We used to play tic-tac-toe as children, in the dirt with sticks. Now, our game consists of the lives of the two bloodied men standing naked on the ornate rug before us. One can barely see, on account of both of his eyes being swollen shut, so he frantically eyes the wall a few inches away from Vinny, while the other stares at the floor, muttering prayers under his breath.
Eeny, meeny, minie, moe, Vinny calls it.
Dressed to kill in a tailored suit, Vinny takes his sweet time observing them both while caressing the pistol he holds in one hand. “Eeny, meenie, minie, motherfucker,” he murmurs in a guttural tone. “Which one should I kill first?” He inclines his head in my direction, ever the gentleman. “Lynn?”
I swallow hard and tug on the sleeve of my sweater. Two hours ago, it was a neatly hemmed number in soft pink. Now it’s bloodstained, the ends of the sleeve ragged and torn.
“Really, Vinny. You don’t have to—” I break off and try again. No one tells Vinny what to do, ever. Not even me. “I’m fine. Really.”
It would take more than this to ruin my night. This beautiful, perfect night, which should have ended with a nice bubble bath. Not here in Vinny’s office with the scent of blood in the air and the inevitable promise of death tainting the atmosphere.
I glance down at my throbbing hands, surprised by the numerous scratches that mar them. They contradict my lie, and I curl them up into fists, even though I know it’s already too late. I’m fine.
Regardless, Vinny doesn’t even look in my direction. His thumb greedily traces the trigger of his gun, eager to let a bullet fly.
He’s in a mood. Something must have happened, even before he caught wind of my little adventure tonight. My heart picks up speed, my spine tensing.
“Really,” I croak out against his back. “I’m fine—”
“Sit down, Daniela.”
I flinch. My full name is a dangerous sound coming out of his mouth. Lynn is his puppy, his favorite toy. Daniela is just a little girl in danger of disobeying her master.
My jaw snaps shut, and I stagger a few steps past him to collapse on one of the plush armchairs that is positioned to face his desk. His office is one of the few places I hate most in the world. What, in a normal setting, would be designated for stuffy business meetings, in Vinny’s hands takes on a broader purpose. It’s his arena. His showroom. My cage.
I warily scan the oak-paneled walls. They’re polished to shine and reflect the rest of the room back to me: hardwood floors and exactly two windows, each one framed by black curtains. There is another leather armchair across from mine, flanked by Vinny’s massive desk, which takes up the center of the room. Vinny’s reflection is like a dark smudge over the scenery while the two men before him flicker the way a candle flame does when it’s in danger of going out.
“Let’s play a game,” Vinny declares in a voice that makes me shiver. I know that tone all too well. Bile creeps up the back of my throat and, oddly enough, the thought of ruining my sweater with puke is even worse than what already stains it now. “Tell me again what happened—from the beginning. The bastard who tells the least amount of lies wins.”
There’s this painful moment of silence. The men share a look that resembles the wary expressions of two animals shoved into a cage and forced to fight to the death. Which one is the lion, which one the gazelle?
The one with the busted jaw speaks up first, or at least he tries to. “We were just screwing around. We didn’t—”
“First lie,” Vinny interjects.
I can’t breathe. My throat contracts in an attempt to choke down air, but the action doesn’t relieve the pressure building in my chest. Lying was another one of our childhood games. It wasn’t played quite as often as tic-tac-toe or red rover, but often enough to recognize the way Vinny crouches forward, bracing both hands against his desk. He’s got that cold, dark gleam in his eye. The same one that made him seem so powerful, even as a child. His parents may have been immigrants. His family may have been dirt poor. He may have had a slight limp on his left side and a lisp that affected his speech.
None of that mattered when you met his gaze head-on. His eyes held a darkness that swallowed you whole. And the worst part? A part of you wanted to be swallowed. You were stupid enough to be comforted by the shadows.
