15. Mirror Btch & Right Hooks
Mirror B*tch & Right Hooks
Bianca
When I get out of here, I’m laying hands on somebody, starting with the gargoyle who enjoys using those damn syringes.
“It’s me and you when I catch you,” I croak, mouth full of cotton. My head isn’t throbbing like the first time he drugged me, so that’s a win.
I wiggle my toes over a quilt that looks like it hasn’t seen the inside of a washer in decades. Dust floats in the air, ashes for all I know. How many times could someone drug a person in a day before permanent damage occurred? On second thought, I don’t want to know.
What I do know is Benny and his goons got me fucked up, keeping me chained in this dusty-ass room.
The iron cuff on my right ankle isn’t tight, but it’s heavy as hell.
There’s just enough slack to go to the shower and sit in the tattered chair next to the bed.
Overkill, if you ask me, from a man who literally had a body suspended from the ceiling.
I’m a flight risk, but I have no shoes or a passport. I also don’t know where I am or what time it is. There’s no clock on the bare stone walls or any way to tell time, outside of sunlight trickling in from two small windows too high to reach.
Mama Vee didn’t want me “playing out in the wilderness” as a Girl Scout. Look what good that did me.
“I’m getting out of this room,” I say to myself, the steel door, Jesus, and whoever else is listening. “After I pee.”
Metal clinks with the shift of my weight off the twin bed.
It unfurls into a long trail to the bathroom, where it stops in front of the toilet.
Light filters in through frosted glass above a small tub, warming the stone tiles beneath my feet.
My knee bounces to the rhythm of my bladder relieving itself.
What did Diana do for Benny to put a kidnapping hit on her? Are kidnapping hits a thing? Maybe he doesn’t want her dead, but it’s hard to tell, being fucking chained in a cell with area rugs.
Did she see something she wasn’t supposed to? Steal? Kill someone he loves?
Ha. That man loves nothing but death and destruction. I saw it in his eyes when he watched the gargoyle haul me away. They were cold, calloused from any signs of empathy.
“What’s next?” I grumble, my pajama shorts a resistance band around my calves. “Torture? Throwing me into the ocean?” I shake my head with the spirit of Mo’Nique from Precious. “I think not!”
While I’ve been chained to the bed for the greater part of the day, I’ve been fed. Alfred comes in with fresh fruits and meals. He even washed my pajamas and bonnet for me to shower in the small bathroom that could have been in a rustic hotel.
They’re not fooling me. They want me to be comfortable enough to attack when I least expect it. Either way, I’m stomping a hole in someone’s ass and getting myself out of here.
I wipe, pull up my shorts, and wash my hands. No affirmations are on the mirror, but my reflection stares back at me like Issa Rae.
“Mirror Bitch.”
We’re not giving pep talks while we’re held hostage.
Mothballs and death cling to the stale air. If I’m next to get strung up on the ceiling, cut the fuck up with a hacksaw, I’m going out with a fight. Matt Damon was nothing but sharp cheekbones and determination in the first Bourne movie. If he could get his licks in with a pen, there’s hope for me.
He was also a trained assassin.
He wouldn’t last a week in HR.
The door to the cell opens in a slow cry. My breath hitches at the timid voice.
“Ciao?”
I peek out of the bathroom to meet brown eyes and narrowed brows. The man is young with a baby face matching his bare chin. His gaze swings between the chain extending from beneath the bed and me.
“Your water and snack,” he says in Italian. His hands shake as he grips the wooden tray with a glass and fresh pastry, unsure if he should come closer.
This is your chance.
I’m never one to play on a person’s emotions, but desperate times.
I gulp hard and allow my lip to quiver. Tears trickle down my cheeks.
“Are you okay?”
“No,” I answer, voice thick as I wrap my hands around my middle. “They’re going to kill me.”
A sob racks my chest, surprising me. Stephanie and I used to practice crying on command after watching that one Dawson’s Creek episode. Dawson Leery had no business snorting and sneezing on the dock the way he had, but we cackled and fine-tuned our waterworks to pull out in case of emergencies.
The young man glances over his shoulder and steps closer. “Hey. It will be okay.”
“N-no, it won’t. I-I’m not who they’re looking for,” I wail. “What’s your name?”
He scratches his cornrows and bites the inside of his cheek. “Scemo.”
Who named this boy “Stupid”?
I sniffle. “It’s nice to meet you, Scemo. I’m Bianca.”
His forehead wrinkles, drawing his face into a frown. “I thought you were, but they said you’re Diana.”
“I’m not,” I plead. “My passport will show I’m Bianca. It’s back in Naples, where I was taken. Can you help me get it?”
Scemo shakes his head, the battle between his innocence and obeying orders playing out in a sigh. He looks at the door he left open before setting the tray on a small table next to the bed. “I should get someone.”
“Wait!” I grab the soccer jersey hanging from his lanky form. Fresh tears fill my eyes. “Can you at least uncuff my foot? My ankle hurts.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t want to get in trouble.”
“You won’t! Just unlock my foot. I’ll stay here while you tell someone who I am. They’ll be happy you prevented an error. Maybe you’ll get promoted. What do you want to do?”
“Be a rapper and shoot guns.”
Not the answer I expect, but I roll with it.
“Okay,” I say. “Think of all the cars you’ll buy with your bonus.”
Scemo’s face lights up. “I want the Lamborghini Mr. B has in his garage. It’s a supercapacitor with a V12 engine.”
“V12, you said?”
He nods with the enthusiasm of three people on that good powder. “I could…show you real quick. His garage is the next corridor over.”
With the keys to my freedom.
“Only if you won’t get in trouble with your boss.” I feign innocence. Somebody didn’t tell him I’d knocked his colleague out yesterday. Oh well.
“They put me in charge while Luiggi is away,” he scoffs. “The key is outside the door.”
I bite back a squeal when Scemo goes into the hallway to retrieve a set of keys. He squats and releases my ankle from its shackle with a click.
“Thank you so much.” I hug him, testing the few muscles I brush over his shoulders and back. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-three.”
“Good.” I rub my hands together.
He frowns. “Why is that—“
My right hook connects with his temple. Scemo falls to the ground, knocked out with his mouth open.
I remove the keys from his hand and pat his chest. “No hard feelings. I’m sorry,” I whisper before shutting my cage behind me.
Time to go home.