Perfect Vision

by L. M. Halloran

  Revulsion shivers up my spine, lodging in my throat. Bile rises, but I choke it down. Dominic was wrong—or his first guess was right. Rudy wasn’t interested in me being his heir, after all.

  I snarl at him. “Are you going to bid on me, you sick fuck?”

  All pretense disappears as he steps toward me, curled fingers vibrating with fury. “Wouldn’t you rather it was me? I’d take care of you, London. Give you whatever you want.” His gaze lowers, then lifts with new heat. “Children. A family.”

  I’ve heard of the term struck sober before, but now I know it’s real. Everything is prismatically clear, tens of smaller facts crystallizing into a larger picture. An abhorrent one.

  “You killed your wife because she was infertile,” I gasp out. “You freaked out when I told you Paul and I were going to start a family. That’s when everything changed. When you blackmailed Paul. Started destroying our lives. Why? Because in your deranged mind, you thought I might want you? You were like a father to me! Not to mention you’re twenty years older than me!”

  “Age is nothing, London. Our minds are perfect complements. You were—can still be—the ideal woman for me. I only wish I’d found you before that spineless meathead did. I should have cleared the way for us a long time ago. Tell me you’ve never wondered…”

  He reaches for me; I recoil against the wall. Sighing, he straightens his bowtie, then his shoulders. Composed, undaunted, unquestionably evil, he smiles warmly.

  “Sentimentality has always been my largest defect. As such, I’m willing to offer one last time.” He extends his hand. “I’ll give you a life beyond your wildest dreams, London.”

  I pretend to consider it, watching his expression shift to hesitant relief.

  “I’ll take door number two, asshole.”

  51

  Door number two leads to a black box with three walls, the third composed of dark, reflective glass. Rudy’s grip pinches my elbow as he forces me up a few steps onto a platform lit by glaring overhead lights. The similarities—and profound differences—to Crossroad’s Epicenter aren’t lost on me. There, I found redemption, goodness, and peace. Despite being elevated, here I’m lower. Closer to Hell.

  Cinder enters behind us and guards the door. For what purpose, I don’t know—the drugs have reasserted control over my body. I’m woozy, docile. My heels are like stilts. If Rudy lets go of my arm, I’ll go splat. Which actually sounds nice. The floor is stable. Likely cool to the touch, a relief against my flushed skin. But he doesn’t let go. If anything, his grip grows progressively tighter, pinching nerves. My pinkie and ring fingers go numb.

  “Gentlemen, welcome.” Rudy speaks toward the glass, his smile serene, like he’s auctioning an artifact not a person. His next words confirm just how fucked up this is. “As this item has special value to me, I wanted to personally present it to you. As you can see, the wait was worthwhile.”

  There’s a small crackle of an intercom coming to life. “The gentleman are pleased. Turn her around for us, Schultz.”

  Reznikov. No mistaking his oily tenor, the accented vowels.

  As Rudy puts pressure on my arm, spinning me, I wave a middle finger at the glass. “Fuck you, Ivan!” I sing loudly.

  There’s an eruption of voices behind the glass before the intercom snaps off.

  Rudy shakes my arm. “You stupid woman. One more prank like that and there will be consequences. Do I need to remind you what those are?”

  My family.

  “No,” I grind out.

  Cinder speaks around a toothpick, “Want me to get a gag?”

  The intercom crackles back on. Reznikov—sounding about as happy as a chain-smoking asthmatic—snaps, “Bidding has commenced at four hundred thousand. Get the dress off.”

  The careless command makes my stomach buck with violation. Gritting my teeth, I imagine myself far, far away as Rudy tugs the belt free from my waist and lifts the silk over my head. With my back still to the glass, Cinder gets the first, unobstructed view of me. His gaze devours my exposed breasts and the apex of my thighs. Grinning at me, he licks his lips and grabs his crotch.

  Swallowing an upsurge of bile, I imagine a knife in my hand. I feel the knife sliding deeply across his throat. The fantasy is visceral, effortless. I want to end him. For the pain he’s caused, for murdering Paul, for his rotten soul. The fantasy helps a little, especially when my hard stare unnerves him and he looks away.

