7. LEO
SEVEN
LEO
No one has ever excited me as much as him. His hateful words still echo in my ears: a reminder of who's in charge . Oh, I know who's in charge. And I love it. I love how he loses his temper, how he has to touch me, how he tries to dominate and only fuels the fire.
My body relaxes against the wall. I replay the scene. His palm against my face, hard, with hatred . He almost crushed my cheeks, forcing my head up, pulling me so close to his mouth.
Everything is Dante, everything is that slap.
I lose myself in the closed labyrinth of his thought, of his very being; only him . His face consumed by contempt, his jaw clenched, veins bulging in his temples. The smell of cigarettes, the mineral perfume. His animalistic way of gripping.
I close my eyes. I shudder. I imagine him.
I imagine his hands holding me by the hair.
I imagine him pulling me close, closer , until my body loses all weight.
I imagine his voice, hoarse, threatening everything he would do to me.
I imagine his knee between my legs, his body crushing mine against the concrete, and the grotesque pleasure of being at the mercy of someone who would break every bone in my body.
When I think about what he would do to me if he had freedom for all his instincts, I get lost.
I don't know how much time passes. I stay there, feeling the throbbing burn on my cheek—the chemical ecstasy, a nervous fire.
I follow with my gaze every dusty movement of light across the walls, the distant echo of footsteps in the corridor.
The taste of water in my mouth turned metallic, mixed with the slight taste of blood from some open wound in my gums from the slap.
Then, the heavy door groans open again. Not Dante. Footsteps, heavy and familiar. Luca. And another man I don't know. What now? More codes?
Luca says nothing. He approaches and pulls me up by the shoulder—I see his tattoos better now; a dagger with open wings, coordinate numbers, letters on his fingers. VITA MORS. The other man roughly shoves a cloth bag over my head, plunging me back into grainy darkness.
I'm pushed forward. We pass through a few doors, some corridors, and the damp, moldy air gives way to the bitting night. The smell of old concrete and stagnant air fades, replaced by polluted air that smells fresh after the warehouse.
A car door opens. I'm shoved inside, unceremoniously, hitting my head on the ceiling again. The smell of new leather and that faint aroma of cigar smoke—a ghost of Dante's presence; I imagine him smoking like a chimney. Where are they taking me? Another interrogation room? Another warehouse?
The car lurches forward. A silent, bumpy ride full of sharp turns, just like when they brought me here.
The car stops abruptly. My door is yanked open, and a strong hand grabs my arm, pulling me out.
My worn shoes meet rough asphalt. A pair of hurried, rough hands undo the plastic restraints that still held my wrists tied behind my back, and he scratches my hands carelessly to get them off. Are they letting me go?
Then, the final shove. Hard. He pushes me onto the asphalt, and it scrapes my skin as I fall. With my hands free, I manage to brace myself against what must be a sidewalk, and I stand still, waiting for the next command, the next blow, the next touch.
"He certainly knows he has no place here," Luca's muffled voice comes from somewhere. A car door slams. Another. The distinct sound of an engine starting and fading into the distance.
The engine sound grows fainter and fainter. Until there's nothing but the hum of distant city life.
No, no, no. This isn't right.
With trembling hands, I rip the bag from my head.
My vision aches before adjusting again to something that isn't grainy darkness, and the cold night air is even fresher and more polluted than before.
I look at my surroundings. I know this street.
I know this sidewalk, this fence, this dead tree, the fluorescent glow of the supermarket sign on the corner.
I'm home.
I look at what's around me. Scattered on the ground are my documents, my wallet, my backpack. What I had with me when they captured me, and they didn't take anything. I open my wallet as fast as I can, and they didn't even touch the money.
They didn't take me to another hell. They threw me back into my own , into the insipid, tasteless monotony of my daily existence. They discarded me. Like trash.
They took away my only chance to feel. My only dose of adrenaline. They cut me off .
I crush my wallet. This rage I haven't felt in years.
This isn't over. They think they can just throw me away after everything?
Dante . You have no idea who you just poked.
I know your systems. Your algorithms and vulnerabilities.
They're going to regret this.
I'm going to fuck them up.