by Lana Sky
If Vinny had taught me anything, it was that a name was a powerful weapon. I’d avoided learning them out of self-preservation ever since he used the very first maid he appointed to me as a tool in my punishment. She will haunt me forever. They all will. Regardless, I still can’t resist adding one more ghost to the ones I already carry inside me. That girl with the haunting green eyes can’t be forgotten. Vinny won’t own all of her soul; I’ll keep part of it.
“Please.”
The man at the sink shuts off the faucet and takes his time shaking the water from his fingers. Then he dries them carefully on a gray towel hanging from a rack beside the mirrored cabinet. I know he can hear me. He knows that I know he’s ignoring me on purpose.
It’s a silent game we play. In the end, he eyes his reflection in the mirror and then heads for the door. I flinch when he turns the light off. The darkness should be a welcome friend by now, but it’s suffocating. It hides too many unknown variables that lurk just out of reach.
The man closes the door behind him, but I don’t hear the latch lock. His heavy footsteps retreat away from me, down a hall maybe? I don’t remember enough of the layout of where he brought me to make a proper guess.
I’m too tired to sleep, however. So I wait.
My captor returns just as graying daylight drifts in through the bathroom’s only window. It’s built into the wall, high above me—too high to reach. Or so he seems to think when he appears in the doorway and eyes it with a frown. Maybe he’s just cursing what I assume will be another rainy day?
He provides no answers. There’s an intention conveyed in the way he moves, however. Fluidly. Self-assuredly. He knows I won’t run. He knows I won’t fight. I think I bore him. Perhaps that’s why he sighs when he finds me curled up in the bathtub where he left me last.
He’s fully dressed now, wearing jeans and a faded gray tee shirt sporting the name of some band that Vinny would smear as vulgar. His feet are bare, and I eye his overgrown toenails as he pads to the center of the narrow room, coming to a stop at the center of a fuzzy blue rug.
“Get up.” The tension in his voice stirs something in my blood. The part of me that obeys Vinny without question stirs sleepily, recognizing the power of a man with a potential to be just as brutal a master. He’s not used to taking orders—he prefers to give them. I saw a glimpse of it last night when he interfered with the plans of the red-haired man. A wounded doe knows a dog when she sees one, and this man is no different from Vinny. They even stand the same.
“Get up,” he repeats. There’s no glimmer of concern in his eyes for the fact that I’m still dizzy from the blood loss. He’s impatient, and I’m too tired to tempt him.
My body screams in agony when I attempt to sit upright. It takes me three tries before I can get a good enough grip on the rim of the tub to haul my upper body from the base of it. God. My ear burns when I lift it from the towel. The terrycloth tries to cling to the ruined skin. Fresh beads of blood drip down to coat my neck, but I don’t bother wiping them away. It’s only when I try to stand on trembling legs and climb out of the tub that simple physiology overcomes sheer will.
I’m too weak. My knee slips and I go sprawling forward. My elbow strikes the tiled floor while one of my legs remains caught in the tub. My ass is in the air, my dress bunched up around my waist. If I expect the man to help me, I’m sorely disappointed. He merely stands there, watching and waiting.
The world swims while I wrestle to regain control of my limbs, and I somehow manage to hook one of my hands underneath me and push off the floor. My other knee crosses over the rim of the tub and catches the end of the fuzzy rug before I can fall. I’d almost managed to raise myself up on both hands when I vomit. Foul liquid splashes mere inches away from the man’s toes. The next torrent bathes them in it.
I stiffen in grim anticipation. Vinny would hit me for daring to soil him, even by accident. This man... Well, this man just sighs.
The floor creaks beneath his weight as he turns and exits the room, his footsteps slow and unhurried. I press my cheek against the icy floor and try to imagine what might happen if he never comes back. I could bleed out. Die here. It would be peaceful. No Vinny. No violence. No lies.
My delirious brain plays tricks on me. I start to drift off. When something jostles my shoulder, I believe that it is Saint Peter finally there to wrench me out of this world and into the next—but it’s another entity shaking me awake. I blink my eyes open and shudder at the sight of the filthy foot that nudges my shoulder. My captor has returned. He drops something onto the floor in front of me, missing the messy puddle of my vomit by inches.
“Change.” The command tickles old nerve endings of fear that I’d thought living under Vinny for so long had snuffed out. At least until I notice that the garment he’s given me is an old cotton tee shirt that smells like cigarette smoke and musk. He’s worn it. He hasn’t washed it. A part of me trembles at the thought of slipping it on over my dress. Vinny’s carefully selected scents and this man’s don’t mesh. It’s two different worlds clashing together with an aroma that itches at my nostrils.
Groaning, I struggle to pull myself upright. My support arm wobbles while I reach for the shirt with the other. My captor watches me observe it as if I’m checking the thread count. How long has it been since I’ve worn something that hasn’t been hand-sewn or purchased in a fancy boutique?
