by S. Massery
“I could go back with you,” she allows. “But that doesn’t change the fact that I need to go back now and get my proof—“
“It’s that important?” he asks.
“Yes,” she snaps. Her face softens when her eyes flicker to mine. “Listen, let’s just go check it out. I’ll just run in and grab it and come right back out.”
I look at Mason, but he just shrugs. I exhale. “Yeah. Okay. In and out, yeah?”
She gives me a small smile, and I follow her to Spike’s car.
“What would be the next step?” I ask Delia once we’re back on the road.
“The weapons warehouse,” she says. There’s no hesitation in her voice. She turns to me and grabs my hand. “I’m scared.”
“You? Of what?”
She looks at our interlocked hands. “That you’re not going to love me once we’re through with this.”
“You’re wrong,” I say. My stomach flips at the thought of admitting this to her, but I can’t stop now. “I already love you completely. The dark, the light. All of it.”
Her smile is brilliant. It chases away all the shadows between us. “You love me.”
“Delia,” I say, starting the car and clearing my throat. Of course I love you, I want to say.
“Jackson,” she says, grabbing my hand. “I love you, too. For the record.”
I raise my eyebrow. “Oh yeah? When were you planning on telling me?”
She grins. Her gaze goes to the window. “I was going to tell you if we survive this.”
“Fair enough,” I answer. “Don’t tell me until then.”
“I just told you!”
I laugh. “I’ll pretend to have forgotten. Hearing it for the first time twice must make the love extra strong.”
She rolls her eyes and puts her hand on my thigh. “You’re ridiculous,” she murmurs.
We pull up in front of her cousin’s house. It’s completely dark. Delia leans over and kisses me. It’s filled with worry and our fraying nerves, but I try to push it away and truly kiss her.
I slide my fingers into her hair, keeping her there, and deepen the kiss.
I love you I love you I love you, my heart says with every hammering beat. Fear and happiness twist into knots in my chest. Her tongue skims the seam of my lips. I part them for her, opening myself up to her assault. My teeth nip at her lower lip, tasting the red lipstick that’s been making my pulse jump all night.
“I’ll be right back,” she promises.
A light turns on just inside the front door, and then another upstairs.
Her room illuminates, spilling light onto the front yard through the open window. I expect her to appear, to see her walk by, but there’s nothing.
A prickle of fear slices between my ribs. I watch the house for a moment and contemplate going to the front door, bursting inside. There’s only so much time I can give Delia before I go after her.
Finally, I climb out of the car. I let my eyes pick up all the clues the universe is trying to tell me as I walk toward the door. Something is wrong. A prickle of awareness hits the back of my neck, and I stiffen, turning toward a scuffing noise behind me.
My world goes white with pain. It’s worse than the car accident, worse than recovering from surgery. It’s worse than that child blowing up in front of us.
When the pain recedes, I’m panting. Shaking, I ended up on my knees, but I don’t recall falling. I barely manage to turn my head, to see that a man snuck up beside me and tasered me. He binds my arms behind my back and hoists me up. I can barely stand as the residual tremors race through me. My heart gallops in my chest.
Another man joins the first, speaking rapid-fire Italian and grabbing my other arm. I struggle against them until one punches me in the face and stars explode across my eyes.
I blink, swinging my head around, desperate to make my legs work right. I can’t get purchase on the ground. “Get—off—” I twist and break away, but only for a moment.
Electricity fills my body as they taser me again. Colors rain down on me. White, gold, blue, purple. Each one is a different sort of pain. And finally, black.
27
DELIA
“You were never meant to lead,” James says in my ear.
I spin around, heart in my throat, and he slams me against the hallway wall. One hand wraps around my throat, and it feels laughably familiar to how I handled the woman at the casino.
“Not with your poor decision-making and your weak spine.”
“What are you doing?” I ask. I’m sure he can feel my pulse picking up speed like a runaway train. His thumb moves, a subtle caress, and I have to fight a shudder.