  Rudy—equally if not more so deserving of a painful death—yanks me around to face the glass, his charming mask back in place. “Here we are, gentlemen. A beautiful specimen, isn’t she? Perfect skin, which I happen to know heals incredibly fast. All natural breasts and face. Only two sexual partners in her life. Do I hear five hundred thousand?”

  A flicker of green draws my gaze upward. Above the glass is a row of small bulbs, unnoticed until now. They flash as Rudy speaks. Six bulbs total, blaring in answer to my rising price tag.

  “Seven-hundred…”

  “Nine-hundred…”

  “One point two million from gentleman number four. Do I hear one point three?”

  I stare at the dark bulbs, riveted and unbreathing. Cold sweat breaks out on my body. This is it.

  The intercom crackles. “Auction is closed,” barks Reznikov. “Our esteemed gentleman number six has bid five million with no counteroffers.”

  Shock ripples through me. Rudy’s fingers slacken on my arm. From the corner of my eye, I watch his mouth drop open on a silent gasp. I want to laugh at his surprise. Sob. Scream. Fight.

  Now that it’s too late, I want to live.

  Rudy recovers from his surprise, nodding at Cinder before releasing me and stepping off the platform. He strides to the wall and picks up a mounted telephone. His voice is muffled, the hum of shock crowding my ears.

  “Countdown begins,” taunts Cinder behind me. “Please your master and you might live a while.”

  I don’t respond—my only power over him, this situation. Rudy replaces the handset and nods at the glass. A light flips on inside the other room. A row of empty chairs. Two people left. A lecherous, gloating Reznikov and my buyer. Tall, with olive skin and dark hair, he stares down at the mob boss with an air of distaste.

  For the barest second, a name whispers in my mind. Dominic. As impossible as the notion is, my heart hammers with sudden life. Stubborn, illogical heart.

  The buyer shakes Reznikov’s hand and slowly turns toward the glass. His eyes are light brown, and he stares at me with an odd, detached expression that chills me to my core. He doesn’t look at my body, just my face. Unsmiling, he says something to Reznikov and exits the room.

  Silk hits my chest. I grab the flimsy gown tossed by Rudy. “Put it on. You’re being transported immediately.”

  “Where?” I whisper. For a moment, our history is wiped clean. I stare at him as the old London would have and regret clouds his eyes.

  He looks away first, nodding to Cinder as he strides to the door. “Give her the shot.”

  I should have fought harder.

  Cinder approaches me, a syringe in his hand. I scramble off the platform. He laughs, following. “Please, make it hard. All the more fun for me.”

  “Don’t touch her,” says a crisp voice at the door.

  My buyer.

  He walks into the room, snatches the syringe from Cinder’s hand, and throws it on the ground. It crunches under expensive shoes. I don’t know who’s more surprised—me or Cinder.

  “London, come here.”

  My head swims. Something in his voice is familiar and plucks a chord inside me. I stare at him, frozen and unblinking. Something about him…

  “Who are you?” I rasp.

  His shakes his head and approaches me. When he’s close enough that I can see the flecks of green in his hazel eyes, he whispers, “Play along so we can get the fuck out of here, okay?”

  Trembling with the beginnings of relief, I nod.

  He helps me dress, which takes approximately five seconds,
then bands an arm around my shoulders to guide me from the room. Cinder watches, glaring and suspicious. But five million is five million, and with the transaction confirmed, there’s nothing he can do.

  And what could he possibly say? That my buyer whispered something to me? That I went with him willingly? That I didn’t seem afraid enough?

  When we leave the room, two men flank us. Not Reznikov or Rudy’s thugs, but clear-eyed career soldiers. Neither of them look at me, their gazes making steady circuits around the wide corridor.

  So many questions fill my head, brimming sweetly in my mouth. My heart hasn’t stopped galloping. I’m afraid to hope—to trust my instinct, which tells me the man beside me is David Cross, and these men work for Titan.

