17. Chapter Seventeen — Carlotta
Chapter Seventeen — Carlotta
Iinhale shakily, the sweet smell of dank decaying air tickling my nostrils.
My feet scuff against the floor as I take a turn in a circle forward, arms in front of me, searching helplessly inside the pocket of darkness Rome has thrown me into.
God, I fucking hate him.
I swallow back a whimper when my hip bumps against something solid before the familiar clove scent of Cassiel wafts over me.
He’s here.
Laying my palms to what I hope are his shoulders, I glide upwards until I can touch his face, past his full lips, the bridge of his slightly crooked nose, until I can cup his cheeks.
“You’re not allowed to help me, are you?” I ask quietly, deep down in my gut already knowing his answer.
Without touching me, he shakes his head from side to side, slowly, making sure I understand.
“Can you talk to me?”
Again, he slowly turns his head from side to side; there’s no room to mistake his answer. I wonder if his eyes are boring into mine the way I hope they are, or if they’re closed, keeping me at arm’s length while he follows his boss’ instructions like a dog’s body.
A wave of red rage draws over me from the soles of my feet, settling my blood alight in my veins.
How dare these men promise to protect me, cutting themselves and smearing their lifeblood over my heart, only to shove me into a pit of dark despair all alone, leaving me without help.
How dare they promise to help me find out what really happened to Cristiano, only to blindfold me and throw me to the wolves, unprepared.
One minute I like them, the next I hate them, before the loop begins again…
Nope. I’m not allowing myself to consider the idea.
My mind is simply confused with everything going on, latching on to any bit of kindness thrown my way like a dog landing on a bone.
Not that Rome has shown me much kindness.
But I can’t deny that I’m drawn to him—flying back to him like a butterfly searching for a mouthful of sickly-sweet nectar.
Settling my lips into a flat line, I drop my hands from Cassiel’s body and take a step back.
I was drawn to him, to them—both he and Cassiel.
But I can’t be anymore. After tonight, I need to put space between the three of us, enough that it severs the emotional ties I feel.
Flattening my palms to the wall, I search for a light switch—surely there has to be one in this dank basement shithole—roughly grazing my soft hands in the process.
I wince at the sting of pain zipping across my flesh, but I continue my search until I find a corded piece of string hanging from the ceiling.
I yank, a flicker of dim light bursting overhead before it sputters out.
I pull the cord again, this time blinking away the spots of silver dancing across my vision as four thin streams of florescent strip lighting flicker above, dowsing the dank space in an ugly, unflattering blue toned light that burns my sensitive retinas.
What the hell is this place? It looks like some sort of torture chamber straight out of a scary movie.
“Fucking hell,” I mutter, gazing at the exposed brick walls before turning my head to look at Cassiel.
He stands with his back to the steel door we entered through, feet planted on the floor, arms crossed, eyes following my every move wordlessly.
I crook a brow at him, noticing the twitch of his corner of his mouth in response before he flattens his lips and flicks his gaze to a spot behind my head.
Spinning on my heel, I follow his line of sight, a scream ripping from my throat when I realize what Cassiel is looking at.
Or perhaps I should say who.
Because we’re not alone… far fucking from it.
Hunched over in a chair in the far-left corner of the basement, sits a broad man.
I can’t see his face, what with the way his neck hangs low, obscuring his features, but he groans at the sound of my high-pitched scream, hands jerking in the binds that keep him held prisoner against the steel arm rests.
My heart speeds up in my chest, fluttering rapidly at the base of my throat.
Placing a hand to my heart, I force myself to take a step forward, repressing a gag at the pungent stench emanating from the prone figure.
At the sound of my footsteps on the concrete, he raises his head, slowly allowing me to see the cuts marring his smooth skin and the multicolored bruises blooming around both of his eyes giving him the look of a stray racoon.
“Please,” he croaks, voice hoarse. “Please! I told him I was innocent!”
Tipping my head to the side, I appraise him, eyes dipping down to see the same binds as around his wrists also around his ankles, tying them to the metal chair legs. His hands spasm, nails grimy at the cuticles.
In fact, his entire being is unkept; hair lank and greasy, slicked back to his head, clothes rumpled, dark brown spatters dotted across the once starch white color of his button down…
It takes me longer than I’d like to admit, to realize that it’s blood staining his shirt.
