Chapter 15
Lula
Victor leaves me alone.For hours. Maybe days. I try to break down the door leading to the hallway where he’s gone but have no luck. I even try to break into the dungeon. I stand on a stool and poke into the vents, but they’re too small to fit more than a hand and covered in a steel grid. I leave it alone, not wanting to mess with the only source of fresh air in my cushy prison.
I have nothing to do but eat the food in the fridge, take the painkillers he left me, and imagine what I’ll do to my brother if I get my hands on him.
I refuse to think of Victor. He’s nothing to me. He was never more than my captor. My enemy. And if I am a bullet in a gun, a dagger with a poisoned edge, let me maim him. Let me kill him.
I sleep every so often, fitful and restless, dreaming of a hitman with silver blond hair and shadows under his eyes. At some point, I wake to the door to the long hallway open. But it’s a dead end. There’s nothing but more locked doors, an attack dummy, and a few knives.
I could carve my wrath into the walls and locked doors. Instead, I practice fighting, only stopping to eat or rest. Without windows or a clock, I don’t know if I sleep for years or merely a nap. The bedroom is as dark as an underground bunker. A tomb. I can’t think about this too much, or I’ll go mad.
I sleep with a knife in my hand. After one particular spell of sleep, I wake up knowing I’m not alone. He’s standing in the shadows, wearing a dark suit.
I snap to my feet, knife outstretched.
“Ah, you’re awake,” he says, as if I’m not ready to stab him. “Get dressed.” He nods to the foot of the bed, where he’s laid out a black dress and long, tan trench coat.
Clothes. For the first time in. . . as long as I’ve been here.
“Why?”
“I thought you might enjoy going to a party.”
“What sort of party?”
“At Cavalli’s. You’ve been there once. Remember?”
I remember the smoke, the bark of the gun. The cool air wafting up my bare legs under the trench coat.
“What’s this about?” As soon as I ask, my mind flashes over the possibilities and spits out the most likely explanation. “Stephanos will be there.” My voice is flat.
“He might be. He owes me, you see. And I always collect what I’m owed. He wants to meet me.” He leans down and straightens the slinky black dress he’s laid out for me. “It turns out you’re an excellent bargaining chip.”
My heart sinks to my feet. Any hope I had that Victor wasn’t one of them is stolen away from me.
And then Victor continues to twist the knife. “I told him I had you. At first, he didn’t believe me. But then I showed him some footage.”
I close my eyes. Of course, he did. How much footage does he have of me bound, caged, naked, and whipped? My greatest enemy, seeing my greatest humiliation. I could puke.
“And now he says he’ll meet with me. . . on the condition that I bring you to him.”
I want to stab him in the eye. I could do it if I were stronger, faster. If my opponent wasn’t Victor.
“So that’s it?” My chest is heaving, stretching the barely healed marks on my breast. Marks that mean nothing. “You’re just going to hand me over?”
“Of course not. You belong to me.” His eyes flicker to the bandage above my breast. He cut me like a schoolboy carves his name into a desk. But that doesn’t mean he owns me.
One day, he’ll find that out.
“Stephanos will not touch you.”
I scoff. “That’s supposed to reassure me?”
Victor comes closer, his pale eyes pinning me into place. His hand grabs my wrist and presses a point that makes my fingers spasm, and I drop the knife.
He catches it and holds it up. It all happened in a flash, too fast for me to see.
“I have much to teach you. But this time together is at its end. There’s a decision for you to make.” He tosses the knife so it flips overhead and embeds itself in the wall above the headboard, where it quivers. It’s in the dead center of the room, and I half expect the bed to split in half, bisected by this moment and the blade. When it doesn’t, I turn back to my nemesis. He looms over me, half of his face in the light and half in shadow. But when he speaks, I hear both the iced-over tones of the psychopath and echoes of the soft, hopeful murmur of a lover.
“So now, I must ask. Lula. . . will you trust me?”
* * *
Victor
Joe drivesus to the restaurant, and Lula sits next to me in the back seat, a black silk blindfold over her eyes. When I guided her to take her first steps outside, she raised her head to the sun. She’s thinner than when I first brought her here, but not by much. I tried to feed her well, but she’s more hardened. The circles under her eyes are darker from a lack of vitamin D, but also not enough feasting with friends and family—not enough joy.
I can’t give her everything, even if I wanted to. But maybe I can give her enough.
She said yes to trusting me. But she didn’t bother to keep the derision out of her tone. But she is here, next to me, sitting up straight and gorgeous in the sleek black dress I gave her. I can only hope that there’s a tiny sliver of trust in her toward me. Maybe there is.
And maybe we are both lying to ourselves.
