CHAPTER FOUR
Sasha
I SIT IN the corner of the pub, trying to make myself as small as possible. The dim lighting casts shadows that I hope will hide me, making me blend into the worn leather of the booth. My fingers, trembling slightly, tear at a beer mat, shredding it into tiny pieces that scatter across the table like confetti from some celebration. The noise around me – the clinking of glasses, the murmur of conversations, the occasional burst of laughter – feels distant, muffled, as if I'm submerged underwater. It's a strange sensation, being here but not really being present.
I want to leave. The urge to get up and run is almost overwhelming. But every time I think about standing up, an image of my sister pops into my head. Guilt and fear churn in my stomach like a storm. What if she's not okay? What if she's crying somewhere in Aunt Karen’s home, missing our home, missing me? The thought is a dagger in my heart, twisting deeper with each imagined sob.
I force myself to believe that she's happy, probably watching TV and laughing at some silly cartoon. It’s a fragile hope, but it's the only thing keeping me from bolting out of here to get her. If I let myself think otherwise, I know I won’t be able to stay. My mind races with a thousand scenarios, each more terrible than the last, but I cling to that one image of her smiling, carefree.
"Hey there," a voice interrupts my thoughts, jolting me back to the present. I look up to see a guy leaning against the table, grinning at me. Great, just what I need. He tucks long strands of blond hair behind his ear, a silver cross dangling from it, swaying gently as he moves. His presence is unsettling as it snaps my illusion of being invisible until Marco arrives.
"Why so lonely?" he asks, his eyes twinkling with mischief. There's an unsettling charm to him, something that makes my skin prickle.
I force a smile, trying to appear casual, though my heart is pounding. "I’m waiting on someone," I say, hoping to discourage him.
"Seems serious," he says, inching closer. "Can I sit and wait with you?”
Panic surges through me. I don't want to engage, but I need to see Marco, and this guy might be my only way. "Yeah, take a seat," I reply, my voice barely steady.
He grins and drags out a chair, turning it backward and sitting down. “The name is Baz.” He holds out his hand, and I take it, our handshake brief and quick. “Sasha,” I say quickly.His grip is firm, his smile disarming.
Every time the door opens, I pray it’s Marco, but none of them look like him. Each figure that steps in sends a wave of disappointment crashing over me. I scan their faces, their postures, looking for any sign of recognition, but it's always just another stranger.
Baz chats away, his words a distant hum in my ears. I nod and smile at the right moments, but my mind is elsewhere, consumed by worry and impatience. The pub feels like a prison, the air thick with the scent of beer. I glance at the clock, its hands crawling painfully slow, each tick the opposite rhythm of my racing heart.
“So, does this guy have a name?” Baz’s words halt all my internal fretting. I've been spiraling in my mind, imagining every possible disaster this meeting could bring.
I nod. “Yes, Marco.” I don’t know his second name, but the flash in Baz’s gaze tells me he knows exactly who I am talking about. My heart skips a beat. Does Baz know more than he's letting on?
Baz raises an eyebrow, his grin widening. "Marco, huh, on a date?" His tone is teasing, but there's an undercurrent of curiosity.
I shake my head quickly, feeling my face heat up. "No, it's not like that. I just need to talk to him." The words tumble out too fast, too desperate.
He holds up his hands in mock surrender, still grinning. "Okay. If it’s not a date with Marco, maybe you can go on one with me?” His grin is infectious, and for a split second, I forget why I'm here.
He’s cute, but right now, I don’t need to be dealing with this. I want to tell him to just leave, but maybe my face does as he rises, holding up his hands. “I get it,” he says, backing off. I can sense his disappointment, and a pang of guilt hits me.
As he starts to walk away, panic flares in my chest. I can't let him go without helping me. "Wait," I blurt out, my voice higher than I intended. The last thing I need is for him to think I'm interested when I have a mission to complete.
