by Lana Sky
“No.” The voice that stops me doesn’t belong to the red-haired man. His hand isn’t the one that snatches the knife away and leaves me slumped and breathless against the edge of the table.
I’m laughing. The sound trickles out, high-pitched and hysterical, mingling with the tears that fall unchallenged. I’ve remembered my purpose...
His purpose.
My demise.
All of us—these stupid, brutal, reckless men—were nothing more than playthings at the mercy of their puppet master.
“Keep laughing,” someone snarls. “I’ll fucking show you funny when I send him a new video and string you up by your—”
“Are you really that stupid?” I don’t recognize the woman who speaks. Her voice is a whip. Even the red-haired man flinches beneath the bitter sting.
“What the hell did you just—”
“Don’t you get it?” I slam my fist against the table, hammering the sick, twisted mindset of Vinny into my bones. “Don’t you realize by now? You were never in control, not really. You were just part of...” I snicker and have to clutch at my stomach with one hand just to find the breath to speak. “You were just part of my punishment.”
The first game we ever played was hide-and-seek. He started it, sneaking up behind me on my way home from school and yanking my notebook right from my hands. I’d given chase with all the gusto of an energetic eight-year-old already hardened from a few months of starting school in America, where the kids snickered, and the teachers cordoned me off into my own section of the class. Integration, they called it.
I’d been angry when I finally caught up to the grinning boy with brown eyes. “Vai te foder,” I told him, using the same words my father would shout at the vendors in the market who dared to overcharge him. Part of the fun came from the childish knowledge that he, like the other American children, couldn’t understand me. But he laughed.
“Say it in English,” he challenged, holding my notebook high above his head where no amount of jumping would ever allow me to reach.
I licked my lips, already well aware of what the words translated to in English. “G-Go...go fuck yourself.”
He chuckled again and nodded. Sunlight glanced off his chestnut brown hair and reflected in his eyes. “It sounds stronger in English,” he said. “And I’ve done you a favor.” He shook my notebook once, and I flexed my fingers, eager to run them over the glossy image of a unicorn on the front, speckled with glitter. At that moment, it was my most prized possession, and as if knowing that, the boy waited nearly five extra minutes before finally lowering it within my reach. “You should thank me,” he said.
At the time, I’d only been able to pick out pieces of what he said, still learning English, but I used the strange syllables and strangled vowels almost as a guide to drive my suddenly fervent desire to learn the language of my new country. Eventually, I’d been able to decipher every word, and I tucked them away within myself like a hard-fought trophy.
“I’ve given you back your purpose,” he’d told me. “Just minutes ago, you were pouting and defeated because those kids made fun of you and made you feel bad. I made you remember why you went there in the first place.”
“Your name?” I’d demanded afterward, clutching my notebook to my chest.
“Vincent,” he’d said, “but you can call me Vinny. Okay?”
I’d nodded only catching the gist of the request. Pride had blossomed in my chest and seared through my skin. An older boy was willing to let me call him something that I suspected only a few people were allowed to. “My name is Danny,” I said, testing out one of the few English phrases I knew before immigrating.
The boy frowned. “Danny? That’s a man’s name.”
I’d flinched, stung by his rejection of my own precious nickname. “Daniela,” I clarified, trying again, but he didn’t seem to like a name that even my American teachers told me was “beautiful,” using the opportunity to teach me a new word.
“You deserve a prettier name.”
“Pretty?” I perked up at the mention of another word I knew. Bonita. “Like...Lyndsay?” I wrinkled my nose, mentioning the name of one of the girls who tormented me.
The boy nodded. “Yeah. Lynn. That’s cute. Can I call you that?”
I had glanced down at my navy jumper, feeling my cheeks flush. An older boy thought I was cute. He wanted to give me a pretty name to match what he saw on the outside. “O-Okay,” I told him, tasting yet another new word on my tongue. “Lynn.”