“I’m righting the wrongs of your father, one decision at a time.”
I scoff. “And here I thought I was the one who was supposed to do that.”
“Stupid girl,” he murmurs, tightening his grip. My eyes widen as my airway is cut off, but he releases me before I can start to claw at his hand.
“Stupid girl you wanted to marry,” I cough, my hands going to my throat.
He laughs. “This life doesn’t allow for such luxuries as love. You think I wanted to marry you because I loved you?” He shakes his head, his lip curling into a sneer. “My girl, you have no fucking idea.”
I follow his gaze up to the window. “You might want to see this,” he says. He moves back as an agonized yell comes up from the street. I throw open my bedroom door and rush to the window, pressing my nose against the cool glass.
Jackson is on his knees, head bowed, looking like his lungs are going to burst out of his chest. I do exactly what James wants: I scream, too. I sink to my knees and cling tightly to the windowsill. One of the men binds his arms and hauls him up.
Jackson can barely stand. They half-drag him toward a car. At one point, he breaks free. Takes two steps before they hit him with the taser again.
He falls to the ground and my screams turn to sobs. “Stop them,” I beg. I try to leverage the window up—I would jump out and kill them all if I could—but James grabs me by my hair and yanks me backwards.
“No,” he says, his lips against my ear again.
I tremble, trying to decide which emotion to latch onto: disgust or worry. Disgust wins in the end. My hair is wound through his fist, and he keeps my head tilted up at the ceiling. I lean my head back further and into his eyes, but his gaze moves down my body. I wish I had worn anything other than the cocktail dress. Disgust and helplessness make me tremble.
“I can’t wait to hear about all of your fun exploits,” James says. He releases me and I collapse onto my side, curling up into myself. My head stings from where he pulled my hair. My heart aches for what I just saw. “Freddy, watch her.” To me, he says, “Put something more appropriate on, sweetheart. We have so much to discuss.”
I shiver, and for the first time I notice another man in the room. He wears a police uniform, the Lieutenant on his chest jumping out at me. I close my eyes and count to three, cursing my stupidity. How long will it take this man to undo my efforts? To get everyone released from jail, to have the security firm up and running like nothing ever happened?
He hasn’t moved from his place against the wall, but he says, “Get dressed.”
When I don’t get up, he stalks forward and forces me to stand, shoving me toward the closet. I cast a glance back at him and frown, but he doesn’t look away. Modesty in the garbage, I do my best to keep myself hidden as I slip off the dress and put on a sports bra, black shirt, and black jeans. The color black has always made me feel a little bit like a badass, but now it just makes me feel like I’m preparing for Jackson’s funeral. I scrub the tears from my eyes.
Why would they take him?
Freddy grabs my arm and escorts me downstairs. At the entrance to the formal dining room, he stops and lets go of me.
“Delia, dear,” James calls from inside the room. “I don’t have all night.”
It’s already the middle of the night, asshole.
I step
into the room like it’s going to blow up. Alexa is standing against a wall, tears falling down her cheeks. Oliver stands next to her, holding her hand but otherwise stoic.
Freddy follows me in and blocks my escape.
“You really go all out,” I tell James. An ounce of my confidence has returned, but I think it’s just a distraction from the fear. My eyes catch on the gun he’s set on the table.
“Sit,” he orders.
I pull out the chair across from him and lower myself into it.
“Let’s chat, Delia. Where were you tonight?”
“On a date,” I say. I lean back in my chair and feign ease. “You know this, though.”
James smiles. “I did. Jackson Skye said much the same.”
“Bullshit.” He was just tasered and dragged out of the driveway—I doubt he was telling James anything. I start to stand, but Freddy’s hand on my shoulder slams me back into the seat. “What even is this, James?”
James straightens in his seat. “What is this? This is your family, Delia, and your family’s legacy. You threaten all of it.”
