Chapter 15
Izzy
“Wake up.” Someone is shaking me and, within seconds, I know it’s Him. Last night, I fell asleep on Adelmo.
I stretch and find I’m curled up with my head and half my body on his stomach. Looking up through the blur of sleep, I catch him gazing down at me. A quizzical expression rides him, his mouth taut.
And I remember. Today is when I die.
I scramble up and prop myself on my hands, bring my sleep-tortured body into some sort of order.
“It’s soon?” My smile is weak and surely reeks of my knowledge of my oncoming doom.
“There is no food, but get some water, tidy up. They opened the door and said ten minutes, tops, before we leave. Keep your dress on.”
I wince, imagining him, or someone else, ripping it off me. I’m sure to be violated if any of this goes wrong, and it will go wrong. The odds are bad. I brace myself and get to my feet. He’s grabbed my hand, and he climbs up and stands with me then cups my face. The tenderness he’s showing is heart-breaking.
“Why?” I ask. I think, no, I know that he gets the reason behind the question.
Why now? Why us? Why couldn’t we have met some other time, some other place?
“I don’t know.” His swallow is stark. The man is nervous. That can’t be normal for him. “I have a word for you. When you hear it, drop to the floor or get as low as you can. Run for the nearest exit, if you can, or stick to the periphery of the room. It’s ‘shrike’. Got that?”
“Okay. Shrike.” I stare at him, sinking into his light-gray eyes. “Periphery…that’s another big word.”
“Yes.” My joke goes wide. “Just do it. I am going to do everything I can to keep you alive, Izzy.”
He squeezes my hand. My next breath is shaky and excruciating.
The march of time has brought me to this day, and I cannot reverse it, no matter what I do or think. I can only withstand the blows, the pain, the awfulness that is to come.
“Sure. I will do that, and…” I look down and heave in a breath then meet his gaze again. “Thank you.”
“Forgive me for whatever I might do, for it will not be my choice.”
“I will. I do.” I bite back a laugh at what sounds like a marriage vow. “I’ll go get a drink.”
When I’m done, I stand near the door with him, waiting, and he’s holding my hand and looking thoughtful as if he’s pulled all of himself into one confined spot in his mind.
Concentrating on what he must do, I guess.
I know now he means to help me, but at what cost, and what chance of success?
The door cracks open.
He crushes my hand for a long second then then releases it, steps in front of me.
But the men who come through the door usher him out first. One goes behind me to tie my hands. Zip-ties, nothing fancy, but impossible to break. I hiss when he knocks my bandaged hand.
The man who tied me laughs and bends over me to say, “Did that hurt? You are going to get what’s coming to you.”
“A cock in every hole then a new hole in her head?” the second man suggests.
“Yeah. That. Move!” He shoves me, and I start walking.
Adelmo has been hustled off ahead of me, and I cannot see him.
Fuck this whole fucking day.
In a room on the next deck, they have me sit and wait. Fifteen, twenty minutes go by.
They urge me to my feet and bring me to the upper deck. Though I look everywhere, Adelmo is nowhere in sight.
Dressed in the flimsy white dress that has stains on it from sitting on the floor for hours, I’m guided across the gangway and onto a private jetty.
A crisply designed white mansion overlooks a small bay, where this yacht is the only moored boat. The glass balconies, stone walls, the manicured hedges, and the designer timber accoutrements say this place is built on money. Dark money, money greased by crime and the drug and sex trade.
It’s still pretty.
A breeze ruffles my hair and flaps the dress against my legs, cooling me, while the sun heats my back. What lies before me might be the last beauty I see.
My legs tremble, but I make them be still.
Once inside the house, I’m going to need steel in my spine to stay upright.
“Keep walking.”
I’m poked in the back, and I stumble forward, barely stop myself faceplanting.
The jetty timbers echo with our footfalls. The sea shushes to shore in meek waves. It’s early morning, and I have to walk through a small crowd of men watching their surroundings, sharp-eyed as if for signs of anything amiss.
Their semi-formal pants and shirts, and the guns in holsters tell me Montez has brought a small army to this meeting.
Wherever this is, the law is far away, or it’s here and has been paid not to see anything. Two of the men fall in behind my escort, only to peel off and take up positions further along.
On the walk up to the house on a stone pathway, I ignore the callous threats thrown at me. Thankfully, those are rare. I’m trying not to cry. I don’t want to give these beasts any satisfaction, and some of them would love to see fear on my face. That I can barely swallow due to my throat being clogged with smothered whimpers, that my hands are freezing despite the warm sun, those I can hide. Soon, those signs may be forced from me.
Adelmo must have already entered the house. He’s nowhere on the pathway.
At the door, the weapons of my escort are surrendered to a guard before being placed in a long box on a chic, blue-toned timber bench. This must be some sort of peace zone for these rival criminals. I wonder who is policing this meeting. My shadowy Mr. Smith or someone else?