Joe pulls right up to the door, and I help her out. She wrinkles her nose, probably smelling the stale cigarettes that stain the evening air. Once inside, the smell is better, replaced with butter and garlic. Spiro had a hand in hiring new people for the kitchen, and the result is a massive improvement over what Cavalli’s used to be.
The decor still has the same faded carpet and old furniture. But there’s a fresh coat of paint and no sign of bullet holes. I pull Lula along to the back room, pausing in the shadowy hallway to lift the blindfold from her eyes.
She blinks once and takes in her surroundings with the wary look of a hunter in unknown territory.
Low laughter and the murmur of men’s voices come from the room ahead.
“Ready?” I ask.
She shrugs and visibly hardens. I draw her close on the pretense of fiddling with the coat’s collar.
“Do this for me,” I whisper in her ear. “And I will give you everything you want and more.” I pull away to take in her expression, but it’s blank and remote. It reminds me of my own face in the mirror.
Maybe I taught her more than I should have.
“You’re missing one thing.” She’s wearing my tan trench coat, and I reach into a pocket to pull out a silver tube of lipstick. Her lips compress to hold back a grimace, but she lets me paint it on her. A pop of red in her colorless face. Warpaint. “Now you’re ready.”
“You’re not going to tie me up?” She holds up her hands, presenting her wrists.
“I think you’ll behave. The stakes are too high, the reward too great.”
Her eyebrows twitch, but her forehead smooths before I can ask about her thoughts. “Let’s get this over with.”
“As you wish.” I lead her into the room where she faced Stephanos last. According to Spiro, it’s much the same with the unneeded tables and chairs pushed to the side. A few men lounge around the long table lining the opposite wall, and they fall silent as we approach.
“Lucrezia Romano, meet my new friends. Spiro, Uzi, Kill Zone.” Each man stands as I name them. There are five more newcomers, all vetted and vouched for by Spiro. He completes the introductions by saying, “And Joe’s out back. He’s coming in soon.”
Lula stands silent through this, shifting slightly from foot to foot. I keep a hand on her elbow.
“Shall we?” I sweep a hand toward the table, and the men part to make a path for us. I guide her to settle in the center of the booth lining the wall. The seat of honor, but hemmed in on either side by me and Spiro.
“Nice to meet ya, Ms. Romano,”Kill Zone says after a nervous glance at me.
She nods, her jaw still rigid. She’s trying to figure out what’s happening. There’s no sign of Stephanos. Or Bruno.
She sits with her hands in her lap, the long sleeves of my coat draped past her fingertips. I didn’t offer to take the coat; she might feel safer in it, less exposed. And I like seeing her in my clothes. It’s a big change from the last time she walked in here wearing my coat. Now, no one looks at her bare body but me.
The back door opens and squeals closed. Everyone tenses, but it’s just Joe. He walks in. “Sorry, I’m late. Business.” He gives me a significant look.
Spiro pipes up. “I made sure the kitchen has their orders.”
“No trouble?” I ask, resting a hand on Lula’s rigid knee.
“Naw. They’ll be ready soon.” He picks up a wine bottle and uncorks it. “Something to drink while we wait?”
Lula doesn’t move, but I nod to her wine glass. He leans in to fill it, and the men around us relax a little. There’s still a readiness, an air of anticipation, but a few of them light cigarettes or take a sip of their drinks. Uzi relinquishes his hold on his gun and sets it on the floor, letting it lean against his chair.
One of the newcomers cocks his head at Kill Zone. “Kill Zone? That’s your name?”
“That’s what they call me.” Kill Zone shrugs. “I’m thinking of shortening it to Killz.”
“Killz?” Spiro snorts. “Isn’t that the stuff my ma had us paint the bathroom with? For mold?”
“Yeah,” says Kill Zone.
A raspy sandpaper sound echoes as Joe scratches his stubbly chin. “That shit is great.”
A server appears at the main entrance, pushing a food cart. A huge dish covered by a silver dome rests on top. Everyone’s eyes snap to it. The server is a young man with a long neck whose Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. Under the red stain of acne, his skin is blanched pale.
“I got it,” Joe says, snubbing out his cigarette and heading to take over controlling the cart. The server relinquishes it, and Joe pushes it right in front of Lula and me. “Go ahead,” I gesture to her. “The main course. I sourced it myself.”
Suppressing a frown, she reaches for it. Hesitates. With visible willpower, she lifts the silver dome.
For a few moments, she stares at the contents of the dish. Even though he knew about it beforehand, Spiro sucks in a shocked breath. Kill Zone and Uzi mutter quiet curses. One of the men, a newcomer whose name I already forgot, staggers to the corner to quietly retch.
Behind the cart, Joe is looking away.
But not Lula. Her eyes feast on the gruesome sight. Then she slowly lowers the silver dome to cover the severed head of Bruno, Stephanos’ right-hand man. It’s not as gory as it could have been. After I cornered and garrotted him, I let much of the blood drain away.