It’s funny how hindsight can taint the most treasured memories with the harsh truth of knowledge gained since then. Fifteen years ago, I’d been nothing more than a stupid child falling beneath the subtle manipulation of a boy who—even I could admit—hadn’t been entirely evil then. In one instant, I’d given up my name, with little idea that I would eventually be forced to give up so much more.
It’s a pain that cuts deep—and never truly stops cutting.
“Look at me.” The voice slices through the memories and drags me back to the present. Lucifer’s eyes pin me in place, keeping me here when all I want to do is just surrender already. Vinny had already won. “Look at me.” He waits until my eyes focus on his lips before speaking again. “What do you mean?”
He isn’t skeptical like the red-haired man. Lucifer is worried. He doesn’t underestimate the cunning of another devil.
I shake my head. “It was too easy.” Maybe underneath the pain and the torture, I’d known all along. These men had plucked me from Vinny’s car, on the way to meet him. Of all places. Or all times. I’d been dressed “pretty,” anxious by his days of silence.
Nothing good ever followed when Vinny had the chance to brood. Just like when he’d goaded me into chasing him all those years ago, Vincent Stacatto did nothing without motive—only this time, I had been the unicorn notebook, dangled for his benefit.
“He let you take me,” I say, smiling while the devious nature of his own sick plan unfurls inside my head. I had dared to hesitate when accepting his ring, and like a true teacher, Vinny had aimed to show me the folly of my decision. He’d let me be taken by men who hated him. He had wanted me to be used and abused. He’d wanted me to remember my purpose. It seemed too twisted, even for a madman.
But hell, he’d planned similar lessons before.
“What do you mean?” Lucifer asks. He speaks every word crisply while the red-haired man rants and raves behind him.
“Stupid bitch. I nearly lost two of my men trying to grab her—”
“How did you know where I would be?” I ask. The car had been late that night by nearly fifteen minutes. Even in his madness, Vinny was always punctual. Someone else must have orchestrated this little plot on his behalf. “You had a man on the inside,” I guess, thinking out loud. “Someone who gave you the intel...only you merely thought he was working for you. He was really Vinny’s all along.” I wrack my mind and frown as the answer becomes clear. There’s only one man with that kind of clout. Only one man who Vinny would trust to spin a web around his naughty, disobedient Lynn. “Gino.” I glance up, scanning both men’s faces for recognition. “Big man. Polish accent. Blond. Maybe he approached one of your men. Maybe you approached him. For a hefty price, he’d tell you what time Vincent Stacatto’s fiancée would be leaving the hotel and where you could intercept.” No one tries to disagree with what I’ve said, so I keep talking. “You thought it was too good to be true, but you needed your revenge. How could you pass it up? Little did you realize that Vinny had men following you, seeking out every bit of intel he could use to wipe you out.”
It was a plan that Vinny himself had gloated over to one of the men he tortured—how he let a rival drug dealer steal from him once, just to watch him “scurry right back to his dog house. It’s like catching a fucking rat in a trap.”
Lucifer’s face reveals nothing, but the red-haired man’s face hardens. “How did you—”
I laugh again. I can’t help it. “Too easy,” I say. “Vinny doesn’t ma
ke sloppy mistakes.” Such as hiring a man who arrives late or allowing his fiancée to travel unguarded. I’d been such a fool not to realize it until now. The fun part of his game was that I knew without a doubt that Arno Mackenzie wasn’t even his true target. The man may have tried to have him killed, but there was no insult greater than rejecting Vincent Stacatto’s hard-earned name. “He wanted you to hurt me.” Not merely to cause me pain, oh no. To serve as a reminder. A lesson, delivered every bit as well-intentioned as when he first taught me those words of English I’d guarded in my heart for so long. “You might as well kill me now...we’re already dead.”
“She’s a psycho little—”
“What next?” Lucifer asks. His hands grip my shoulders on either side, forcing me to face him. “What will happen next?”
My tongue flicks out to wet my lips. The next part of the game? He won. Checkmate. The naughty pawn would be brought back to her master, and another one of his opponents would be swept off the board. There was only one way that I could save myself and at least take away some of his fun. I slide my hand along the floor, scanning the room in search of the knife.