The double, timber-framed glass doors are propped open. The atrium is a showpiece—a glass box engraved with wave patterns. The floor ripples with yellow sunlight. Further in, a stairway with a golden railing and glass risers sweeps upward to a mezzanine area.
Again, this is perfectly pretty but all I can think is where does he plan to kill me, debase me, torture me?
Instead of ascending, the men escorting me shove me to the right, toward a wide opening that leads into a large room. Two long tables have been arranged facing each other, both with three chairs along one side. A Conference of Crime would be my tagline for this.
Carafes of water or wine sit on the tables along with silver cutlery, glasses, and goblets. Between the tables, in the middle of the floor, is a set of stocks.
Archaic, medieval-style stocks, with places for the head and hands to be locked down.
I know that is meant for me, so I refuse to examine it. Against the wall, two black-clad waitresses stand, wearing short, pleated skirts but demure tops. They eye me, impassively.
The movers and shakers, the rich men and women this was organized for, will be sitting here soon, in this room. Watching. Laughing. Wanking, if their name is Montez. My hatred of him boils to the surface. If I can hang onto that hate, I can weather this.
Voices sound behind me, from somewhere near the atrium we just vacated.
Adelmo’s voice.
He is here, chatting casually and ambling forward with two other men. They’re heading for where I stand. The others are Montez and Kasimir Stern. Kasimir’s thick, tousled black hair and small beard are instantly recognizable from the news. This is the man who wants to be the next president, and his hands are stained with murder and worse. Everyone knows it, and no one does anything.
Adelmo sees me, where I wait with two men guarding me, and he pays me zero attention.
It’s a knife to my heart—a small dubious knife. I trust you. I trust you not. How long have I known him? It’s been one day, something over twenty-four hours, and for most of that time he was sexually torturing me. Sure, he made me come. That he enjoyed doing it, too, would be a black mark against him in most people’s worlds.
Not in mine.
Have I promised the world to a monster?
I shouldn’t take that indifference as anything bad. He’s busy.
“This is her? Izabella Fenway?” Kasimir asks.
“Put her on her knees,” Montez commands, and I’m pushed down, the men’s hands on my shoulders, until my knees thump, painfully, onto the tiled floor. “Yes. This is her. A good catch, no? Our friend here, Mr. Smith, will be putting on a show with her, fucking her, some cutting perhaps. What is to your taste, Kasimir?”
The fake friendliness in that repulsive offer is clear, though I’m concentrating on the floor. I will not meet their eyes.
“No. Don’t. Just shoot her. A bullet in the head and be done with it.”
“What?” Montez is obviously aghast.
So am I. How can I be saved? Indeed, no matter what is decided, how is it he thought it was possible?
Maybe it never was. Maybe he raised hope to keep me happy…or to make this moment even more shocking.
“Do it. Kill her. I’m not having her screaming while we negotiate.”
Fuck.
“I rather liked Montez’s idea.” That’s Adelmo, and he comes around behind me, though I refuse to acknowledge him. He lowers himself. His breath ghosts across my back, and his hands rummage there, grabbing the zip-tie binding me. There is a snick, and I feel the release when he cuts me free. My bad hand is throbbing again but it’s the least of my worries.
“We should put her in the stocks,” he says. “At least for a while? Let’s have some fun.”
I dare to look up as he moves away. He is supposed to save me. He cut the bindings. He must have a reason?
I won’t beg. I won’t. Then I lock onto him, and he regards me as if he’s felt the weight of my gaze.
Nothing. I see nothing in his eyes. No feelings, apart from resignation and possibly hostility.
Despair claws a nest inside me and settles there, cooing to itself. My stomach rebels, swarming as it is with rot, lies, and betrayal. I may vomit on someone.
“No.” That’s Kasimir again, interjecting firmly. “No. Take her outside where one of the men has a gun. Shoot her. Dispose of her body later. No torture, no rape.”
“Really?” Adelmo asks him again.
“Yes, fucking really.” Now Kasimir has steel in his eyes.
I can feel Death moving in. Too soon. It’s way too soon. Please no.
I am not ready.
“Stop questioning me, Mr. Smith. You are. Just. The middleman here. You pair! Take her outside.”
Montez makes a disappointed face then shrugs. “Okay. Just go shoot her outside, you two. In the head. Pew!” He mimes that to me with a finger-gun at his head, as my escorts hook their hands under my arms and drag me higher. “Tie her again, before you shoot her. No mistakes.”
“Yes, sir.”
As they propel me toward the atrium, they argue over what to tie me with.
“We’re not using a belt. It’s not secure.”
“That doorman then. Ask him. It’s not needed for long.”
“If she runs away, it’s on you.”
“She can’t outrun a fucking bullet.”