“Can I ask you something?” She’s looking at the floor, her expression unreadable.
“Yes?”
“Piotr. If you saw him again. If he came after you. Would you kill him?”
It’s a dangerous question. The most alarming aspect is howquickly I come up with an answer. “Yes.”
“Good.” She meets my gaze again, her eyes blazing. For a split second, she seems eons older than she should. Someone who’s experienced more suffering than most people do in a lifetime. “Anyway, Frank said we could come downstairs early,” she says, effortlessly changing the subject. “He said he’ll give us some food and show us the ropes before the bar opens.”
“Frank?”
“Francisco.” She takes her time, pronouncing every syllable. “He got pissed with how I was butchering his name and told me to just call him that. He let me in last night too. You fell asleep with the door locked.” She flashes a mischievous grin I don’t have the energy to return.
“Sorry.”
“It’s all right,” she says, shrugging. “But let’s go now. Frank tends to yell.”
Taking the hint, I pull myself upright, groaning as every ache and paindecideto make themselves known. My left arm is on fire. My hand feels no better. I need to eat something, preferably something other than bread and alcohol.
Domi stares as I fish a clean set of clothes from Darcy’s bag, and I have to stagger down the hall and into the small bathroom to find some semblance of privacy.
I barely recognize the woman staring back at me from the mirror. She’s old. She’s haggard. Piotr’s mark taints her skin, spreading like cancer. Even with the dark curtain of hair shielding part of her face, she won’t be able to hide from him. Maybe she doesn’t really want to.
Moya lyubov.
I rinse my mouth out with water and spit every ounce of my fear into the sink. Using my wet fingers as a makeshift comb, I ease the worst of the tangles from my hair. Out of theclothingDarcy picked, I settle on a white tank top and a pair of denim shorts. In the end, I don’t know if it’s modesty or something elsethat drives me back into the bedroom forEspisido’sjacket. It’s long enough to cover even the shorts, and when I zip it up to my chin, it’s almost like I’m wearing nothing else.
“Let’s go,” I tell Domi, who’s still watching me from a corner.
She leads the way out into the hallway. Down below, the bar is deathly silent. It’s also a fucking wreck. Broken glass and plastic cups clutter the floor while a lone figure attempts to clean it all up.
“Grab a broom,” he snarls the moment we approach. “And I don’t want to hear shit about how it’s ‘not your job.’”
Domi and I obey without argument. An hour later, the floor is clear, at least.
After that, I help Francisco restock the shelves behind the bar with liquor from a storage closet while Domi attempts to make whatever drink he calls out within a specified amount of time.
She’s good—a realization that surprises him more than it does me. Piotr probably kept her at his personal table on the nights she worked inside the club. I recognize the unnaturally steady way she manipulates the bottles and how her dead eyes disguise all emotion.
He trained her well, too.
“The girls don’t go on stage until nine at night,” Francisco tells me when I hand him a whiskey bottle to set onto a high shelf. “You gonna stick around until then and make yourself useful?”
Rather than answer him, I grab a broom and work on the floor. By the time he opens the pub at ten in the morning, Domi’s already poised to manage the bar, and I help to minimize the mess.
Mulligan’s attracts a decent crowd, even before noon. It’s like Arno’s chosen thugs live by the closing and opening of the battered wooden doors. By midafternoon, Francisco has broken up at least four fights, and he’s in the middle of separating another brawling pair when Arno himself walks in.
Just like that, the entire atmosphere changes, feeding off thefigure who dominates the doorway. He determinedly scans the crowd with his green eyes. Searching. Hunting. When they find their chosen target, they narrow.
“You,” he growls, his voice easily traveling across the bar. “Come on. We need to talk.”
I don’t meet anyone’s gaze as I set the broom aside and follow him toward that infamous “tea party” room. Once we’re inside, he slams the door shut and gestures to the table with a wave of his hand.
“Have a seat.”
I do, and he takes the one across from me,splayinghis legs on either side of the table while his hands palm the surface between us.
“What’s your name? And don’t fucking try toshitme, either. I want the truth.”