“That was the first lie,” he repeats. His fingers dance on the surface of the gun until they find the safety. He flips it off noisily so that they hear the clip engage. “Let’s make things interesting. Next one to lie gets a bullet through his eye.”
The two men don’t look at each other this time. They shift on their feet. The one with the busted jaw glances at me as if he wants me to say something. They were just playing around, after all. When they cornered me in an alley and tried to rip my shirt off, it was all just fun and games.
I should be thankful for what will come next. There’s a cut on my chin and blood dribbling down onto my scalloped collar. I can taste dirt and grit from when they tried to hold me face down and pull my pants off.
I should want Vinny to blow their brains out all over his priceless, antique rug. Maybe, a few years ago, I wouldn’t have cared—back when I’d been younger and stupid enough to mistake his aggression for love or kindness.
But now I know the truth. Men like the two sniffling before me are nothing more than predators. They hunt and stalk and gleefully devour their prey in the shadows—but not all predators deserve to be torn apart by the Big Bad Wolf.
“Any takers?” Vinny gives them another five minutes to decide. The seconds tick by like hours, long enough for stupid, irrelevant concerns to take precedence. I’m tired. All I want to do is crawl into bed and blast Bach until I fall asleep. I want to eat my leftover Thai food with extra hot sauce. I want...
“Time’s up.” Vinny pulls himself upright to all six foot, two inches of his height. The movement displays the muscles that ripple in his forearms, straining the sleeves of his suit jacket. “This isn’t very sportsmanlike. Daniela? Would you like to give us an idea of what really happened?” His tone is crisp with impatience.
“Vinny...” I trail off. My side hurts from connecting with the pavement. There are dark circles under my eyes, I know, from staying up all night playing until my fingers bled. I’d give anything to play now, to lose myself in the cadence of the music.
“Daniela?” Vinny points the gun in my direction; not at me, exactly. Instead, he trains the barrel over the framed photograph of an Italian villa hanging behind my head. It’s a warning. “What happened?”
I fold my hands over my lap, and I try to look anywhere but at the men who crowd the room. There’s a beautiful view of the city from the window across from Vinny’s desk, silhouetted by the gap between the curtains. You can see everything, highlighted by neon lights and flashing street signs. Against the black backdrop of the night sky, it almost resembles diamonds.
“Daniela—”
“They followed me, from the subway,” I say, my voice detached. “One of them took my purse, while the other grabbed me. They held me down and tried to... Vinny, I’m fine.”
“No.” The flat of his hand strikes the surface of the desk with a sound that has me jerking upright. “It’s not fine.”
Two quick pops, muffled by the silencer, and it’s over. Two bodies hit the floor with a thud, and Vinny puts his gun down. There’s a noticeable release of tension in his shoulders. People like me prefer bubble baths to relax. Men like Vinny go for murder.
“Your cello came,” he tells me while wiping something from his chin. “Next time when I send you a fucking car, you be in it, too. The subway.” He shakes his head, perplexed by the idea of me being so indignant as to shun his hospitality.
In a way, I suppose it’s ironic. I’d cared enough about my cello to have it delivered to the hotel in the town car Vinny sent for me, but I couldn’t bear to climb inside it myself. I’d walked, traveling two blocks before taking a bus and then the subway.
If I were lying to myself, I’d claim I’d wanted the exercise. In truth, I’d just wanted to prolong the moment. That freedom. That soothing silence of being alone with my thoughts, for once. A world without violence or vengeance or Vinny.
“Lynn?” Vinny snaps his fingers to draw my attention. “Go to bed. Get some rest. We’ll do lunch tomorrow. How does Capellas sound?”
“Great,” I croak. Capellas is a restaurant on Fifth, firmly under Vinny’s control. The chef’s name is Tony. His wife is Maria. For a share of their profits, Vinny ensures their establishment’s ‘protection.’ Out of gratitude, Tony always serves him one hell of a chicken marinara, on the house.
