or ex-military.
The lead guy motions for us to come with them and at this point, I don’t see the point in putting up a fight. At least until they try to line us up for the firing squad.
The passageway is old stone, simple. It’s definitely day outside. Windows with bars high up on the walls let through golden beams. Never thought I’d be so happy to see the sun in my life.
Except for the blinding retinal explosion a moment later when they guide us through a steel door. Stairs flash red behind my eyelids as I clamp them shut.
Even in the tunnel, it’s more than I was ready for.
Vanya grunts at my side, experiencing the same overwhelming sensation.
Squinting, we place one foot in front of the next, until we are out in the open. Fresh breeze hits my face and I pause in the middle of the yard. It’s a perfect day outside. Sunny. Cool.
“Holy shit that feels good.”
“Not as nice as Russian weather, but I agree.”
“Come.” A soldier barks, motioning us toward another archway. This one is more ornate, leading through a wall that sweeps up toward, no-joke, castle-like parapets high above us. Where the hell are we?
The farther we go through the arched corridor, the more elegant the surroundings become. Finally, we reach a wide spiral staircase, sweeping up through a windowed tower and my breath catches in my throat as we ascend.
Even at this angle, just a glimpse of the outside of the place…
It’s enormous.
An honest to goodness palace in the middle of nowhere. My view is cut short as we reach the top of the steps. Outside, we cross another small courtyard, this one resplendent with a gurgling fountain, stunning mosaic tiles, greenery, flowers.
I so badly want to ask the guards who lives here, but I get the impression they are not going to answer. Or they don’t speak English, other than the one guy.
“Ciro…” Vanya scoffs, tugging at my arm.
The stretch of floor to ceiling windows just inside the doorway to our right has my jaw dropping.
Sandstone walls, some clearly ancient, line the stretch of rolling hills, cutting through endless hedges and newer structures paving the grounds for at least a mile or more. Pools, fountains, sculptures, all dot the architecture fading away into the distance, ending in what might be a fortress wall almost out of view.
And sweeping away majestically on the horizon, the mountains gleam in the midday sun.
This place is a fucking paradise.
“‘Arabian Nights’…”
“What?” Vanya mumbles, giving me a look as we are led onward.
“Uh. Nothing. Just reminded me of a song.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“Uh, that fern over there is more ridiculous than me in every way.”
We keep our voices low, but no one seems to pay us much heed. Other than making sure we keep moving. They barely even look at us.
Catching my reflection in a mirrored wall hanging I see why.
“Geebus!” I wince.
“You don’t look that bad.”
“I was talking about you.” I give her the eye, taking in her overall lack of clothing. There’s not a lot left of that dress. Or her bra.
“Keep it up, I give you makeover,” she croons, making my skin prickle as she shakes a fist at me.
Leave it to Vanya to threaten me with sexy violence in the middle of being held captive by cultist mafia royalty. I mean, I don’t know if that’s true, but this place is outrageous. I wouldn’t put it past them.
Gold plating, marble, anything fancy, shiny, and polished. Everywhere I look there are riches. Paintings that I know are stolen originals. It’s a black-market smuggler’s dream trove.
After another ten minutes of walking, we reach a pair of massive red and green doors, intricately painted and embossed with gold.
I’m feeling worn out.
Not at all in the mood to deal with whoever has summoned us.
But when the doors open, a short man in a robe stands there, holding a platter of warm towels. And waving us into the most elegant, spacious, glorious suite I have ever seen, let alone stayed in. Couches encircle a fire pit in the center, framed by pillars. Curtains longer than our entire house back home billow in the breeze coming through the twenty-foot windows. And outside, a balcony that stretches the length of the entire space overlooking more gardens.
The guards post up at the door just before it closes.
“Um. What is going on?” I ask, my voice carrying through the chambers, accented by the splash of an indoor fountain.
“You are the most honored guests of my lord Adil Abas. Be welcome and rest.”