2. Chapter 2
Ines
This day just keeps getting worse.
The carriage windows are tinted and hinder my view of what lies outside.
Wherever I'm going is to be deliberately kept a secret.
I lift myself onto the tufted velvet bench and run my fingers across the soft, luxurious material.
Considering I've spent the last three months sleeping on a stone slab with a blanket that didn't stretch to cover my frame, the dense fabric spurs me to hope – if Heaven is real – it's covered in velvet.
The buggy jerks forward, snapping me into action. I pound my fist against the ceiling and shout, "Where are you taking me?"
"You'll see." A voice from the darkness answers.
I jump and instinctively bring my hand to the blade strapped to my waist.
An orange flame ignites, illuminating a man dressed in black with a matching black sackcloth mask. His hooded cape shrouds most of his body from me. He sparks a small lamp to life inside the cabin.
"Who the hell are you?"
"Personally, I would have led with thank you for saving my life," he lights his cigarette and inhales deeply. "But I suppose that's where we differ, Senorita de la Vega."
"Saved my life?" My mind spins, fighting to put the puzzle pieces together. "What do you mean by that? How do you know my name?"
He sighs, as if I bore him by existing. "Yet still, no thank you. If it weren’t for me, your head would be on the ground."
"Forgive me," I crinkle my nose, curling my fingers around the hilt of my dagger. "I was far more concerned with the masked man appearing out of thin air than contemplating my unexpected release."
"I would have gathered you from the prison, but I value my privacy. Wagging tongues of prison guards is the last thing we need."
"We?" I spit. "There is no we. I don't even know who you are – "
"I already explained it to you," he interrupts, exhaling smoke my direction. "I'm the man who saved your life, even if you don't care."
Seeing we're making zero progress, I roll my eyes and succumb. "Thank you, Senor…?"
"You may call me Salvador."
Savior. I snort. "How very dramatic of you. Is that even your real name?"
His hand suddenly flies to grab my throat, but I parry his attack, jerking out of reach. When I glance up, I see him nod in approval.
"Quick reflexes,” he muses in what could be mistaken as a delighted voice. “Effective defensive maneuvers. Calm and collected under pressure."
Is he appraising me?
I steel my features, doing my best to appear unfazed. I pray it’s dark enough that he can’t see my eye twitch. "When you're done with your weird assessment, will you tell me where you're taking me?"
He shakes his head. "No."
"So, should I start guessing?"
"No."
"And the mystery intensifies."
"I would curb the sarcasm if I were you." His warning falls on deaf ears.
Clicking my tongue, I shrug and say, "Afraid I can't do that. Sarcasm runs in my blood."
He flicks his rapier from the darkness and presses the tip against my neck.
I grimace as a hint of warmth spreads, a trickle of blood sliding down my skin like a falling tear.
He smirks, and though I can't make out his face behind the mask, I can see how deadly his eyes are, and it sends a shiver down my spine.
"And she shows no fear in the face of death.
Impressive. I know powerful men who would beg for their lives.
" He cocks his head to the side. "Would you care to try it? "
Even with the weapon pressed to my neck, I can’t help myself from egging him on. Something about his haughty attitude brings out a fire in my core. "You should ask the warden about my thoughts on begging," I say, my tone even. Thank the Saints.
His shoulders tighten. "Did he harm you?"
"Does the phantom suddenly care for the little thief?"
His brow furrows. "Did. He. Harm. You?" There’s no disguising the menace in his tone. It’s a voice that begs lesser men to fall to their knees.
"No," I lie. Upon my arrival, the warden greeted me in my cell with his cock in hand promising extra rations of food and a warm blanket. When I laughed, two guards pinned me against the wall, and he gave me a beating that took a month to heal.
"So, the idea of begging for your life —"
"Begging is beneath me," I interrupt, wondering when he’s going to realize who truly has the upper hand here. "Especially when you pose me no true threat."
He leans forward, rooting his elbows to his knees. "How do you figure? My blade has drawn blood. What if my hand slips? Or we hit a bump in the road?"
"Due to your obsession with my neck, you've forgotten one very important thing."
"Which is?"
The sound of my pistol cocking draws his gaze to my hip where I have a clear shot at him. "Care to beg?"
He chuckles, the sound deep enough to raise the hair on my arms. Yet he merely lowers his weapon with a practiced flourish.