“Good.” He motions for me to get up while he circles the desk to stand in front of me. I try not to flinch when he touches me, trailing a thumb along the corner of my mouth. He observes me like that for two seconds. Then he leans forward and brings his mouth to my forehead, leaving a chaste kiss. “Mi Bella.”
I feel his hand run down my spine, sensing the curves of my body through the fabric of my sweater, but I don’t react. I don’t cringe.
I inhale. In and out. Out. In. There’s a noticeable tremor in my hands when he finally pulls away. His dark eyes don’t miss it and they narrow, honing in on the rebellious fingers.
“Those bastards better have not hurt you,” he growls with an intensity that makes my stomach churn. Fear has a bitter flavor that settles on my tongue. Or maybe it’s love?
I run my eyes over Vinny’s chiseled features. He must seem handsome to some, with a Romanesque nose and smooth, olive skin. He has a laugh that can raise goosebumps and eyes that gleam like firelight. But none of that can make up for the monster lurking within the beautiful exterior.
“Get some sleep,” he tells me before laying another soft kiss on my cheek.
“Goodnight, Vinny.” It’s a precarious trip over the bodies of the two dead men to reach the door. I manage to keep my balance until I grab the doorknob, then his voice rings out behind me, issuing another command. “Send Gino in here to clean up this fucking mess.”
“O-Okay.” I pull the door open and stagger into the narrow hallway beyond it. Two men stand on either side of the doorway, both broad-shouldered with matching stern expressions. “Gino,” I speak to the one with a goatee and heavy-set build. “Vinny needs you to clean...he needs—” I wind up gesturing to the room with a wave of my hand, and he nods once.
“Of course, Ms. Manzano.”
He brushes past me while I head down the hallway of the suite. It contains ten rooms, all interconnected on the highest floor of the Hirmark Hotel. My room is on the far west corner, but I don’t head for it now. Instead, I cross the living room, past four more men who lounge on the imported Italian furniture. One of them calls out to me. “Your instrument is safely in your room, miss.”
I glance over and nod, forcing a smile. “Thank you.”
“Miss?” He questions when I finally reach the front door. “Do you need anything?”
“No...I—” My grip tightens over the doorknob. “I just need some fresh air. I’ll be right back.”
I twist the lock and push the door open before he can even rise from the couch. Just outside of the suite, another guard takes up his post, but he doesn’t say a word when I head toward the elevators. He doesn’t have to.
Vinny has even more men watching me from the shadows. Men ready and waiting to trail me from the concert hall and through the subway, there to step in when two thugs try to rape and mug me in an alley.
Vinny has eyes on me everywhere, but after all these years, I know how to evade them for a few precious minutes. Rather than wait for the elevator, I take the stairs. It’s thirty-four flights to the bottom level. An elegant oak door leads to the main lobby, while a battered metal one opens onto the street.
It’s cold out, and my sweater isn’t a good enough barrier against the mid-October weather. Each breath I take paints the air white, but I relish the chill. It’s bracing after the stifling heat of Vinny’s office. The stench of the city and a dumpster a few feet away almost displaces the spicy scent of blood. I can breathe again, and I take huge, savoring gulps as I stagger two feet down the alley and then turn the corner to skirt the back of another building.
Vinny likes to conduct his business on the Upper East Side. Far away from the riffraff we grew up around, but still close enough to keep an eye on his holdings. It’s the perfectionist in him. The same personality quirk that compels him to carefully plan his days around a clockwork-like schedule. The same way he likes to plan mine.
This little detour is entirely my own, however, and I take my time, walking up at least a block until I reach a familiar stretch of pavement. There are a few metal trash cans here, nestled against the side of what I assume is an old office building. Inside one of them is a stack of old newspapers, just ripe for the taking.
I scan the faded print in the dim light cast from a nearby streetlamp while my hand slips into my pocket and withdraws a flimsy book of matches that managed to survive the excitement tonight. My fingers shake when I strike one, holding up the flame as close to my face as I dare. The heat it gives off licks at my skin. Orange and amber paint my vision, spilling across the pavement at my feet. It’s beautiful. It’s terrifying. If I drop this flame into the barrel of newspapers, the fire will spread and become out of control.