  A door slams. There are indistinct shouts behind us, then, “Stop them! They don’t leave here alive! David, you motherfucking traitor—mark my words, you’re a dead man!”

  Rudy’s voice, jagged with rage.

  “Looks like they found the hog-tied Russian,” says one of the soldiers.

  “Time to run,” replies the other.

  David makes a panicked, gurgling noise and lurches forward. I trip in my heels and stumble, falling hard on my knees. Without a second glance, David shakes off my hand and keeps running, disappearing around a corner. I barely have time to process shock before a soldier snatches me up, throwing me over his shoulder mid-stride.

  “Fucking coward,” he growls.

  The other man grunts in agreement, his gun trained behind us. Two muffled pops precede a thud somewhere behind us. I lift my head and see Cinder crumpling to the ground, blood spraying from his neck.

  We round a corner full tilt. Shouts fill the hallway—so many so loud they melt into one stream of chaos. Fresh air rushes over my bare limbs. Through the fall of my hair, I glimpse figures running past us, splitting like a river around our rock. As they flood back the way we came, I see bulletproof vests emblazoned with three yellow letters.

  F.B.I.

  Gunfire erupts inside the building. Night air surrounds me, tinged with car exhaust and filled with sounds. Running feet. Communication radios. And in the distance, sirens. A lot of sirens.

  “Here! Over here!” The voice is familiar but thickened by a Bronx accent, which makes no sense. Not that anything makes sense right now.

  “You the detective from back East?” asks the soldier, gently maneuvering me down from his shoulder.

  “Yes, Josh Simmons. I’m her brother-in-law. Thank you, thank you so much.”

  “Sure thing. Take care of her, okay?”

  “You got it.”

  My eyes roll back in my head as I’m swung between arms. With everything left in me, I force my eyelids to part. The man pretending to be my brother-in-law smiles down at me, turquoise eyes twinkling.

  “Told you I’m good at finding things.”

  “Dominic?” I rasp.

  Liam winks. “Bulletproof, didn’t you know?”

  I pass out.

  52

  three weeks later

  Naples, New York

  “When are you going to turn that shit off?”

  Paris plops down beside me on the couch, tossing her fuzzy-socked feet on the cluttered coffee table. Under her left heel is a copy of Mindful Masturbation, the spine creased, a rainbow of colorful Post-its flaring from the top.

  My gaze drags back to the television, where talking heads are chewing on the most sensational news story of the month. Beneath them, the bar of texts runs with highlights.

  :: 6 dead, 18 arrested in the largest sex-trafficking sting in New Mexico’s history :: 36 women, 1 child recovered from abandoned building in Santa Fe :: FBI confirm Senator Rudolph Schultz dead at scene of illegal human auction :: Prominent New York Businessman Ivan Reznikov under arrest ::

  Paris lays her head on my shoulder. “I’m so glad it’s finally over.”

  I nod, staring at the screen but not really hearing or seeing the news anymore. I’ve watched nothing else for the past weeks. Watched as Rudy’s homes in New York and D.C. were raided, learned with the rest of the nation when the FBI uncovered an encrypted computer in a safe.

  Were he alive, Rudy would surely die in prison from the evidence stored on that computer. Offshore bank accounts. Dark Web sites and logins for black-market slave auctions. And audio transcriptions of every conversation he ever had with Ivan Reznikov, probably kept in case he needed leverage over the mobster. Now, there’s more than enough to put Reznikov away for a long, long time—if he isn’t assassinated by his own organization first.

  But the most important find on Rudy’s computer—at least to me—was a digital rolodex of his clients. Names. Photographs. Sexual preferences. Transactions. Everything necessary for Rudy to maintain power in DC and New York and more than enough to implode the house of cards.

  When the arrests started, Paris insisted on a party. We invited the neighbors and all our parents’ wacky friends. Ordered pizza, microwaved popcorn, swigged beer like we were teenagers. Cheered like we were watching the Super Bowl as CNN recapped the upset to the power grid with clips of angry, entitled men being dragged from their homes and businesses.