"Though I might find your spunk amusing, your new employer will not.
I suggest you heed my warning and behave.
She will not hesitate to throw you back into prison for a swift execution. "
"And what, pray tell, am I being employed to do?"
"Again" – he resituates in his seat, sheathing his rapier – "it is not my task to enlighten you. I am merely here to escort you."
"Well, Salvador," — I decock my gun and rest it in my lap, though I keep it pointed at him just in case— "Let it be known that this is your only warning. Raise your blade to me again and I'll carve out your eyes and ram them down your throat."
He laughs. A bold, boisterous, sultry laugh that catches me off-guard. "I like you."
I cross one leg over the other and say, "The feeling is far from mutual."
"My money is on you," he says after a brief silence.
"What is that supposed to mean?"
But before he can answer any more of my questions, the buggy comes to a sudden halt. I fly from my seat, the world spinning before I land hard against solid muscle. A yelp leaves me as I glance up from where my body is spread across my escort's lap.
His molten brown eyes dance in wicked delight. "On your knees before me already? I thought for sure it would take a few weeks before you – "
I shove the barrel of my pistol against his groin, silencing him, and slither up toward his ear. He sucks in a breath when I straddle him and whisper, "I'm more likely to stab you than screw you."
He hums in the back of his throat. "We'll see about that, Vibora." Viper.
The carriage door swings open, and lights from a villa porch pour inside. If the driver is taken aback by the sight of how indecently close Salvador and I are, he gives no sign of it. I climb to my feet when Salvador grabs my arm.
"Apologies, Vibora."
A black hood is thrown over my head and I'm enveloped in darkness.
Just because my sight has been taken, doesn't mean my other senses can't decipher where I am.
As Salvador escorts me, holding my bicep firmly, I hear the water lapping nearby but fail to detect the cacophony of noise that the Market, Financial or Night districts are known for.
The combination of sweet, spicy and hints of citrus scents draw my attention to the red carnations in the area.
With a ship's horn blaring in the distance, it solidifies there's only one place I can be: the Garden District.
It's where some of the wealthiest and most powerful Dons and Donas dwell and it also happens to be the only place I wouldn't dare try to burglarize.
Dragged along a gravel pathway, I silently count my steps until my boots thud against hardwood floors.
Assuming I'm inside the villa, I'm pulled up a flight of stairs and shoved sharply to the left once we hit the platform.
The bang of a heavy door closes behind me and I'm led deeper inside the room.
Only when Salvador grabs both of my shoulders do I stop, grinding my teeth as he pushes me down onto a cushioned chair.
My elbow smacks against the wooden armrest, wrenching a string of hissed curses from my lips.
"Well, that is not ladylike at all."
An older woman's raspy voice stretches toward me as the hood is finally peeled over my head.
It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust before my sights settle on a well-dressed Dona sitting on a velvet couch across from me.
Unlike Salvador, she does not wear a mask.
Her mature beauty and great wealth aren't to be missed.
Strings of pearls wrap around her weathered neck to the point I think she might face plant before me from the weight.
Diamond bracelets sparkle around her dainty wrists and the gold heirloom broach pinned to her scarlet red blouse boasts her impressive lineage and longstanding name in Orlencia.
House Otero is one of the oldest founding families in the city, and though they no longer have a seat in the High Council, their opinion still carries weight amongst the common people and forces the Dons in the Soberano's government to think twice before crossing them.
Otero Shipping also holds a monopoly on import and export business.
If trade is to be done, merchandise is to be sent across the sea, or Orlencians are planning a trip, all of them have to do business with Otero Shipping.
There have been rumors for generations that members of House Otero never hold grudges long because they ensure those who have wronged them are never seen or heard from again.
The sudden tilt of the matriarch's jaw draws my focus up to her pristine white hair, which is tugged into a feminine bun atop her head. Slowly, my gaze drags down to meet her cunning, cat-like hazel eyes. A world of mysteries hides behind that stoic gaze and if I’m not careful, I might become one of those secrets.
Her ringed fingers stretch across the gold lynx hand-cast pommel of her black cane and with one smash of her walking stick against the dark wooden floors, my heart leaps straight to my throat.
"Cursing is not ladylike," she repeats with a sharpness in her pursed lips.
"I never claimed to be a lady, Dona Otero."