My aching head doesn’t like being upright. The world tilts under me, and my knuckles turn white from how tightly I’m forced to clutch the sink’s basin. I wish the mirror weren’t there, throwing my pathetic reflection back at me. Vinny’s Lynn is a bloody mess. A drying layer of it coats the right side of my neck. My ear...it’s missing the entire lower lobe. All that’s left behind is a jagged, bloody edge clinging to cartilage. For some reason, the state of my hair strikes me as more pressing. Half of it has remained carefully coiled the way Vinny wanted. The rest hangs loose and wild almost to my waist.
I frown, straining my features. With one hand still clutching the sink, I tug at the elegant knot until my hair is completely free, violating another one of Vinny’s rules. The thought makes me smile, a ghoulish expression in the dim lighting. He would hate to see me like this, filthy and pale—but I can’t deny myself of every basic necessity he would approve of.
“D-do you have another rag?” I croak out to the man standing near the doorway.
He doesn’t answer, but after a quick search of the room, I spot the towel he gave me the night before. Most of it is soaked red, but there’s a sliver of untouched white about the width of my hand. I’m less unsteady when I stoop to grab it, and I almost don’t sway when I return to the mirror.
Licking my lips in concentration, I wet the clean part of the towel and then use it to wipe at my throat. I can’t silence a whine when I nick part of my ruined ear. The pain...it makes splotches of color splash across my vision.Blue. Green. Yellow.With effort, I ignore them and attack as much of the dried blood as I can. Then I set the towel aside and run my fingers through my hair. Shapeless bobby pins litter the floor, too mangled to be of much use.With nothing to tie it up with, I settle for leaving it down—another silent sign of disobedience.
My ear starts to bleed again by the time I finish. A wad of toilet paper staunches most of it, though it burns like hell to press it against the wound. My eyes streaming, I risk asking the man another question he’ll probably ignore. “Do you have peroxide?”
No answer.
“Tape?”
He turns on his heel and retreats down what seems to be a darkened hallway. In his absence, I manage to open the cabinet behind the mirror with one hand and find a bottle of hydrogen peroxide there. It takes more mental preparation than I’d like before I can gather enough nerve to wet a fresh wad of toilet paper with it.
It’s funny how Vinny can beat and terrorize me, but I’ve trained myself not to scream—only, when I inflict pain upon myself, such as by attempting to sanitize my wounds, I can’t stop myself from crying out. The harsh whimper echoes until I shove my free hand into my mouth and bite down on the knuckles. That newer pain combats the rest while I hold the peroxide to my ear for thirty agonizing seconds. I’m panting when I let go, and the ruined flesh of my ear bubbles and sizzles beneath the cleansing fluid. It’s not bleeding anymore, at least. I take a carefully measured strip of toilet paper from the roll and begin to wrap it around as much of the wound as I can. I barely notice when my captor returns and places something down on the counter before me: a roll of silver duct tape.
My fingers tremble while I consider my options. Left with no other choice, I carefully bite a square of tape off with my teeth. When paired with a wadded piece of toilet paper, it makes for an impromptu bandage. The sight isn’t pretty, but it will have to do for now.
When I open the medicine cabinet to put the alcohol away, I spot a toothbrush lying on one of the shelves, beside a half-emptytube of toothpaste. My hesitation lasts all of five seconds before I grab it and wet it beneath a drop of water from the faucet. My captor watches on stoically as I prime the bristles with a bead of toothpaste. He says nothing as I attack my mouth with the borrowed instrument. Irrelevant concerns flash through my mind. This is unsanitary. Unhygienic. Rude.
None of it really matters a damn anyway. When I spit, the remains of whatever meal I had last circle the drain, and at least some part of me feels cleaner.Besides,I realize as I place the toothbrush and the tube of toothpaste back into the cabinet and close the mirrored door,if these men plan to do to me what was done to the girl in the video, they should appreciate the courtesy.
“Okay,” I breathe out, observing my ramshackle reflection. With both hands braced against the counter, I turn to watch my captor from my periphery.
He’s watching me as well, but his expression gives me no clue as to what he thinks. I wait, keeping my posture as still as possible so that he knows I’m ready to follow him now.
Five seconds pass. Then he turns on his heel and retreats down the hallway once again, but this time, I creep after him. It’s cramped and narrow wherever we are. Not even a few feet down from the bathroom is another doorway that opens onto a minuscule bedroom. There’s a mattress, which looks unmade, on the center of the floor. Nothing more than what appears to be a bedsheet nailed above the frame covers the only window. There’s something chilling about the space when the stranger enters it, leaving me at the threshold.
He stalks over to a pile of what appears to be clothes in the corner. On one knee, he crouches and rummages through the pile. When he stands, he’s holding a black jacket in one hand, which he casually slips on over his bulky frame. I hate that I flinch when he heads toward me, his posture unreadable, but he only pushes past me and heads down the opposite end of the hall. Before I can follow, his voice reaches me on a grunt.
“Stay here.”
Here.My bare toes flex against the rough carpet, though I don’t know where my shoes might be. I don’t even remember taking them off. I don’t find them when I give the room another passing glance. An alarm clock on the floor near the makeshift bed proclaims that it’s barely seven a.m., and I laugh just once out loud, wincing at the pathetic sound. I’ve been free from Vinny for nearly twelve hours. It all seems so surreal.
Dizziness paired with exhaustion is the only reason I enter that damn room. My body has a mind of its own. My legs give out, pitching me forward, facedown on the mattress. I groan when my ear connects with a wall of pillows, but for some reason, I can’t seem to pull myself upright.
I’m simply too tired. Twelve hours have aged me twelve million years. Common sense can’t make a dent in the instinctive, overwhelming need to close my eyes and stop moving. So I do. The mattress is lumpy. The blankets smell like musk and a man.Him.His essence permeates the air—so different from Vinny’s chosen aroma of cologne and intimidation. Maybe it’s the simplicity of it that lures me asleep?
It’s so strange to lie in the den of an animal that doesn’t try to disguise what it truly is.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Dante
There’ssomething instinctively soothing about holding a beer bottle in one hand and a weapon in the other. It appeals to both of a man’s baser instincts in one go. Words can’t explain the tremor that runs through me as I take a swig of booze while testing the weight of a pistol in my grip. It’s a comforting heaviness. Familiar. My head feels clearer when I set it onto the counter and finally glance at Arno from my periphery.
“So, who is she?”
The man sighs. I doubt he’s slept. He reeks of booze and sweat. Dark circles line his eyes like shadows. Nursing his own beer, he takes a sip of it. “Vincent Stacatto’s whore,” he finally says.
Whore.Something about that word doesn’t fit when applied to the girl upstairs. Someone’s pet? Maybe. A debutante mob-princess? Perhaps. But whore? No.
I picture the way she moved, even when half dumb with pain. She never let her posture slouch. She kept that pert little nose high in the air. She never flinched away from meeting my gaze,and the way she pampered herself in the bathroom was as if she’d been at the fucking Ritz-Carlton.
That woman is no whore.
