18 - Omertà
Cordelia
“Deal with it?” The words come out as a whimper.
“We’re not going to kill you,” Clarke says bluntly. “But you’re going to need to be honest with me. No more lies.”
Honesty? Most of my life is built on falsification. Why would I be honest with this psychopath? Clarke digs a hand into his pocket, and my jaw goes slack when he pulls out my iPhone. With a tilt of his head, he blinks slowly.
“You’re a photography student, right?” It’s a rhetorical question. He already knows I am. “That night. Did you take any pictures?”
My breath hitches, but I don’t break eye contact with him, even though I desperately want to. My mouth twitches. I fully intend to tell the truth, but I physically cannot get the words out and backtrack at the last minute.
Lying is so much easier. Lying doesn’t hurt, doesn’t lead to disappointment.
I tuck a strand of loose hair behind my ear. “No,” I say firmly.
Clarke raises a dark eyebrow, lips mashed together in a look that’s a hundred times scarier than his smile. He directs a sharp nod over my shoulder, and out of nowhere hands seize my arms and wrench them behind my back. Logan’s scent invades my personal space: leather, spice, and motor oil.
“No,” I cry out, but his fist closes around my ponytail to hold me still. Clarke waves the phone in my face, and the audible click sends a rush of panic through my veins. Secure in Logan’s physical restraint, I’m unable to lunge at his idiot friend.
“What will we find here?” Clarke chuckles to himself, a cruel sound that has my legs quaking.
“Stop! You fucking arsehole!” I bark at them. “You can’t just scroll through my shit without my permission!”
“Shut your woman up, Cox.”
A hand clamps over my mouth.
“Here we are. Gallery.”.
My eyes grow wide above Logan’s palm. He can’t look in there; he’s going to find—
“What’s this?” he snorts, twisting his wrist. And as he flicks through the photos of my paintings: the ones of Logan’s stormy eyes, my grip on reality falters. Heat floods my cheeks, and my knees buckle. The hard grip on my mouth softens, and hot breath skates across my skin like a whisper.
“Someone’s got a bit of a crush,” Clarke snickers, eyes gleaming with devilry.
“Clarke.”
The hard voice isn’t Logan or Clarke. It’s Ezio. And it’s the first time I’ve noticed hostility in his tone.
“I’d like to get home tonight, if you can speed things up a little.”
Telepathically, I thank him. Whether he interrupted to save my ass, the embarrassment or because he doesn’t want to be late for his dinner, it doesn’t matter.
“Bueno,” Clarke grumbles, seeming a shade ticked off. But then his smirk returns, and he rotates the device one last time. “Great action shot, Nena. But you do realise the only person this incriminates is the father of your bambino.”
My lips press together beneath Logan’s hand, breath shallow. For once, I have nothing to say.
“Who have you sent this to?”
Logan’s fingers slacken, inviting me to speak. And at first, I consider lying again, but the jagged nails digging into my skin are a silent reminder not to be so foolish.
“My friends back home,” I mumble into his heated palm.
“Are these friends you want to keep?”
“What?” The hysterical cry bursts from my lips and catches Logan off guard. It takes a split second to break free and lunge forward with the intent of clawing the dickhead’s eyes out. But it takes Logan even less time to wrap his arms around me and regain control, despite my struggling.
“Calm down,” Clarke says, waving his hand in the air dismissively, as if I hadn’t just attempted to kill him where he stands.
“I’m just making sure you understand, Nena.
That, because of your foolishness, because of who you’ve sent this to, there’s no escaping this anymore.
You’ve put yourself and others in danger. And given me no choice.”
Logan’s grip tightens.
“Have you heard of Omertà?”
“No!”
Logan’s practically growling in my ear, sending my anxiety spiralling into complete overwhelm.
“It’s the only way, Cox,” he fires back with finality. He shuts his mouth, his jaw audibly crunching with unresolved tension. “Omertà is a code of silence among members of the Mafia.”
“The ma— “
“Don’t make me repeat myself.” My mouth slams shut so quickly, I almost bite my tongue.
“Scar, the gentleman who invested in the gallery? He’s in charge, and I am next in line.
” His voice is way too conversational for the subject at hand.
“Because of your little slip up I need you to swear on Omertà. You’ll become one of us. ”
“On-one of you?” My mouth opens and closes like a fish, stumbling over the words like someone learning the language for the first time.
“Si,” he nods firmly. “It’s the only way we can have confidence in your silence. That you won’t go running to the cops. And it’s the only way we can protect you.”
I wiggle out of Logan’s grip; gaze fixed on Clarke. With his body angled forward, he watches me with eyes like a hawk: sharp, focused.
“You can trust me. I won’t tell anyone,” I raise my chin. “And I’ll be fine; I don’t need protection.”
Clarke throws his head back and howls with laughter. He clutches his chest as the cackle subsides. A wrinkle forms between my brows.
“No offense, Nena, but your word holds little value to me. Considering you’ve lied through your teeth to me several times just this evening alone.”
“I-,” I backtrack at the intensity swirling in his eyes, searching for a different approach. “What will I have to do?” The question hangs in the air. I’m not sure if I truly want an honest answer.
