18. Kingsley
18
KINGSLEY
T he bastard.
The fucking bastard.
He knows there’s no way I’ll back out of a game, especially when the stakes are so high. And this is my only chance at freedom. I believe him when he says he’ll let me go. And now, looking at the hard lines of his face, I also believe that he will kill me if I lose to him. Yes, he definitely has it in him to kill me. I just haven’t yet figured out what he wants from me. This puts me at a great disadvantage.
“Deal,” I say, in between clenched teeth, knowing there really is no other option but to take him up on his offer. My freedom, my life, hinges solely on me winning this game. Otherwise, I may as well have signed my very own death certificate.
“Take a card,” he orders.
“You go first.”
“Ladies first. I insist,” and he shoots me another grin, irritating the hell out of me. It brings him great joy to watch my annoyance as I squirm uncomfortably in my chair.
We lay our cards down face up on the table. He scores an Ace and I pick up a 2. He rubs his hands together in delight, if only to aggravate me more, and I scowl, folding one leg up under my thigh as I try to get comfortable.
“This table’s a little tight,” he tells me. “Do you want me to get a bigger one?”
“It’s a card table,” I reply blandly.
“Yes, but you’ll need the room for all your reserves.”
I’m sure my expression is just as murderous as I feel as I turn his way, then throw my card on the discard pile. “Ask your question, killer.” I'm going to make this as uncomfortable for him as it is for me. Well, I can try.
“What’s your favorite color?”
I’m taken aback at his first question, wondering why he would waste a question on such an inconsequential matter. I can’t get a read on what’s in his head… the strategy he has mapped out to break me. But I know he has every intention to demolish me before the game is over.
“This isn’t a date,” I remind him, my snide remark followed by a smirk. I tell him my favorite color is green. I watch as he files away that answer, no doubt to use it against me at a later date. He pulls a second card. I pick one also, then lay it down face up next to his, looking pleased with myself. This is purely a game of chance.
A Jack for me, and a seven for him.
“How many siblings do you have?” Now, I’m the one surprising him. There is probably nothing I can possibly do with this sort of information, but I’d be interested to know how many assholes he’s related to.
“I’m an only child.”
He picks up a 10 to my 8.
“What’s your real name?” He asks me.
I take a long pause, thinking about my answer, weighing up what sort of damage this information can do to me. I don’t know why I’m here or what these men plan to do to me. I’m probably already as good as dead.
“Kingsley.”
“Who are you named after?” He asks this at the next round, ignoring the fact that I had carefully sidestepped my family name. I don’t delude myself into thinking I have the upper hand here; if he doesn’t ask, chances are he already knows who I am but wants to see how far he can push.
“Ben Kingsley.”
He looks at me oddly, but who doesn’t love Ben Kingsley?
“What’s your family name?” I ask him. What I really want to know is which criminal syndicate he belongs to. I may have grown up away from the life, but I do know some things.
He sits back in his seat, his concentration never wavering. He had known, going into this game, that I would ask some hard questions, just as he would. But he, like me, had agreed to tell the truth. “Accardi.”
“Hmmm… neighbors,” I murmur, my voice laced with bitter resentment. “Is that why you’re making a move on Murray’s territory?”
“One question only, remember?”
Too late, I realize my mistake by showing my hand. Only someone in the life could possibly know that the Accardis and the Murrays share a border. He chooses not to remark on my slip, leaving a pregnant pause between us.
We pick up our next set of cards. I’m failing miserably; there is no luck of the draw for me today. “How old are you?” he asks.
“Nineteen.”
“How old are you?” I counter, after I pick up my next card.
“Twenty-seven.”
“How do you relate to Maddog Murray?”
This is what he has been working towards. This is what he wants to know. He knows that if he gets lucky, we won’t even have to continue playing for seven days. I might just spill my guts sooner rather than later.
I’m quiet for the longest time, my lip imprisoned between my teeth. He waits patiently for me to make up my mind, expecting an answer at any moment. But I don’t give him an answer. Instead, I pick up another card and toss them both into my reserve file, refusing to answer the question.
And that right there tells him so much more about the type of person I am than a hundred games of Truth or Fiction. It tells him that I would rather lose than lie about something. I would risk death rather than spill my guts. The way I see it, I am probably doomed either way; doomed to death if it is proved that I’m Maddog’s last remaining relative, and doomed to death if I lose at this game to him. However, with this game of risk, I still have six more days to get out of the hole I have dug myself into.
“Your reserve pile is getting mighty high,” he comments. “Looks like we’re going to need a bigger table, after all.”