“No.” Lucifer catches my chin in the flat of his hand, wrenching my head around to face him again. “Think.”
My eyes drift over to the cell phone, reading the time. 7:49—I know without even having to check that the message had arrived at seven on the dot. “You...you have ten minutes,” I tell him. Even when he plotted murder and revenge, Vinny liked to run a tight schedule. “By eight. They’ll be here, though he probably already has men watching all of the doors—”
“Do you have any way out of this shithole that doesn’t open directly onto the streets?” Lucifer demands of the red-haired man.
Arno blinks. Then he snaps his fingers and jerks his chin toward the walls. “Yeah. There’s an old tunnel that leads into an abandoned warehouse across the street. I’m not stupid enough to box myself in. I learned my lesson after the last time, eh Dante?”
The two men share a nod, referring to some event in their past. Fools. I shift onto my knees and spot something gleaming from the corner of my eye. My fingers tremble when I reach for it, only to have them batted away seconds before brushing the handle of the knife.
A sharp sting flares through the uninjured side of my face. It’s nothing like the brutality contained in the hands of the red-haired man. A single slap. Confused, I glance up to find Lucifer standing over me, his hand outstretched. So, he does have the potential to hit me after all.
“You have a choice,” he tells me, his voice inspiring shivers that threaten to shatter my body into a million pieces. “Give up now. Kill yourself—” he kicks the knife over to me, and I have to dig my nails into my palm to stop from reaching for it. “Or you can do something the bastard wouldn’t expect.”
“Like what?” I croak. I’m too tired for this; there’s a war raging within myself. Lynn is quivering with fear while Daniela is resigned and exhausted. He doesn’t even get the point—Vinny wouldn’t expect me to kill myself, not his precious, scared little Lynn—but I’m curious as to what knowledge of my beloved fiancé he’s already gleaned. His dark eyes brim with countless horrors that I can only pray that I never have to fully experience.
“You fight back,” he says as if it was that simple.
Maybe it is. My little stunt with the camera had pushed Vinny beyond his limit, just enough to make him tip his hand so that I’d feel him coming for me. His arrogance bought us ten minutes. During the childhood games we used to play, I could turn around one of his inevitable wins in ten seconds.
Numb, I reach for the knife, curling my fingers around the dull blade. Lucifer watches as I carefully shove it into the pocket of my borrowed shorts. “You’ll need guns,” I say. “Not that it will matter.”
“Arno,” Lucifer snaps, but the red-haired man already seems to be thinking along the same lines. He reaches into his waistband and withdraws a pistol, which he slams onto Lucifer’s outstretched palm. “I have more upstairs.”
“Good. Get everyone out. Then pick your best men and find positions on the outside.” The smile the devil’s lips form is as beautiful as it is chilling. He looks at me, his gaze full of an expectation that makes me shudder in anticipation. “It’s time to play a little game. Pick one.”
One minute before her own deadline and the girl gets antsy again. Her breath scratches my shoulder, heavy and unsteady. The scent of her blood taints the air, dripping from the cuts in her throat that she doesn’t even seem to notice. She managed not to sever anything vital, apparently, but she’ll have a nice set of brand new scars to remember her fiancé’s sadistic “punishment” by.
Stacatto isn’t the only sick fuck on the game board though. Arno has certainly learned a few lessons when it came to planning the layout of his hideout—even I have to give the asshole credit. The tunnel opened into the basement of the warehouse. The upper level was a cavernous interior filled with dust, and most of the massive windows were boarded shut. If Stacatto had gotten wind of this little route, it would make for the perfect slaughterhouse.
Luckily, Arno learned how to keep his fucking mouth shut in the five years I’ve been gone. There’s no one patrolling the main level at least. Positioned near one of the windows, I have a clear view of the front of the pub through a gap in the plywood. At first glance, it appears just like any other sleepy street at the ass crack of dawn. About a half a block down, a man lounges on a bench, reading a newspaper with a stroller sitting nearby. A few cars drift past, but none look like the type I’d imagine Stacatto’s men driving. I almost believe that the bitch got her information wrong, at least until I hear her gasp.