Holding it like this creates a precarious balance, similar to the skill required to guide a bow along a narrow row of strings in search of just the right tune. The perfect note. Fire contains a symphony of its own. The crackling embers build to their own silent, destructive crescendo.
“Hey!” The voice startles me so badly that I jump. The match slips from my fingers and strikes the topmost newspaper. Almost in slow motion, it starts to burn—bright yellow flames at first, then a brilliant orange that dances its way across a headline proclaiming that construction on a new city park would begin next fall.
“Jesus Christ!” A wad of gray fabric smothers the ember’s music, mid-song. The flames hiss as they’re beaten down to nothing but embers clinging to a ruined hunk of smoking paper.
Vinny’s man is a full three minutes quicker than he’d been last time. I can’t hide the sigh of disappointment that shoots out, tainting the air gray, as I turn to face him, fully prepared to obey the subtle command of, “Let’s get you inside, miss.”
But I don’t expect the hand that grips my wrist. Vinny’s men never touch me—one of the many rules pertaining to the care of his property. Whoever he is, his fingers are calloused and rough with grime and dirt. Unmanicured. Unpolished. Unsanitized.
My brain counts the surmounting flaws while my eyes take him in. He’s not wearing a suit; just a gray hoodie and jeans, another gross violation. Vinny once beat a man to death for wearing jeans on the job. Unpro-fucking-fessional! he’d snarled in between the blows of his pistol-turned-bludgeoning weapon.
“Aren’t you a little too old to be playing with matches?” I flinch. His voice lacks a distinct accent. Vinny prefers “imported” men to do his dirty work, rather than Americans. I don’t know how to process it. Any of it.
My eyes linger on his face, or what little of it I can make out in the dark. His hair is too long. A line of dark stubble covers his strong chin. It’s impossible to make out his eye color, but I guess something light. Blue? Green, maybe?
He towers over me. Almost as tall as Vinny, but with none of that imposing bulk. This man is almost lean in build, but his grip is firm. I can’t pull my hand away easily, not that I try to. Those thugs in the alley had smelled like alcohol and felt like sandpaper. This man smells like...
A sudden breeze glances off the brick walls, displacing his scent before I can decipher it fully. Cigarette smoke. Musk. Cologne?
“You a mute or something?” he asks. He sounds harsh on the surface, but there’s an almost amusing note hidden between the words like a soprano almost smothered amongst altos.
Alarm floods my veins. I should scream for one of Vinny’s men. Paranoia is one of Vinny’s dominant traits, and his money allows him to indulge in it to the fullest. From what little information I’ve guessed in a few short months, he even posted some of his stooges on the rooftops. A few more worked as cab drivers who pretended to be blind to any passenger but his own men.
I wait, holding my breath. Seconds tick by while the stranger still speaks—but no one comes.
“Be more careful,” he says while letting go of my wrist. “It’s no fun getting busted for arson—”
“I wasn’t playing with matches.” The voice sounds like me, but it isn’t a scream. It isn’t a plea for Vinny or one of his goons to come running. It was a whisper, almost, as if I didn’t want to be heard above the barrage of honking horns drifting from the main street.
“Oh really? Do you prefer the term ‘playing with fire,’ then?”
I frown at that. “I prefer playing with...light.” My tongue wrestles to convey the words in English. Vinny loathes my accent despite his preference for it in workers. This man doesn’t seem fazed by it.
“With light, huh? You a pyro or something?”
“P-Pyro?”
“Pyromaniac. You know, arsonist.” He jerks his chin to the smoldering newspaper. “You like settin’ fires or something?”
Piromaníaca? I shake my head. The question doesn’t make sense. Who would enjoy setting something on fire? Though...I can’t deny the shiver that runs through me at the thought of Vinny’s suite, high above the city, doused in flames. How would my room look, consumed by the inferno?
