Go easily, Rudy said. Or my family will suffer. I know the threat for truth. He’ll kill them all.
So I didn’t fight the blindfold, the long trip in the trunk of a car. And I’m not fighting now, secluded in a dingy motel in God-knows-where, with the curtains drawn and the rooms to either side occupied by Rudy’s men. Wherever this is, I have no illusions that a scream will bring help running.
The calm, quiet space inside me has taken over; my cocoon is thick and hard. Even when there’s a brisk knock and a guard opens the door on a familiar face, I stay comfortably numb.
Sitting in sweatpants and a sweatshirt on the edge of one of the twin beds, I stare at my husband as he walks inside and orders the guards to leave. They obey without hesitation. The door closes, the deadbolt sliding home.
“London.”
I turn away. Stare at the bathroom door. His footsteps approach and the bed dips as he sits. Close enough to touch—a million miles and a lifetime away. Of all the errant thoughts in my head, one alone threatens my cocoon. Hits me with sensory memory so hard I almost crack.
He smells the same.
Then he speaks, and I remember his betrayal.
“Please, baby, will you talk to me? I’m sorry about before, about scaring you and the other women. I would never hurt you. I was just out of my mind. I’m sorry about everything. I—”
“Save it, Paul. I don’t care.”
A thick pause, then he whispers, “What happened to you? Is it that man? Do you love him?”
My laughter takes us both by surprise. Turning on the bed, I laugh even as tears fill my eyes. I don’t feel the attached emotion. No humor or sadness. But the body remembers. I search his face for something I know I won’t find, am no longer sure ever existed.
“What happened to me? Oh, Paul, I’m sorry for whatever it was—whatever I did—that made you think I’m anything like you. Like Rudy. You’re sick, and you’re criminals. You deserve to spend the rest of your life behind bars.”
He flinches, lips thinning. “That’s rich coming from a woman who squashed lives in pursuit of fame. Do you know who had to clean up your mess? Me, London.”
Horror vacates the air from my lungs. “You killed the women. Oh my God. Why? How could you do such a thing?”
Standing abruptly, he paces across the room and leans against the wall near the outdated television. Looking at him, I have the oddest sensation of seeing two people, one superimposed over the other. My distorted memory versus reality. Happy husband and hitman.
“They ID’d the wrong man,” says Paul-who-used-to-be-Paul. “Sure, the photo you acquired was real. Jeffrey Donalds, that Supreme Court Justice whose life you torched, was a client. But the man they told you about? Someone far more important.”
“Rudy?” I guess.
He shakes his head. “Rudy’s not stupid enough to have contact with the girls.”
“Reznikov.”
Paul smiles grimly. “Three whores weren’t worth the bullets to protect Donalds, but Reznikov was a different story. If he was implicated or arrested, it would have caused a power vacuum and set Rudy back years.”
I can barely frame the words, “Why you?”
He snorts. “Do you really have to ask? You put yourself in direct opposition to New York’s most powerful politician and mob boss. Rudy gave me a choice—kill you or them.” He shrugs. “So I killed them.”
Disgust coats my tongue. “What did he do to you, Paul? Did he threaten you? Blackmail you? When did you become a part of this… this… evil?”
He sighs, gaze lifting to the cracked paint on the ceiling. “You’d love to know, wouldn’t you? My answer-seeker. Always picking, poking, taking things that don’t belong to you.” His eyes drop to mine. “He told me, you know. About the abortion.”
47
I close my eyes. Sink as deep as I can into myself, guarding against the poison of his words. Of course Rudy would have found out, used it as a weapon.
“You were dead.” I open my eyes, knowing I owe him that much—the truth spoken eye-to-eye. “It wasn’t a choice I made lightly, but you were gone and my career was over. My life blew up with that car. Rudy all but admitted to killing you—”
Paul lurches forward, dropping to his knees before the bed and grabbing my hands. Achingly familiar hazel eyes brim with feeling. Desperation. Twisted love. Shaken, I rip my hands away.