  That was the first night I broke down, sobbing for hours on end. Not because I was sad, or heartbroken, or hopeless about the future. The opposite, really. Because after years of wearing those goddamn cement boots of guilt and shame, they’re gone.

  I’m free.

  Paris held me through that storm of relief and rebirth, and when I was calm she tugged me down the hall to our parents’ room. We crawled into their bed like we were four again and afraid of the dark.

  I slept for eighteen hours straight and haven’t had a nightmare since.

  “Don’t you think it’s weird, though?” I murmur now. “How Rudy died?”

  Thanks to my actual police detective of a brother-in-law, we learned the details of Rudy’s death. One bullet, fired point-blank into his forehead. His last sight would have been his executioner’s face.

  I know exactly who killed Rudy. What I don’t understand is why he hasn’t come for me.

  Liam had no answers for me on the private flight from New Mexico to New York. For all his Irish charm, the man is a cypher. An expert at manipulation and misdirection. His favorite answer to my questions? I can neither confirm nor deny.

  I couldn’t be mad at him. Not for long, anyway. He played a large role in saving my life—not only tracking me down, but delivering the FBI to my doorstep in the nick of time. He also leased a private plane, brought me clothes, food, water, vitamins… Let me sleep on his shoulder for most of the flight home, then walked me off the plane and straight into my parents’ waiting arms.

  God bless that Irish prick.

  “All that matters is Rudy is dead,” Paris says firmly. “He’s never going to hurt you or anyone else again.”

  I nod, thinking of Steph, her sobbing confession and apology over the phone last week. Her reckless gambler of a father owed Reznikov money—a lot of money—and she’d been blackmailed into helping pay back the debt.

  “You need to focus on healing,” continues Paris. “Are you hungry? You’re still skin and bones. Let’s make brownies.”

  I roll my eyes. “Just admit you’re the one who wants brownies.”

  She pats her still-flat belly. “I think this one’s a boy. He’s hungry all the time.”

  My dark thoughts evaporate. Grinning, I throw my arms around my sister. “Thank you for being here, taking the time off—”

  “Bah, I just needed a vacation.”

  We laugh, cry a little, then make brownies.

  “Come join me, kiddo. I see you lurking.”

  Pulling my sweater tight around me, I venture onto the covered porch where my dad sits smoking his after-dinner joint. His wild hair is more white than blond these days, his face wrinkled from sun and a lifetime of laughter and more recently, worry for me.

  He lifts the corner of the heavy blanket on his lap. I slip beneath the warmth, tucking my fee
t under me on the bench, and curl into his side. Patchouli and marijuana wrap around me—the scents so familiar. Infinitely calming and safe.

  “Daddy.” I sigh, dropping my head against his wool-clad shoulder. “What am I going to do?”

  “What do you want to do? You want to wait around here for some knight in shining armor to rescue you from yourself?” He snorts. “That doesn’t sound like the London I know.”

  “But—”

  “No buts,” he says with gruff affection. “God only knows how it happened, but our kids are go-getters. Go on and get, would you?”

  The screen door creaks; my mom steps onto the porch. “You have a phone call, London. Christ, it’s cold out here. Jimmy, you want your hot toddy out here or inside?”

  Leaving my parents to their negotiations, I head to the kitchen. The ancient, wall-mounted phone waits, receiver dangling from its curly cord and swaying against the wall. Rolling my eyes at my mom’s refusal to step into the twenty-first century, I grab the phone.

  “Hello?”

  “I swore I wouldn’t interfere, but I can’t take it anymore.”

  I blink. “Liam?”

  “Your lovesick idiot is sitting in a hotel room in Syracuse trying to convince himself he doesn’t deserve you.”

  My vision sparkles; my shoulder thuds against the wall. Hand to my chest, I press against the pressure and pain there. “W-what?”

  “It’s ridiculous. He’s also drinking himself half-to-death. I’ve told him a thousand times what a selfish asshole he is, but he’s stuck on the idea he failed you.”

  “He didn’t,” I whisper.

  “I know. But if our Dominic has an Achilles’ heel, it’s his savior complex.” He pauses. “Got a question?”