He turns back, and I force myself to meet his gaze. "Okay," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. "Maybe we can talk about that date." It's a lie, and I know it. But I need to see Marco, no matter what. My chest tightens with anxiety at the deception.
Baz is beaming, and my stomach curls in a knot. “First, I need to see Marco.” I bat my eyelids like I imagine girls do when flirting. I obviously don’t do too badly because Baz nods. Inside, I'm screaming at myself. Why did I have to involve him? But there’s no turning back now.
Baz leads me out back, and a cold shiver runs down my spine. The night air is crisp, biting at my skin as I follow him through the dark alleyway. I glance around nervously, half-expecting him to try something. The shadows seem to dance and flicker, playing tricks on my mind. But he doesn’t. Instead, he opens a door to a dimly lit room, the creak of the hinges echoing ominously.
My breath catches in my throat as I see Marco inside, sitting on a wooden chair, getting stitched up by a doctor. The harsh smell of antiseptic fills the air. He's shirtless, his body covered in tattoos, each one more intricate than the last. Black and gray ink swirls across his chest and arms, telling stories I can only guess at. Despite the situation, I can’t help but notice how his muscles ripple under his skin, how the tattoos seem to move with him. He's even more gorgeous than I remember, a dangerous kind of beauty.
Marco glances up at us, his expression unreadable, his eyes cold and distant. "I don’t need my dick sucked right now, Baz," he says flatly, his voice cutting through the tension in the room like a knife.
I'm horrified. He thinks I’m some whore brought here to satisfy him."How dare you," I snap, the words slipping out before I can stop them. My heart skips a beat when I realize who I'm talking to. I feel a rush of adrenaline, a mix of fear and anger. Marco's eyes, dark and soulless, show a flicker of amusement, as if my defiance is nothing more than a brief distraction for him. He's changed, become even darker than before, his aura almost suffocating.
"I came here for help," I manage to say, my voice trembling slightly. The words feel small, insignificant in the face of his indifference.
"Do I look like I'm in a charitable mood?" Marco retorts, not missing a beat. His voice is cold, devoid of any empathy. The doctor finishes stitching him up, and Marco pulls his shirt on, his movements smooth and fluid. As he spins around, I see a large scar on his side, the jagged line standing out against his tanned skin—a memory surfaces, unbidden and unwanted. I know how he got that scar.
I'm suddenly back in that moment, watching in horror as Marco and his best friend Carl fought. It was a stupid argument that escalated quickly. They had always been close, almost like brothers, and seeing them turn on each other was surreal. Carl, surprising everyone, pulled out a knife and lodged it in Marco's side. Blood poured out, but Marco didn’t even flinch. He yanked the knife out of his side and, with a vicious snarl, drove it into Carl's neck. The sight was brutal; the memory seared into my brain. I remember the way Carl's eyes went wide with shock, his hands grasping at the air as if trying to catch the life slipping away from him. Marco’s face was a mask of cold fury, a side of him I had never seen before. It was as if he had transformed into someone else entirely, someone capable of unspeakable violence.
Shaking off the memory, I focus on Marco. He’s standing there, a living reminder of the violence he’s capable of. His presence is almost suffocating. I can see the remnants of the fight in the scar peeking out from under his shirt, a permanent mark of that deadly encounter. And I know I need to be careful with my next words. The wrong move could set him off, and I don’t want to be the next victim of his wrath.
Despite the anger and humiliation boiling inside me, I can’t leave without help. "You helped me once before." The words come out sounding pathetic, even to my own ears. I hate the vulnerability in my voice, the way it trembles with unspoken desperation. But what choice do I have? I need him, even if it means swallowing my pride.
Marco lights a cigarette, pushing his dark hair out of his face. The doctor, who had been fussing over him, tells him to rest and then leaves. Baz, who had brought me here, is still standing behind me. But a nod from Marco sends him away, leaving me alone with this man who kills people. The silence in the room is deafening, filled only with the sound of Marco’s slow, deliberate breaths.