He sits back on his heels. Desperation shifts to hopelessness in his eyes. “I’m sorry for everything you went through. I know it’s been difficult.”
“Bullshit. You have no earthly idea what the last two years were like for me. My husband and career were stripped from me in a matter of months. I went bankrupt and had to sell the house. Rudy threatened to kill more people if I didn’t leave town and never speak of what happened. Why, Paul?”
His hands lift, eyes beseeching and showing white. “Jesus, London. I didn’t know any of that. I…” He swallows, looking away.
I snort caustically. “Because you were in a cell for two years? More bullshit.”
“I was overseas,” he admits, voice hollow and thick. “First Mexico, then Germany for a while, and finally France.”
“Doing what?” I snap.
He shakes his head, eyes returning to me and showing me his deep shame. “Rudy gave me updates on you every few weeks. He never said… I thought moving was your choice. He promised he would tell you the truth—that I was alive and waiting for you. But it never seemed to be the right time.”
His jaw works, teeth grinding, fingers clenching and unclenching. The evidence of his internal struggle shouldn’t amuse me, but it does. At least in the way a condemned person might laugh at the noose. This isn’t going to end well for either of us.
Paul murmurs, “It was all to keep you safe. I was always going to come back for you.”
Another laugh emerges, scraping like broken glass in my throat. “For what, exactly? According to Rudy, his plan for me extended all the way to the fucking White House. What role he intended for me, I have no idea, but you can do the math. No way does that add up to you and me living it up in the South of France, selling women for profit. Which by the way, I would never fucking do.”
“I know that. Of course I know that! We wouldn’t work in that part of the business. He has other enterprises, non-violent ones. Laundering. Diamonds. We would be free, London. We could start the family we always talked about—”
I see red. “Shut up! Just shut up! Even if any of that were true—which it isn’t—I would never go with you. You’re a murderer!”
Paul frowns, head shaking. “But I did it for you. To save you. Rudy said…” He trails off, eyes going distant.
Poor, misguided Paul. His parents never taught him how to stand on his own, so cleaving to Rudy’s guidance was second nature. He never stood a chance.
Dominic’s voice whispers in my mind. Words spoken when I expressed bafflement over Rudy’s desire for me to join him. What role I could possibly fill.
His daughter, London. His heir.
And I know, suddenly and fully, that Rudy doesn’t intend for Paul to live past his usefulness, and his usefulness begins and ends with his ability to sway me. Staring at my sad, confused husband, I wonder if he knows this is his last chance. I wonder if the guards have been instructed to kill him if he leaves this room having failed. Which he will.
Can I live with his blood on my hands? I think of Felix, my sweet dog, and those three young women lying in the morgue. All the pain I’ve endured because of his cowardice, his moral ambiguity, his inability to recognize evil in himself and others.
Yes, I can live with it.
But I’d like a few answers first.
“You did something, didn’t you? Something Rudy has proof of. That’s how he trapped you.”
Paul recoils to standing, gaze fluctuating wildly as he takes several steps back. “Yes. It was a mistake. A stupid mistake anyone could have made.” He drags hands through his hair, clenching the strands. “Fri
endly fire during a raid five years ago. I killed someone. I would have owned up to it, but Rudy convinced me not to. He said it would ruin my career and yours by proxy. He buried the evidence.”
Another omission, another wedge orchestrated by Rudy. “You used to want to help people,” I say faintly. “Make the world a better place.”
His gaze lifts, and I see it in his eyes—the realization his time is up. Only instead of the knowledge fueling a fight, he radiates defeat.
“I learned the hard way the world isn’t worth saving. I’m only sorry I couldn’t save you. I know it doesn’t matter now, but I loved you, London.”
He turns toward the door. I’m on my feet without thinking, rushing across the room to grab his arm.
“Wait! He’s going to kill you, Paul! You have to know that.”
Features softening, he covers my hand with his. “It’s nice to know some part of you still cares.”