Is it sad that my body trembles, aching to find out? Shifting sideways, I spread the shirt out in front of me. It’s plain, sporting no markings on the front. When I finger the wide collar, my first plan changes. Rather than pull the shirt on over my dress, I tug on the lacy collar of it instead. It’s fitted too close to my body for me to easily slip off. A prison made of silk and satin.
There’s a zipper at the back, and I can sense something dark swell on the horizon when I scuttle around so that my back faces the stranger. With one hand, I pull aside the mess of hair that drapes my shoulders, and then I pose a simple request. “C-Can you unzip me?” My voice cracks. Vinny’s specter lingers over the shadows of the room, always watching. My maids have been female for a reason. He’s never even let one of his men touch me, whether when I’m alone or in his presence. An insane trill races down my spine when the floor shifts as the stranger comes closer. I want him to touch me. I only wish Vinny had some way of knowing. Reckless abandon makes my head spin more dangerously than the pain from my severed ear does. Is this what freedom feels like?
My captor has no idea as to the gravity of the situation. When he crouches down behind me and brutally tugs at the zipper nestled between my shoulder blades, he doesn’t seem to realize that he’s just committed sacrilege against the church of Vincent Stacatto, violating his heavenly Lynn. He doesn’t seem to understand why I shiver and flinch into his coarse fingers, desperate to feel every broken, dirty nail graze my skin. Even if I return to hell, the sensation of his hands on me will be a dark souvenir. Vinny’s control doesn’t extend across the entire world the way he’d like to think. He’s powerless here. I let another man touch me. I even wanted him to.
“Damn it.” My zipper struggles against him, though. If I don’t care about the potential backlash of this situation, then this priceless dress does. He has to bunch the fabric in what feels like two fists and tug. The back of the dress tears and I shiver when icy air tickles the bared flesh revealed within the gap. This is real. I could hunch over, I suppose and attempt to shield my naked body from him. I could ask him to leave.
I do neither. I shift my shoulders instead and let the dress slide from them with the same casual ease he undressed in front of me. He’s watching. His eyes paint a burning trail from my ass to the top of my head—I feel it, even though I don’t turn to see him there. I inhale. Then I take my time bunching his shirt in my hands before lifting it above my head. The motions feel so strange, and I snicker with the realization that it’s the first time I’ve dressed myself in five years. In the end, when I finally tug the hem of the shirt down over my kne
es, I think I’ve put it on backward, as well as inside out.
If my captor notices, he says nothing. I hear him sigh again, followed by the telltale groan of strained metal. He’s sat down on the toilet, I see, glancing over my shoulder. His pants are still on fully, and he’s seated on the lid. With one hand, he reaches out and flips on the faucet to the sink, which he can easily reach. Then he snags the gray hand towel from the rack and wets it. His eyes darken with concentration as he drags the rag along the tops of his feet and then between his toes, erasing all traces of me from his skin. I should apologize, but my lips won’t budge.
I fidget with the fabric of his shirt instead, twisting the itchy, cheap material between my fingers.
“Get up,” the man says when he finishes cleaning himself. He stands, and I attempt to, using the rim of the sink for balance.
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. 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 I 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 off a square of tape 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-empty tube 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 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 on the center of the floor that looks unmade. 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 down and rummages through the pile. When he stands, he holds a black jacket in one hand that 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 resting on the floor near the makeshift bed proclaims that it’s barely 7 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 why I enter that damn room. My body has a mind of its own. My legs give out, pitching me forward, face down 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.
There’s something instinctively soothing in 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 down on 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’d pampered herself in the bathroom as if she was at the fucking Ritz Carlton.
That woman is no whore.
“What’s her name?” I don’t know why I care. This time tomorrow, she’ll be dead anyway—if she’s lucky.
Arno grunts. “The fuck if I know.” He raises his bottle to his lips again and takes several long pulls, draining it in seconds. With a belch, he slams the bottle onto the counter and wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. “I just need to get this shit over with,” he growls. “That fucking bastard...he will pay.”
“Parish—” Arno flinches at the sound of her name, and I feel something that could be guilt burn through my chest. “The video didn’t...how do you know for sure that she’s dead?”
It’s no use beating around the bush, and Arno shrugs, his expression grim. “The video came with the address of a morgue. She was one of their Jane Does. Dead three hours by the time we found her. Apparent overdose.”
I exhale sharply. “I’m—”
“Don’t,” Arno snarls. He curls one of his hands into a fist and slams it down against the counter, hard. “Don’t say anything. Just fucking help me.”
“All right.” I take another swig of beer and face the row of shelves behind the bar. It’s decently stocked. Arno wasn’t kidding when he boasted about having good booze. He’s done well for himself, it seems—but every mad dog knows that a nice pile of bones has to come from the body of another beast. “Who is Stacatto?”