I tilt my head. Father always said it was a giveaway, a tic that I should master, but I never paid him any mind. “I’m threatening it? You’re the one—”
I clamp my mouth shut when he presses his lips together.
“You say the wrong thing here, Delia, and Jackson dies.”
Fear wraps its fingers around my throat. I’m done caring about what happens to me—Jackson needs to be okay. “How do I know he’s alive?”
James smiles at me. It makes me feel sick. “You don’t. You cooperate, and I’ll let you see him.”
I look down at the table. My father and Margaret had bought it for Alexa and Oliver as a wedding present. It’s a single cut of oak, polished until it shone. “What do you want to know?” I ask. I’m barely able to get the words out above a whisper.
“I, along with the whole family, want to know why you planned on betraying us. We want to know what happened the night your family died. Did you kill them in an attempt to stage a coup?”
I stare at James, marveling at the way he’s spinning this. “Me?”
Alexa makes a noise in the back of her throat. I look at her, but her eyes are on the ground. Her hand covers her mouth, like she’s ashamed to have made a sound.
“Delia,” James says, ever patient. I force myself to take in all of James: his slightly wrinkled white button-up shirt, the gleaming silver cufflinks, the dark circles under his eyes. It must be exhausting being evil. “You tell me what I want to hear, and I’ll bring you to Jackson.”
“No.” The same words he told me in my ear. I stand up and glare at Freddy when he tries to touch me again.
“We’ll keep doing this, Delia,” James calls after me. His voice floats up the stairs, clinging to me as I try to run away. “I have more patience than you. And Jackson doesn’t have much time at all for you to be so stubborn.”
I lock myself in my room and curl into a fetal position on the bed. My chest aches for Jackson. I should’ve let him take me to his brother’s house. I should’ve listened. Then we wouldn’t be here.
Eventually, exhaustion gets the best of me. When I wake up, my eyes are puffy and my face is still red. I open the door and come face to face with Michael. Guilt smacks me in the face. He looks too similar to his brothers, Richie and Santino, and he scowls at me. “We used to be close,” he says.
“Yeah,” I mutter. “Before you sided with him.”
He shakes his head and follows me to the bathroom. “James wants to see you once you’re decent.”
I roll my eyes. “He’s going to have to wait. I need to shower.” I close the door, only to discover that the lock has been removed from the door. It makes me move in jerky movements, afraid that Michael or James will burst in on me.
After I’m clean, I open the bathroom door and see that Michael is still there. He waves me ahead of him, and the look on his face… I stop on the stairs and face him. “What’s happening with the war on the Castillos?”
“You ask too many questions, Delia.”
He pushes my shoulder, spinning me back around and sending me down the stairs.
James is waiting for me in the kitchen. “Ah, Delia. Have you decided to cooperate?”
I snort. “No.”
His eyes harden. “Sit.”
I sit at the kitchen table and stare at him. He pours himself a cup of coffee and takes his time mixing in sugar and cream. “James?” I ask.
“Decided to cooperate, Delia?”
“No,” I mutter. “What’s the deal with the sugar and cream? Didn’t you drink it black when my dad was alive?”
He looks at me. “Your father used to say that he measured a man’s worth by how he drank his coffee. I became what he needed me to be.”
“And now you’re showing your true colors?”
“And now I don’t have his judgments to think about, because everything I’ve ever wanted is already mine.”
I hum. “Interesting way to look at it, I guess.”
“How’s that?”
“Just that you obviously need to turn the family against me, so you must not have their full support. Do you feel their doubt pressing in? Does that worry you?”
His eyes narrow. “I’ll re-ask you about cooperating later tonight, when you join me for dinner.”
I attend dinner with him, but I keep my mouth shut. I stare at my traitorous cousin and her husband, at James and whichever guard I'm assigned at any given moment. When I don’t talk, they don’t give me food.
In a way, it strengthens my resolve. Worry keeps me from focusing on the hunger. As soon as I say something, Jackson will be dead. I can feel that in my bones.