I dig my fingernails into his arm, resisting a scream of frustration. “It’s never too late to make things right. We can get out of here. We can—”
He laughs, pained and soft. “We all make choices. The day I said yes to Rudy for the first time, I ruined both of our lives, didn’t I? I see that now. It’s past time I paid for that choice.”
“This is crazy! What the fuck is wrong with you? Don’t you want to live?”
“This isn’t a life. Or if it is, it’s built on lies, ones I believed and ones I told myself. I was always disposable, wasn’t I? Some part of me knew it that first night I brought you to his house, but I ignored the instinct that the way he looked at you wasn’t right. I ignored a lot of things. But I’ve had time to think.”
“Five fucking minutes?” I snap.
He smiles sadly. “Maybe Rudy’s fascination is for the same reason I followed you around our freshman year at NYU. The corrupt are drawn to goodness, even when they don’t want to be. And no matter what you’ve thought of yourself, you’ve always been good. I’m sorry I wasn’t the man I wanted to be for you.”
A fist pounds on the door. “Time’s up, Romeo!”
I recognize the voice. Cinder. He delivered me to the room earlier, then disappeared, leaving minions behind. Now he’s back—which can only mean one thing.
“Don’t be stupid,” I hiss at Paul, who stares back at me with empty eyes. “There’s a window in the bathroom—”
His fingers gently press my lips closed. “Remember none of this is your fault. Remember I loved you, and it was the greatest gift of my life to be loved by you in return. Do whatever you have to do to escape. I’m sorry I can’t help you.”
I slap his hand away. “For fuck’s sake—”
A key rattles in the door. Paul shoves me back toward the bed as the deadbolt flips.
It happens fast.
Cinder appears, beady eyes finding me before shifting to Paul. He grabs Paul’s arm and yanks him out of the room.
“Bring the bitch,” he snarls.
Two more guards appear, closing in on me and seizing my arms. They pull me outside, across a parking lot with buckled, faded asphalt, and into the orange glow cast by a single light pole. Cinder and Paul wait there—the former standing, the latter kneeling with his head bowed.
Wherever we are, it’s not Los Angeles. The air is cold and dry. Trees hug the dark skyline, blocking any hint of nearby cities or towns. Behind us, the motel is a sagging, tired beast. Single-story, with rotting siding and only a memory of paint. Long abandoned. Forgotten as surely as the many broken dolls who’ve passed through it.
“Closer,” snaps Cinder.
When I see the gleam of a gun, I plant my heels and am dragged the rest of the way. I thrash backward, my efforts rewarded with a hard kick to the back of one knee. I collapse facing Paul, the uneven ground biting through my thin sweatpants. He lifts his head. Our eyes meet.
Cinder presses the gun to Paul’s temple.
“God. Please, no.”
My words are lost in the gunshot.
48
Waiting in the motel room are the same two women who washed me the first time. Their touch is gentle as they undress me and help me into the bathtub.
Using the detachable shower head and lavender-scented soap, they wash away blood and bits of my husband’s brain.
It takes a while.
49
I dream of searching a dark house for Dominic. I have pain to give him. So much pain. But on the threshold of the final, empty room, I remember he’s gone.
The grief I haven’t allowed myself to feel rages like a hurricane outside thin walls. Shingles snap like twigs. Windows and doors rattle, then blow open. Lost in the storm, I sink to the floor and weep.
When I wake, my eyes are dry and burning.
50
“Move, Blondie.”
I slip off the backseat of the SUV, lowering one high heel then the other to the ground. Teetering, I grab the door. A stiff breeze lifts the front of my dress, but if I let go of the car, I’ll fall. Gritting my teeth, I wait for dizziness to pass.
Cinder spits out a toothpick and sneers.
“Someone’s going to be happy tonight. If I didn’t think your pussy was poison, I’d have a taste.”
His words don’t affect me.
When I woke up from the dream, my heart aching like a ghost limb, I felt some measure of peace. Odd, given the circumstances, but nevertheless real. Maybe this was what Cousin Edith really meant. At a certain point, it’s impossible to break any further. And finally, you learn what you’re made of.