My facial expression must change because the man laughs, the sound grating against the backdrop of city noise. “You escape from a mental hospital or something?”
“Something like that,” I hear myself reply. Escape. My mind gets stuck on that word and won’t move on. “Yeah, sure. Something like that.”
“Hmph.” The man shifts, tucking his hands into the pocket of his sweatshirt. That simple motion puts everything violently back into perspective. This man is way too close, and I move to stand on the opposite side of the barrels.
“Sorry for bothering you,” I say, which is as polite a brush-off as I can manage. The smart thing to do would be to return to the hotel without having to be escorted back—but for some reason, I can’t move from this spot. The book of matches is still in my hand, and my heart races with the urge to light another. Just one more.
“Oh yeah, I have some damn nerve getting on a high horse,” the man grunts. Rather than leave, he takes a step closer to the barrels between us, and the motion reveals that he’s carrying something on his back: a backpack. He opens it up and withdraws a round, cylindrical object. I don’t know what it is until he gives it a shake. The can rattles like Vinny’s shaving cream, or...
“S-Spray paint?” My voice is still a whisper, but the man nods. I think he might even wink, but it’s too dim here to be sure.
“Brick walls always look a little better covered in a layer of chemicals, don’t ya think?”
I nod, though I don’t know why. Spray paint paired with brick walls typically infers some kind of graffiti. Vandalism. I glance down at his hands again, and what I’d first mistaken for dirt and grime takes on another identity.
“You paint?”
“Well now, that’s one way to put it. Come on—” He jerks his head toward the opposite end of the alley from the way leading to the hotel. “I could use your expert opinion, little Pyro Girl.”
I freeze solid, digging my heels into the pavement. “You should go.” I’ve been so stupid. Vinny’s man will be here in exactly thirty seconds...twenty-eight seconds. Every bone in my body warns me to walk away before the hound dogs come running, but I can’t. My brief minutes of freedom were intruded on. It just isn’t fair. He’ll have to leave first. “Please.”
“Awful strange request to be left alone in an alley with matches, Pyro Girl,” the man says. I realize, for the first time, that he’s concerned. The line of his gaze travels from the matchbook clenched in my first and down to the barrel of newspaper. “What kind of law-abiding citizen would I be if I did that, huh?”
“Some people are coming,” I blurt out, staring down at my clenched left hand. My words come unguarded without Vinny there to filter them, and apparently, the truth is a reckless addiction. “If you’re here when they show up, they’re going to put a bullet in your head.”
“Oh, is that so?” The man seems to mull it over, but shock isn’t one of the emotions that cross his shrouded features. In the end, he laughs. “Well then, that will be one hell of a way to end my night. Come on.” He holds out a hand to reinforce the words that seem like a command on the surface. But they aren’t. A request? A question.
For five precious seconds, I eye his hand. It’s entirely possible this graffiti artist that smells like cigarettes and stale body odor means to lure me down the alley for some nefarious purpose. Would God really be so cruel as to throw me into the frying pan twice in one night? Could he really be so merciful?
My time is almost up, but I don’t hear footsteps. Vinny’s man is a second late, and I seize the moment by nudging the stranger’s palm with one outstretched finger. Handshakes. Hand holding—those embraces most people take for granted. I can’t remember how to initiate them properly. Amused by my attempt, the man laughs. Then he flexes his fingers and captures my entire wrist in a firm grip.
“Come on, Pyro.”
I try not to balk when he steers me down the narrow alley and then toward an even narrower strip between two buildings. Like a snake, the man weaves in and out through the tight spaces, bracing his back against the wall. Left with no choice, I copy him, sucking in my waist.
Eventually, we reach another alley. Then, another—but we seem to be moving in circles. I bet we’re only a block or so away from the hotel, but for some reason, he prefers to take the backstreets. I’m sure the thought should terrify me. Instead, it intrigues me.