Swallowing dryly, I stop myself from getting any closer to the nameless prisoner, for that’s exactly what he is, folding my arms into an angry slash beneath my breasts to hide the tremors wracking my hands.
My upper teeth worry into my plush lower lip until I taste the copper tang of blood.
Something isn’t right.
I haven’t gotten this far in life without being wary of everyone I meet; friends, colleagues, even people who share the same blood as the very life source running through my veins.
Who is this guy and what has he got to do with my initiation task to become an official member of The Thirteen?
I finally find my voice, proud when it doesn’t shake. “Who are you talking about? What man?”
“I told him!” he repeats, spittle flying from his split lips, his whole body bowing as he tries to get as close to me as his binds will possibly allow. “I told him I was fucking innocent; you have to believe me! Please don’t.”
I shake my head in confusion. “Don’t what?”
“Kill me!” The thick metal chains keeping the chair attached to the exposed brick wall, rattle as he fights, pupils blown wide, pleading with me. “I’m fucking innocent! I swear.”
His words kiss my ears, sinking into my consciousness.
This can’t be—
It just can’t be—
My heart skips, dropping down past my stomach until it lands at my feet with a wet squelch. My breathing sounds loud and harsh, whistling through my eardrums, drowning out all other noises in the room.
I can see the bound man’s cracked lips moving, but it’s impossible to make out what he’s saying.
Swaying, I turn to Cassiel, catching the way his eyes widen before his face returns to plain neutrality.
“Did you know?” I think I croak. It’s hard to make my jaw move, my tongue thick and dry sticking to the ridged roof of my mouth.
He doesn’t take his pretty hazel colored eyes from the prisoner.
“Fucking answer, me dammit!”
He doesn’t.
Shaking, with fear, anger and sheer adrenaline, I move on my feet feeling rather like I’m floating.
My palms make contact with Cassiel’s broad shoulders, giving him a harsh shove, but I don’t feel the solid heat of his body at all.
Nor do I feel the ice cold bite of the steel down as I slam my palms against the locked tight door over and over again.
“Rome! Rome, please! Please don’t make me do this, I—”
My voice dies in my throat when the bottommost hatch flicks open, something black as night and distinctly shaped shoved across the concrete floor before the hatch slams back down with a nightmarish echo.
I stare at it.
The handgun.
I’ve plead to Rome, and he’s given me a fucking gun.
Floating in my dreamlike state, I see myself reach down to pick up the weapon, palm fitting around the grip like a glove.
I have no fucking clue if the safety catch is on or off, but it doesn’t take a genius to know the thing is loaded.
“Please! Don’t do it!”
Whirling back around, gun still in hand hanging down by my side, I stare at the prisoner as if I’ve never seen him before. In the blue tinged strip lighting, I can see the sheen of sweat coating his temples, the bridge of his nose, his bare upper lip.
“You’re a sweet girl, I can tell,” he continues, talking rapidly, chains rattling once more.
“If you help me get outta here, I’ll give you anything you want.
A job, money, freedom! You name it, I’ve got it.
I’m an accountant, my firm is on the upper east side…
Antony and Reid. You know the name, sweetness? ”
I do. I read about them in a summer edition of Forbes that someone’s business suit wearing husband left behind in changing rooms. Antony and Reid, the newest up and coming accounting and broker firm, breaking records since the 1960’s.
I must have passed the damn glass, sci-fi looking skyscraper more times than I can count, on my way to and from work.
“Which one of them are you?”
“Reid. Alexander Reid,” he pants, licking his lips, eyes flicking to Cassiel’s hulking frame somewhere behind me and then landing back on my chest, my stomach, my hips before finally resting back to my face.
“I can give you the fucking world, sweetness. More than these goons could even care to dream. It won’t cost you much, I promise. ”
I shiver at the feel of his eyes travelling up and down the length of my body and the sour sound of his nickname for me spilling from his tongue.
My legs wobble beneath me as I take four steps to the nearest corner, falling to my knees and emptying the entire contents of my stomach onto the bare concrete with a choked wretch.
Blinking away the tears lining my lower waterline, I spit and fall to my ass, winding my arms around the tops of my knees.
This can’t be fucking happening.