Lula twists to look up at me. She’s flushed and breathing hard like she’s run up the stairs but trying to control her emotions. I can see the question in her eyes. Why?
“Excuse us,” I say. “We need a moment.”
* * *
Lula
Victor ushersme into a dark room. A flick of the lights and I see it’s a bathroom. In case I have to throw up?
A quick inventory tells me I’m not queasy but numb. I brace my hands on the bathroom sink just in case. The place is cleaner than it used to be. Not what I expected, but nothing about today is.
I expected Victor to parade me in front of Stephanos, to put me on display like a trained submissive. I expected torture or humiliation.
Nothing could’ve prepared me for the sight of a man’s head on a platter. Victor stands behind me, much like he did the first time we fucked in his bathroom. I meet his eyes in the mirror. There’s no color in my face other than my red, red lips. “You could’ve warned me.”
“Would you have believed me?”
“Hell no.” I shake my head. This isn’t my reality. I have no idea what’s going on. “You killed Bruno.” At least, I think that was Bruno. It wasn’t easy to recognize the slack features, but the shaved head was huge. And who else could it be?
Victor doesn’t deny it, so I can move on to my next question. “Why?”
“Because he shot at you,” Victor growls. The tops of his cheekbones flush as bright as my lips. “He almost killed you. You could’ve died.”
“I thought. . .” I thought a lot of things. “I thought you were going to. . .” I don’t know what to say, so I stop talking.
Victor turns me to face him. He’s a beautiful, brutal force of nature. A blizzard. An oncoming iceberg. I don’t understand him, but he’s always been honest about who he is. “I told you to trust me, and I’d give you everything. I had to prove it to you. This is my proof.”
I gape at him, my jaw hanging toward the floor. So I ask again, “Why?”
“You know why. You’re it for me.” His touch on my cheek is gentle, but I startle. “I don’t know what love is. I do know I would slaughter every man and woman on Earth and serve their heads to you on a platter on the chance it would make you smile.”
Mass murder. How romantic. “That’s not. . . don’t do that.” I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact that he doesn’t want to destroy me.
He pushes closer, crowding me against the sink, and presses something into my hand. A knife. I automatically settle it into the proper grip.
“Don’t you understand?” He takes my hand and brings the knife up to his own throat. “I’d let you cut my own heart out if you wanted.”
His hand falls away, and for a moment, I keep the blade against his pretty, pale skin.
I could do it. I could kill him.
He speaks again, and I have to lessen the pressure against his throat so I don’t cut him. “I had to prove I’m worthy of you before you’d trust me. Love me.”
I have to stop myself from saying, “I don’t love you.” Because Victor has taught me not to lie. Not to him. Not to myself.
My hand flexes, and I press the knife too hard. A thin cut appears, and blood streams down. I set down the knife and cover the wound, trying to stem the flood. “Oh. Oh no. . .”
He captures my hand, not noticing or caring about the cut. “Lucrezia. My love. Tell me what you want from me, and I’ll make it happen. The gang out there”—he tips his head out the door—“is yours to command. Or I’ll kill them all.” He says it with such ease I flinch. He cups my cheek, blood still streaming down the hollow of his throat. It’s a shallow cut, but it’s bleeding so much. If Victor’s aware of it, he doesn’t care.
He strokes his thumb over my cheekbone. “I’d kill everyone in the world if you wanted.” He sounds so happy, it’s disturbing. “Say the word. Cut my throat right now, and I’d be happy because it’s you, Lula. It will always be you.”
My breath is rattling in and out of me. My throat was lined with poisoned knives, but they’re gone now. My chest still aches, like nothing will soothe it, but. . .
I push up to tiptoe, pulling his head down so I can reach his lips. He grips the lapels of the coat I’m wearing, drawing me up so his mouth can dominate mine.
We kiss until I’m surging against him; the ache in me spreads through my core to my limbs.
He takes my shoulders and pushes us slightly apart, keeping a bare millimeter between us. “Death or belonging to me. Those are your options.”
“Your death or mine?” I raise my head to murmur against his lips.
“I don’t want to live in this world alone. Without you, Lula, I might as well be dead.”
I draw back. The nick at his throat really is making a mess. I curse and find a paper towel to clean it up. He holds still and lets me, watching me with a tenderness that makes me ache.
Fates preserve us. There might be a small part of me that loves him. And that is enough.
But first things first.
I straighten and toss the bloody paper towel into the trash. Then I pick up the knife, testing its weight in my palm. “Where’s Stephanos?”
“Hiding like the rat he is. Do you want me to take you to him?”
“Yes.”
He smiles and takes my hand. The one without the knife. “Then let’s go.”