“So...do you like art?”
“Huh?” I frown at the question.
“Art.” The man chuckles. “Though, I suppose I should have asked that question before dragging you off to see my mural, huh?”
It seems like a rhetorical question, so I don’t answer. It isn’t until he glances back at me that I remember what he’d initially asked. “So...art. You like it?”
I shrug and then nod. Up this close, the stranger doesn’t seem so threatening. He may be tall, but he’s nearly as thin as I am. There’s a gracefulness to the way he walks, like a dancer, almost—nothing like Vinny’s hostile, jerky movements that make me suspect that he’s always anticipating the moment someone might put a bullet in his head. This man...or maybe he’s more like a boy, his eyes are close-set and definitely blue. There’s a line of stubble along his chin, but I wouldn’t peg him as any older than nineteen—maybe two or three years younger than me.
“Is this a stupid question?” he asks suddenly, his mouth cracking to display two rows of slightly crooked teeth. I think he’s smiling. For some reason, I try to smile back.
“Yes. I like art...yes.” My mind may have stupidly forgotten the timer on my freedom, but my body hasn’t. My skin burns beneath the stranger’s fingers, almost as if threatening to betray me. He’ll know. He’ll know.
I yank my hand back, twisting it out of his grip. This time, he lets me. “So, art,” he says quickly as if trying to postpone the moment I’ll turn on my heel and run away. For some reason, it does. Talking is too addictive. Too tempting. Words hold less power here, outside of Vinny’s fortress. It’s way too easy to let them slip. “What kind?”
“Music,” I say on command. I couldn’t stay silent, even if I’d wanted to; the answer is ingrained in my soul.
He laughs again and continues to tug me down the alleyway, one slow step at a time. He’s savoring this adventure. I’m anticipating its violent ending. Almost two whole minutes, now...
“Music. Oh, God. Which bastion of modern music do you subscribe to? Composer Swift or Maestro Bieber?”
I shake my head, not recognizing the references. “Bach,” I say. “Yo Yo Ma.”
“Ah...a true musician. Singer or player?”
“Cello.”
He nods as if the answer was obvious all along. “So, you make music as well as fire with those magic fingers, little Pyro?”
I don’t answer. My love of music is like an old wound that can never fully heal. Some days I think it’s starting to close up, the rent flesh knitting together again. Other days Vinny likes to cut it open and rub salt into the festering gap. Afterward, he’ll always kiss the bleeding sore and murmur, “All better.”
Like tonight. Tonight was his peace offering. His gift. My torture. Pain mingles with hope and shame, and it’s suddenly harder to breathe.
“You all right?” The stranger asks, cocking his head.
I flinch. Even my facial expressions are suddenly out of my control. I fight to return my mouth to its worn, “charming” smile. Vinny’s man can’t be far now, but I’d hear him coming, at least. I won’t let the man in front of me pay for my stupidity. “I’m fine...”
“Save the pouting for when you see this piece of shit, okay? It’s just up ahead.”
We travel ten more steps, though once again, I can’t help feeling like we didn’t go very far at all. I can still hear the same sounds I had when I left the hotel—the same concierge yelling for a taxi and the same cadence of honking horns.
Abruptly, the man stops, and I almost run into him. “Voila,” he says, gesturing to yet another brick wall. “Boom, there it is.”
“Wow.” I take a step forward, transfixed by what’s in front of me. Right there, in the middle of neatly laid bricks, is a whole new world slapped onto the impromptu canvas. A man watches me from amid it all, larger than life, his glowing red eyes transfixed on my body as if he can peer right through my flesh and into my very soul. Vinny wouldn’t call this art. Vulgar, he’d say before rattling off something demeaning in Italian. Tailored suits and well-made cigars—that was where his appreciation of the word ended.
“Is that supposed to be the Devil?” I blurt out while some inner part of me laughs at the notion. The devil lives in a high rise. He wears suits with custom cufflinks and sips imported champagne from glass flutes.
