CHAPTER 14
THE CURATOR
The walls in this godforsaken place are paper-thin.
I hear the familiar voice of Sal’s boss drifting through the thin walls – it’s calm, measured, and eerily devoid of the fury I’d expect if Sal were dead.
It’s calm. Too calm. I sit frozen, straining to listen to more than clipped syllables and muted murmurs slipping through the wall.
No rage. No venom. Just the steady rhythm of negotiation.
That has to mean Sal isn’t dead.
The call drags on for an hour. Neither of the two muscle-bound shadows so much as glance my way, their silence deliberate.
Charlie talks, every so often letting out a quiet huff of amusement, the kind that prickles my skin and makes me wonder what part of the conversation is so damn funny.
Then, finally, the conversation ends. A bottle of water glides across the floor towards me, followed by a neatly wrapped sandwich, like a reward for something I’ve done worthy.
It’s as if obedience earns rations. Charlie enters the room, the air shifting as he crosses the threshold.
He smirks, shaking his head. ‘Looks like you were right, little bitch.’ He kneels down, before continuing, ‘Killing you would have been expensive.’
I keep my face blank; keep my hands steady as I reach for the water.
If I’m worth something, if Sal is still in play, then the game isn’t over.
Charlie leans back, seating himself in a chair.
Amusement dancing behind his eyes. Charlie’s rage over his grandson Ritchie’s murder is palpable, but instead of mourning with grace, he weaponises his grief.
His retaliation was swift and merciless, showing that vengeance is his coping mechanism.
Charlie’s cunning, playing the long game, but from my lens, his strategic mind lacks empathy.
He sees his crew as mere pawns, even those closest to him.
It seems loyalty is transactional and me?
I’m expendable. His power is rooted in fear, not respect, and he sees strength as domination, but his legacy is just soaked in blood.
‘Have you ever seen a rich man hunt?’ he asks. His smirk is a silent dare, and his eyes test for the flicker of fear. I give him nothing.
He continues, almost bitter. ‘I don’t mean for survival. I mean for sport, because rich men can afford to turn violence into entertainment.’ Charlie lifts the glass to his mouth, the inky dark Guinness coating his lips like blood, and swallowed without a blink.
His movements are unhurried, and he drinks like he has all the time in the world to savour silence.
‘Money buys comfort. Power buys obedience. But it’s never enough.
There’s something in people like me,’ he continues, ‘something dark, something ancient that needs the thrill of watching something run before it dies. And where we’re going, cupcake, they don’t chase deer. ’
There’s a slow pause. Charlie thinks he’s clever, thinks his little speech about rich men and their so-called sick games has me rattled.
In reality, he’s a dumb cocksucker. He leans back, glugging the last of his Guinness, so I give it to him.
I reel him in. I let my breath hitch, my fingers tighten around the water bottle like I can’t steady myself.
My eyes flick to the door, like I might bolt.
It’s a performance. It’s what I’m good at, and he buys every second of it.
Charlie chuckles, it’s slow and lazy. ‘There it is,’ he mutters. ‘Thought you’d take longer with all that bravado. But even the tough ones crack, eventually.’
I swallow hard, lowering my gaze. He thinks he’s got me. He thinks I’m scared.
Good.