I don’t care what happens to me, only that my family stays safe. That’s not to say I’m naïve about what my future holds. I’ve heard firsthand the horrors visited upon victims of sex trafficking. A blond, American woman? I’ll be lucky if I last the next forty-eight hours.
But I don’t care about that, either. My will to live died with Paul. With his brain matter in my hair. Maybe recognizing your own powerlessness is the greatest power of all—it’s certainly given me the deepest relief. If I go quietly, no more deaths will be laid at my feet. Maybe I’ll meet Dominic on the other side. Maybe not.
It’s a nice thought, anyway.
As Cinder walks down the dim alley to a door at the end, two guards take my arms and urge me forward. Their hold is gentle this time, probably due to fear of damaging the merchandise. The thought nearly makes me giggle.
I look up, finding the narrow strip of sky above. Darkness. No moon or stars. Only the barest hint of lights from civilization. They blindfolded me again for the drive here and kept raucous music on so I couldn’t hear anything outside. It worked. I still have no idea where we are. The buildings to either side of us are old, industrial, with no distinguishing features. My only other clue is the air—cool and dry. Not cold, as most of the country is by this time of year. We might be somewhere in the Southwest. Arizona?
It doesn’t matter.
Fingers snap in front of my face. “Wake up, shlyukha.” Cinder chuckles, glancing at one of the guards holding me. “They gave her the good shit, yeh?”
Ah. I remember the small water bottle I was ordered to drink. Should I be grateful to be drugged? Probably.
I’m herded inside. Down a hallway. Cement floors, white walls, exposed lightbulbs. The lights swing wildly, oblong shadows kaleidoscoping across the ceiling—or maybe I’m the one swinging. My knees buckle, but I’m quickly snatched up.
“When did she eat last?” growls Cinder, pausing a few steps ahead.
“The fuck should I know?” snaps the man to my left.
“Yesterday?” offers the one on my right.
Cinder mutters in Russian. Bad words. I giggle, swaying. A nursery rhyme pops into my head. “Little baby Cinder, jumping on the bed. He fell off and bumped his head. Or no—wait, he’s bumped his face. No one called the doctor ’cause the doctor was… Huh. What rhymes with face?”
One of my guards chokes on a laugh.
Cinder glowers at him. “Get her in the room. I’ll tell boss we need some tim
e.”
“He’s not gonna like that.”
“Yeah, no shit. Just do it, or I tell him you forgot to feed her before giving her the drugs.”
There are no more complaints. Cinder disappears around a corner. We follow more slowly, most of my weight supported by the men. What feels like an eternity later, I’m pushed through a door. It slams closed behind me.
“This looks familiar,” I tell no one.
Same cement cell with its rusted drain. Same blue desk. I stumble forward and drop into the chair. The only reason my dress doesn’t rip is that it’s essentially a long strip of ivory silk with a hole for my head. With no underwear or bra, and a thin, gold belt around my waist, I might as well be naked.
The door creaks open. A throat clears. “You look lovely, London.”
I don’t turn. “Weren’t you told I need a few minutes?”
“We don’t have a few minutes. Very rich, powerful men are waiting for you.”
I spin in the chair, overcompensating and nearly landing on my ass on the ground. Rudy, dressed impeccably in a tuxedo, frowns in distaste.
I wave it off. “Whatever. You’re the one who drugged me. Not to mention you killed my husband—twice—killed my lover, blackmailed my friend, have murdered God knows how many people, sell innocent women into slavery—”
“Enough.”
“Why’d you wait so long, Rudy? Huh? If I was living such a depraved life in L.A., what took you so long to rescue me?” The words drip with blades, and I’m glad to see him flinch at the reminder of Dominic.
“Maybe I was waiting for you to come home,” he snarls, “to show the backbone I taught you to have!”
I glare. “The only thing you taught me was that evil wears loafers.”
His lips thin. “Get up, London.”
Perfect Vision (The Vision Series Book 2) Page 18