However, if I still believed in the fantasized version of Lucifer, this mural would depict him well: a dark shadow lurking in the bowels of the city...watching. Always watching.
“Something like that,” the stranger says. “Though...a little more abstract. He’s missing something. Here—” I flinch when something cold presses into my fingers. They curl around it automatically, and I glance down to find that I’m holding a can of spray paint. “Maybe you can help.”
“I...I can’t.” I try to give the can back, but he backs away, holding up both hands. “I’ll mess it up.” My voice cracks. In a world of “perfection,” mistakes are harshly punished. “I can’t—”
“Put those magic fingers to use,” the stranger insists.
I swallow hard at that taunt. Magic fingers. “I had an audition today,” I say to the wall. I don’t know why the words rush out, but it’s easy to say them when the man beside me says nothing in return. He doesn’t try to shut me up. He doesn’t prod me to go on...
I’m silent for four precious seconds. Then the truth spills free, and it’s like a dam breaking. “It was an audition for an orchestra—not a big one,” it feels important to clarify that when he lets out a sharp breath. He’s impressed, though I don’t know if it’s by the words I say or by how quickly I say them. “Not a big one. But they wanted me. They offered me a job to play in the Strings, second chair. Second chair. It’snotabigdealbut—”
“That’s awesome, Pyro Girl,” he says quietly. Awesome. I lock that word away, somewhere deep inside myself where I hope Vinny won’t be able to find it.
“I can’t take it though. I can’t take it, I have...” My throat aches beneath the bigger truths that won’t come out so easily. I have Vinny at my shoulder, whispering in my ear. You don’t need to make a living, Mi Bella. I’ll take care of you. He let me audition as a pittance. The fact that he wouldn’t allow me to accept my prize was just another game we’ve played since we were children. Vinny comes second to none. No one. Nothing. “I have...previous commitments.”
My voice breaks—a weakness that wouldn’t go unpunished in Vinny’s presence. My stranger notices. Even worse, he notices and merely sighs. “That fucking sucks, Pyro Girl.”
“Yes,” I hear myself croak. My hand trembles and the can still in my grip rattles. “It f-fucking does.”
“Wow. Fun night.” The stranger whistles under his breath and then waves his hand toward the wall. “Looks like I’ve picked the best person to take on the devil. Here, give it your best shot.” He nods once at the mural, and I follow his gaze. Something inside me simply can’t resist the allure. It’s surprisingly tempting to wield such power over someone else’s creation. The paint can drifts upward before I realize it, and my thumb strikes the nozzle.
I jump when a jet of white paint speckles the wall amid a hungry hiss. The ‘Devil’ watches me with burning eyes as I aim in the general direction of his head. I’m too short to clear it completely, and the next stream of white hits the top of his carefully coiffed hair. For some reason, it’s easier to ignore the guilt this time. I keep spraying. Painting. Defacing.
For exactly thirty-four seconds, Vinny’s men are in another universe. There’s only me and a skinny stranger and the Devil being doused in white paint. Despite everything, I take my time forming a single shape, though my ineptitude is obvious.
Chuckling, my stranger points it out to me the moment my hand falls to my side. “Is that a halo? Or a...D?”
My mouth quirks in an unusual shape. A smile? “Both,” I say.
“Both.” He shrugs as if it makes perfect sense. “Well done, Pyro Girl. You’ve turned my villain into a superhero.”
Something inside me twitches, stung. If only it were that easy. My grip tightens over the can of spray paint again. Would Vinny be as easy to shape? The stranger takes it from me before I can settle on an answer.
“Thanks,” he says while returning the can to his bag. “You’ve solved that dilemma. But what exactly does the ‘D’ stand for? Devil?”
I shake my head. “D for Dan...” My teeth clamp shut, cutting off the word, but I’m too late. The stranger notices my hesitation. Names are dangerous. Vinny alone has three for me, each one representing a different facet of the person he’s shaped me to be. Lynn is the good, obedient girl. Daniela is a nuisance. Mi Bella is the creature I never want to fully become. “Danny,” I blurt out suddenly. “D for Danny.”