Clarke tilts his head and rubs the stubble lining his chin. “You live by the rule of the mafia. My rule–”
“Not until Scar hands it over, amigo,” Ezio interrupts, raising a lazy hand without turning to face us. “Stop trying to scare her. We’ve already achieved that tenfold.”
Clarke’s snarl curls back into his usual smirk and he rolls his eyes.
“What if I don’t want to?” Even I’ll admit the question makes me sound like a headstrong teenager. I highly doubt I have much choice in the matter.
“You’re out of options, I’m afraid.” The finality in his tone anchors my heart to the depths of my chest. Clarke doesn’t say as much, but I’m guessing the alternative is…not recommended. “Let’s get this over with.”
Why does Logan’s voice sound so dejected? Why has he stopped fighting my corner? He waves his hands in the air before any words can materialise on my tongue.
“This is the only way I can protect you. Both of you.”
My hand instinctively drops to my tummy, rubbing gentle circles to help ease the dull thud against my ribcage. If I want to protect my baby, I must go along with their methods, regardless of how unconventional they may be.
The nod I offer isn’t firm; it’s uncertain, brimming with fear of the unknown. But it’s there.
“Finally,” Ezio beckons me over with a curled finger.
The bed sinks beneath my weight, and the springs creak in protest when Clarke and Logan join us.
Glancing around our small circle fills me with dread.
It almost feels like one of those weird experiments teenagers take part in when they’ve had too much to drink.
You know the ones: talking to the dead, trying to make your peers levitate.
Some kind of immature blood pact between teenagers.
But then I remind myself about the kid floating in the Thames.
Ezio brandishes a knife with the skilful tact of a magician. A weight comes down heavy on my thigh. He doesn’t say anything, just shakes his head slowly, anticipating my need to flee. The knife finds its way to Clarke’s hand, who runs his fingertip along the edge lovingly.
“Hands in.”
The three of them place their hands in the centre of the circle, palms up. Mine is the only one that trembles when I follow suit.
With one swift swing of the blade, Clarke slices through the skin of his open palm. He doesn’t even flinch.
“We swear by omertà.”
Ezio is next in line, and he hisses a little as the blade drags a path through his flesh.
“I swear,” he says.
Then it’s Logan’s turn, and again he displays no reaction to the pain. The blood pools, dripping down over his calloused skin, and the way his eyes are fixated on it, it’s like he wants to bleed.
“I swear,” he repeats.
Clarke’s eyes land on me. My fingers form a tight fist as he extends the knife to me, like he’s offering me a gift.
“I can’t.”
Logan dips his head beside me. Nobody says a word as he reaches for my hand, tugging it from the safety of my lap. Our eyes meet. There’s no storm residing in him anymore. He offers me a small smile, which makes my lips curve a fraction at the edges.
Then, with no warning whatsoever, he thrusts my hand into the middle.
“Logan, no!” I wail, trying to tug it free. But his grip is steadfast, unrelenting. Fear consumes every inch of me as the shiny blade hovers over my palm. There’s no turning back from this.
Logan plunges me into darkness, once again taking my sight.
“Do it!”
A nasty burn flows across my palm the minute the knife slices through the thin skin.
The open wound stings when it mixes with the oxygen in the air.
Tears of regret flow from beneath his hand.
The room floods back, and I take in the sight of the blood collecting in my palm, stark against the pale skin.
“She has to swear,” Clarke grunts.
“Cordelia,” Logan heaves a breath. “It’s done now. Just say the words.”
“I swear,” I whisper.
“Louder. The video won’t pick it up.”
Video? Are we being recorded?
My eyes dart to his, brows meeting in a snarl. “I fucking swear!”
All eyes are on me. Clarke shows his teeth like a hungry piranha. Ezio’s indifference is tangible as he taps an impatient foot on the carpet. And Logan. His chest swells, shoulder muscles coiled tight under his shirt.
“Well done,” Clarke inclines his head in approval, and I really want to reach across and slap him for praising me like a goddamn dog. But he hops to his feet before I get the chance. He low-key scares the crap out of me, anyway.
After rummaging through a chest of drawers, he lobs a roll of material at Logan, who catches it like a pro cricketer.
“Bandage her up.”
Logan’s lithe fingers prise my fist open with surprising tenderness. The blood has seeped into the creases of my palm, starting to clot already. I wince as he starts wrapping the bandage around my hand.
One last knot to secure it in place, and he’s done. None of the men bother wrapping their own wounds and it has me wondering just how many times they’ve performed this fucked-up ritual.
“Cars out back,” Clarke jerks a thumb behind him. “Take her home.”
The cute Hello Kitty keyring dangling from my keys has me jumping up to snatch them from his open hand, but his fingers close at the last minute.
“Don’t let her drive.” Despite talking to Logan, his gaze is on me. “She’s still got shit in her system.”
Logan stands, snatching the keys from the air. “Wasn’t going to,” he replies, angling his head to me. “C’mon. Let’s roll.”
I cross my arms over my chest, glowering.
“Shoes,” I sneer.
“Sure thing, Cinderella.”
The relief of finally escaping that bedroom is dizzying. Being caged in with those three isn’t an experience I intend to repeat anytime soon.