I flinch at the sensation of her finger trailing down the length of my forearm. She’s cold. Her breath paints the air white, and I can hear her teeth chatter as she brings her hand over the one of mine holding Arno’s pistol.
“What are you doing?” I should shrug her off. I don’t know why the hell I don’t.
She shuffles closer, and I imagine her straining on tiptoe to bring her mouth close enough to my ear for her to whisper. “There.”
I don’t resist the gentle pull of her fingers. She steers my hand up, aiming it directly at the man on the bench. I scoff and lower the weapon. She’s paranoid. She’s insane. She’s...
With a sigh, I raise the pistol. It’s nearing eight. If this little scenario has any chance of being turned around on its head now is the time to act. I pull the trigger and deliberately miss, striking the dirt at the man’s feet.
Instantly, he bolts upright, tossing the paper aside. What would seem like a normal, panicked reaction from anyone else is just a little too smooth when enacted by him—honed reflex. He takes no time to get his bearings before reaching into his coat and drawing a gun.
“Get down!” I shove the girl aside and aim again. It takes two more shots before the fucker falls to his knees, but his friends have finally arrived at the party. One of those “harmless” cars slows, and even more men climb out. There’s five of them at least. At a glance, I take stock of their muscled builds and stoic expressions. They’re professional. Hardened. True killers.
Stacatto wasted no chance on not getting his pretty little fiancée back. Caught unaware, Arno and his merry band of idiots wouldn’t have stood a chance. My eyes stray to her before I can help it. Does it even register that she saved my life?
Does it really fucking matter if we’re all still dead within ten minutes if I can’t clear a good enough route?
I grit my teeth and peer through the window. Shit. The bastard I shot is still alive, pointing frantically in the direction he thinks the shot came from. It’s just my luck that he’s right. The men split up with three heading toward the pub and two heading straight for me.
“Shit. We need to move.” I grab the girl’s arm and pull her toward a battered exit I’d scoped out earlier. The alley beyond it seems clear at a glance, and I drag her forward, pressing my back against the brick wall of the building, list
ening hard with every cautious step.
The men are still at the front of the warehouse. I hear a thud and realize that they decided to forgo knocking and kicked the fucking door in. Perfect. I raise the cell phone in my free hand and bring it to my mouth. “Arno go. Go now!”
A grunt of acknowledgment comes from the other end, leaving the girl and me with about five seconds to get clear before all hell breaks loose. Breaking cover, I run like hell toward the nearest alley, all but dragging her behind me.
Two.
Three.
Five.
Gunfire erupts from the warehouse—courtesy of Arno’s arsenal turned on two hired thugs. Defeat is still a risk, and a part of me wants to double back and fight. As if sensing the direction my thoughts take, Arno’s voice crackles through the cell phone. “Got it covered, Kitty. Meet you at the rendezvous spot.”
Seconds later I’m about two blocks down from the pub. The gunfire’s gone silent, but I’m not stupid enough to chalk it up as a victory yet. Only God knew what else Vinny Stacatto might have lurking up his sleeve by way of backup. Though, maybe God and one other soul. She watches me with vacant hazel eyes that don’t register anything until I snap my fingers beneath her nose.
“It worked.”
Worked. She mouths the word, seemingly confused. Her gaze trails down over her hands, and she flexes them, satisfied with their movement. When she glances up, the manic, slightly unsteady gleam in her gaze should make me uneasy. “I always beat him at tic-tac-toe.”
The bitch planned her strategy on a children’s game. It’s as impressive a thought as it is terrifying. “Now what?” I demand though the question isn’t directed at her or at the cell phone I toss to the ground and quickly stomp beneath my boot. What fucking now?
Stacatto’s woman watches me, unwilling to put forth an answer. She’s shivering in nothing but my shirt and bare feet. Wearing only jeans and my boots, I’m not dressed any warmer. Arno set a rendezvous point, but even I wasn’t stupid to head there now without knowing just who the fuck might be on my trail.