He blows smoke into the air, the tendrils curling and dissipating like ghosts. "Did I get paid for it?" he asks, his eyes suggesting something more than money. There’s a dangerous edge to his voice, a hint of amusement that chills me to the bone.
My face burns with shame and frustration. "No." Marco’s eyes narrow, and for a moment, I wonder if I’ve made a terrible mistake. But then he smiles, a slow, predatory grin that makes my blood run cold.
He walks toward me, his towering frame ofsix foot one making me feel even smaller. Each of his steps seems to echo, magnifying the sense of impending doom. The closer he gets, the more my fear intensifies, a cold sweat breaking out on my forehead. This is my last chance. I can barely steady my voice. "Some men are in my home..." I begin, my eyes glued to an expensive rug, the intricate patterns becoming a temporary escape from the reality in front of me.
Marco stops advancing, the tips of his shoes coming into view, polished and intimidating. "Men?" His voice is a low growl, resonating with a menacing undertone that sends a shiver down my spine.
I force myself to glance up at him. His face is a mask of controlled fury. "They’re making drugs in my garage." The words hang in the air, heavy and shameful. Saying it out loud makes me die a little inside. How did it come to this? How did my life spiral into such chaos?
"Did they hurt you?" His cigarette hangs loosely at his side, smoke curling up lazily. His intense gaze feels like it's nearly piercing through me, reading all my secrets.
I frown, feeling a mixture of frustration and desperation. "No, but I still want them out." Does he think that just because they haven't hurt me, they aren’t a problem? The violation of my space is enough to make my skin crawl.
He nods, taking a deep puff of his cigarette. His eyes never leave mine, and I can tell he's calculating something. "Okay, Sasha. I’ll clear the rats out for you." He smirks and turns away, my face burning with embarrassment and anger. He knows who I am, and he's enjoying my humiliation.
"But, there is a cost."
My heart sinks. The words hit me like a punch to the gut. I don’t have a job. How the hell am I supposed to afford his help?
I swallow hard, my throat tightening. “Look, I…I don’t have the money right now, but I’m not some deadbeat. I have a degree in culinary arts. I can work. I want to work.” The words spill out before I can stop them. “I’ve only gotten back from Australia today, but I swear I’ll start applying for jobs the minute I get home. I just need—” I inhale sharply. “I need to find something soon. For my dad. He’s—” I shake my head, pushing past the lump in my throat. “He needs me to step up.”
I chance a look at him. He’s watching me, that damn smirk pulling at his lips like this is all one big joke. The silence stretches. He’s not saying a word, just letting me ramble on and on, his amusement only making my panic worse.
I clench my fists, my nails digging into my palms. “Are you going to say something, or are you just enjoying watching me drown?”
His smirk widens. “I don’t know. You’re putting on quite the show.”
Heat rushes to my face, a mix of frustration and humiliation. I should stop talking, but the problem is—I don’t know how. I open my mouth to beg, but he speaks first.
"In two nights, I need you as a date to a high-profile charity event," he says finally, cutting off my desperate pleas.
I blanch. "I have nothing to wear." The reality of the situation crashes over me. Not only do I have to rely on this man, but I also have to parade myself in front of others, pretending everything is fine.
"I’ll have something sent to your house," he replies nonchalantly, extinguishing his cigarette and popping two tablets into his mouth before pressing a small button on the wall.
"Baz will walk you home," he says, dismissing me without another glance.
I want to refuse, to assert some semblance of control over my life, but Baz appears almost instantly. Marco’s back is already turned, his attention elsewhere. As I step into the pub with Baz, he smiles, a grin that doesn’t reach his eyes. "Let’s talk about our date," he says, his tone dripping with amusement and something darker.
My stomach churns. This is not how I envisioned my night going. But I have no choice. I can only hope that this deal, as distasteful as it is, will finally bring me some peace. As we walk, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m stepping deeper into a web I’ll never escape.