He nods, once again letting my insecurities go unchecked. It’s a small kindness that rubs at something deep inside of me. “Cute name, Danny. I’m Espi.”
“Espi?”
“It’s short for something,” he says without elaborating. “Maybe I’ll let you know what on our next adventure?” He turns on his heel and fades around a corner before I can say anything in response.
Such as that there won’t be another “adventure?” I’ll pay for this stolen moment with months of increased security. Little birdies mustn’t seek fresh air from their cages for too long. I’ll pay for this...
But my body can’t quite muster up the urge to shiver as I begin the trek back toward the hotel. Vinny’s men are five minutes late, and surprisingly one of them isn’t waiting for me by the emergency exit when I arrive, and I enter the stairwell to silence. My footsteps echo off the elegant walls once I reach the topmost floor unaccosted.
I’m panting. A layer of sweat glosses my skin, and something inside me shakes—but it isn’t fear. I can still smell spray paint. I can still feel the stranger’s hands on my skin. I glance down and find a smudge of black on my wrist. My first instinct is to rub it away. With every inch that I travel closer to Vinny’s suite, the more that smudge blares from the shadows like a betraying beacon. My tongue shoots out to dampen my lips, but I tug my sleeve lower rather than erase it. I flinch at the sight of the pink fabric. It’s still crusty with blood.
“Are you all right, miss?” The guard by the door is in the same position I left him last. He watches me approach with an unreadable expression. Was he counting the minutes? I’ve been out for nearly ten. I’m convinced his feigned ignorance is a trap. The moment I step through that door, Vinny will be waiting on the other end of it with a stopwatch in hand. Where the hell were you, Daniela? Whose scent is on you? Who touched you?
“Miss?”
I blink. The guard has the door open, revealing the grand entryway illuminated by a gleaming chandelier, but there’s no one lying in wait when I step over the threshold. Hushed voices reach my ears as I head across the suite. My heart pounds, nearly drowning them out.
Clean this shit up...
Yes, sir.
Find out who they work for.
Those men. The ones who attacked me near the subway—who knew exactly where a lone, unarmed woman would be that time of night. A traitorous snicker trickles out of me before I can help it while my eyes burn and begin to blur. I can only pray that no one heard me—the living room is empty, at least. Vinny’s men are busy tonight. I hear thuds and footsteps coming from the office. They could just be moving furniture if it isn’t for the sickly thud made in between the efficient tap of loafers on wood. The door is open, and I can’t stop myself from peering at the sliver of the room revealed beyond it.
I can only make out Vinny’s desk, and a pair of thick hands braced on top of it.
“Lynn?”
I freeze in my tracks. “Yes...yes, Vinny?”
“Get to bed.” His tone is gruff, crisp. He’s angry. He’d brooding. The glee that fills him at the sight of death has faded to a smoldering lust for revenge. His emotions contain the same wild, untamed energy of a match—only a few whacks with a hoodie won’t be enough to put out his wrath. “Now, goddamn it!”
“Yes, Vinny.” It takes me exactly twelve seconds to hurry down the hall and pry open the door to my “bedroom.” Vinny designed every last detail: the soft pink walls, the white lace lining the canopy of my bed, and the plush, ivory floor rug.
It’s been a comfortable cage for the last four years. The only object out of place is a wide case propped carefully against the wall beside my vanity. I nearly choke on a wave of disappointment that swamps me, and I tear my gaze away to the window instead. I watch the city silhouetted against the sheer white curtains as I peel off my clothing and tuck them neatly in the hamper near my bed. A white nightgown has already been laid out for me, resting on the white duvet. I shut off the light and pull it on in darkness. Then I slip beneath the blankets and try not to dream.
It hurts to dream, these days. Instead, I close my eyes and picture a devil, watching from the shadows.