I don’t follow her into the bathroom, entering the kitchen instead and flicking the light switch. Arno had it stocked with food the day I showed up on his doorstep, but what little there was is nearly gone; there are just two eggs and a rind of bread left over. Sighing, I run a hand along the side of my jeans and feel the crunch of a few crisp dollars in my left pocket.
“What do you want?” I turn to find her creeping up the hallway, rubbing her wet hands on the front of my shirt.
She looks like a zombie in the shadows; a blood-stained,bruised, violated corpse animated only from her eyes. She cocks her head. “What do I—”
“Toeat,” I clarify. “What do you want to eat?”
She still looks confused. “Whatever you think is—” She cuts the words off, clenching her jaw—something I notice she does whenever she’s trying to break a habit she learned fromhim.Handshakes. Polite words. Prissy little posture.
Stacatto trained her well for life as the whore of a crime lord.
“I want...” Her eyes narrow in concentration as if thinking for herself is a hard skill to master. “Thai,” she says finally. Her own frown reveals that she knows that it’s a stupid request—one I definitely won’t obey—but she can’t seem to stop herself from saying it anyway. She needed to hear it come out of her own mouth.I want Thai.
It’s a haughty little request. I want to write it off as a byproduct of her living in the lap of stolen luxury, but I can’t. It’s something Espi would ask for. He used to make a game out of how many exotic foods he could try in a week. Living off takeout was the skill of a kid who’d grown up without a mom to cook for him and an idiot like me to scrape his meals together.
I don’t answer when I head for the door and enter the hallway, but I lock it behind me, tucking the key Arno gave me into my pocket. The pub is packed when I head downstairs. Arno’s throwing a party, it seems, but I don’t find his red hair mingling through the crowd by the time I reach the door and head out onto the street.
It’s a slow, cold walk up a nearly deserted block in search of any food place open this late. I won’t get fucking Thai. Maybe Mexican or some cheap-ass fast food.
If she doesn’t like it, then the little bitch can starve.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Daniela
Lucifer returns,bearing gifts in a brown paper bag. My body aches from sitting on the floor, waiting for him. The couch is a hostile domain lording over the other side of the room, so my new perch is in a corner near the fridge with my back braced against the wall, my legs stretched out over the linoleum.
He doesn’t see me at first when he comes in and sets the bag down on the counter that conveniently shields my position. I start to stand, but something makes me take my time and observe him safely from my hiding place.
He is a cold, dark shell of a man. Humanity is a mask he wears to keep the mere mortals around him from panicking at the sight of the evil smoldering within his skin. His eyes are predators hunting beneath a jungle of dark hair. His mouth is a cage—he rarely says anything he doesn’t mean. An unusual display of restraint and of freedom. So many people are forced to parrot whatever lies they pretend to believe in order to earn money or stay alive. His brutal honesty is as rare as it is dangerous.
“I belong to no one.”
“I’m here,” I say, rising to my feet when his eyes begin to stalk the corners, his body tensing.
I raise my hands, revealing that I don’t have the knife. It’s still on the floor, and he makes sure by spotting it there, beside the wall. Then he open the bag rips and places his offering on the counter between us.
I blink, my nose twitching to register the exotic, spicy scent ofgaeng daengandshrimp pad Thai.I don’t let myself register the fact that he obeyed my request. I snatch up a plastic set of silverware instead. Verbalthank-yousare for humans, so I show my gratitude by stabbing at a piece of food and choking it down.
It’s good. I’m leaning over the counter before I can help it, shoveling more into my mouth. Hot, spicy, fragrant, messy. Sauce and loose noodles coat my chin, but I don’t bother to wipe them away. Vinny wouldn’t approve, and every bite tastes even sweeter from knowing that.
Lucifer watches me, however. I know that it’s rude that I don’t stop to offer him any, but I can’t seem to regain control of my body until the last greasy morsel goes down my throat and all traces of it have been licked from my fingers.
The dangerous silence that falls between us doesn’t require anything to fill it. It’s almost better if we maintain the lethal tension that determines the boundary of captor and captive. I have every intention of playing my role—Ido. Until I look up. Questions cloud the devil’s gaze before he can hide them. They distort the blue of his eyes. He almost looks human.
“We lived near a Thai restaurant when I was growing up,” I say, allowing my plastic fork to fall against the countertop. “My parents got food from there at least once a week. My father said that it reminded him of the food back home, but I think he was joking.” My throat aches. Talking about the past hurts worse than reliving my hell with Vinny. Some wounds are too deep to risk prodding. I’m bleeding out words, and I just can’t stop. “We came from São Paulo when I was eight. My mother got a job at afactory, and my father worked construction and cleaned for a contractor at night. I went to school in the city, but I knew very little English, and the kids liked to tease the strange Brazilian girl.”
I laugh at the memory, though the treatment stung at the time. Back then, the world of Daniela Manzano only consisted of two dolls with cornflower hair—Maria and Isabelli—a small apartment in the slums of downtown, herMãeAna, herPaiDaniel, and a youngerIrmãoChristoph. She liked the color blue and loved reading books from her father’s lap, hearing him translate the words in his nativePortuguês. The world was smaller then. Simpler. Happier.
“I didn’t have a lot of friends,” I admit, compelled to keep telling my sordid tale, even though he doesn’t want to hear it; he stoically eyes the wall behind my head. “Then, one day...I met a boy. His family members were immigrants too. He was older than I was, but his English was better. I think he took pity on me, at first... He would walk me home. Help me with my pronunciation. We’d play games in the street until my father had to come and drag me inside...”
Lucifer listens in silence. I don’t know if he’s already guessed the identity of the new character introduced in the story when I finally reveal it.
“His name was Vincent. His family had come over from Italy, but he didn’t like to talk about it. America was his home now. He liked green. He liked to read. He loved classical music.” It’s a simple list I used to repeat to myself before my soul became numb to his violence. Back when I wanted to believe that boy was still there, lurking somewhere within the monster’s skin.“When he was fourteen, his mother was murdered buying groceries. A man working for some local gang had tried to rob the place. He used her as a hostage and killed her when things got out of hand. I think...I think all the good in him died that day.”
I wrinkle my nose at the memory, trying to pinpoint the exactmoment the boy—my dearest friend—became a stranger. “He tracked down the gangsters on some stupid plan for revenge, and they broke his legs in five places with baseball bats. He still has a limp,” I add, my voice falling flat. “After that, a man by the name of Antoni Capella found him in the streets and took him under his wing. He was from Italy too and had mob connections in the city.” To hear Vinny tell it, the man was a god, a more admirable father than the one he’d left behind grieving with a bottle of whiskey in the ghetto. “After that...”
I trail off. There is a whole new chapter of the story to tell, but I’m too exhausted to turn the page. I stare down at the empty food containers instead. I suffer Lucifer’s careful, silent scrutiny and pretend not to notice—but it’s a much harder game to play now than before. Too many smells taint the air between us. Too many stains. Too many secrets. Too many lies.