By day two, my stomach is hollow. Cramps rack through my torso.
James skips interrogating me at breakfast on the second day—Alexa tells me he’s taking care of important business, which I hope doesn’t include torturing Jackson. But at six o’clock that night, Oliver barges into my room and says that James is requesting my presence.
He leads the way into the dining room, where James is once again at the head of the table. My stomach growls as my nose registers the smell of food. Tonight it’s steak. I sit in my regular seat, leaning back and crossing my arms.
“I apologize that we started without you,” James says. He doesn’t sound sorry. The red juice drips from the meat and hits his shirt. He looks from it to me and smirks. “Don’t worry, I have an excellent dry cleaner. This is the least of their problems.”
I roll my eyes at the implication, at the idea that he has ever got his hands dirty. That’s what he pays people for, remember? Alexa and Oliver have joined James for dinner again, the same as the night before, and James says to her, “What a lovely meal.”
Alexa blushes. I try not to roll my eyes again, but I fail.
“How about another day, Delia? Should I take away your water, too?”
I exhale. My body is weak. The likelihood of my resolve lasting longer than two more days, three at most… weak. Just like me.
There’s a way out of this, my father’s voice says in my mind.
“Let’s make a bargain,” I say to James.
He raises his wine glass to his lips. After a deep drink, he says, “I didn’t realize you were in a position to bargain.”
I laugh and shake my head like he’s a fool. This confidence is just another mask that I will wear. “I have something you want. Of course I’m in a position to bargain.”
“You’re my prisoner,” he corrects.
“How long do you think it would take you to break me, James? Unless you give me what I want, I will go to my death saying that you are the cause of my family’s grief.”
Alexa hides her slight smile in her cup.
“Very well,” James says.
“I’ll tell the whole family what happened the day my family was murdered,” I say. “You take me to Jackson and prove that he’s alive and well.”
“Done,” Ja
mes says, proving how desperately he wants to know what happened to his sister. Even if it’s a lie. He nods to Oliver.
My cousin-in-law circles the table and hauls me up. I look from his blank expression to James and wonder if I’ve made a terrible mistake.
I contemplate the fact that Edgar and his father didn’t know what truly happened inside the house. Everyone except for me died, which makes me the sole truth-holder. James probably doesn’t even know the result, but he sure as hell guessed.
Oliver forces me into the backseat of his car and pulls out a pair of handcuffs. He attaches one to my wrist and the other to a handle above my head. “Don’t do anything foolish,” he tells me.
I scoff and test the metal. “Me? Foolish?”
He slams my door. As we drive, the sun sets in the sky and twilight hits. I can’t even register the beauty of the sunset because anxiety bubbles in my stomach. I might puke. I tell Oliver that, and I catch his eye roll in the rearview mirror.
“Almost there,” he mutters when I pretend to gag. “You ruin my leather seats, you are going to be cleaning it with your bare hands.”
I gag again, this time at the thought of cleaning puke.
“I’m good,” I say, leaning my head back. But really, his driving is a bit erratic. I’ve never ridden handcuffed in the backseat of a car before, but my stomach doesn’t love it. I recognize the route we’re on, and when he turns onto a long gravel road—the first of four that will wind through a shallow mountain pass to bring us to the warehouse—my heart skips. We’re about three miles out, and I’m pretty sure death awaits me.
I slip my hand down my throat and make an awful retching noise.
“Damn it, Delia,” he mutters, swerving to the side of the road.
I try the door, but he’s got the freaking child lock on. “Oliver,” I moan. I’m sure my face is a pretty shade of green.
He gets out and races around to my door, yanking it open. I lean halfway out of the car and stare at the asphalt. I brace my weight on his thigh, and my index finger lifts the handcuff key from his pocket as I dry heave. It’s a good distraction—and then yellow bile hits his shoes and he springs backwards. The key stays with me. I clench my fist, keeping it safe, as I manage to puke more than I thought could’ve been in my stomach.
