“So, who is it?” I demand of Arno.
He’s seated on the bed. Both hands are braced on his knees, and for the first time since Parish...I see a hint of the old dog peeking through the haze of grief. “Why?” he snaps. “You want her?”
“Cut the shit,” I snap. I picture the girl—I can’t help it. Wearing the shit Arno bought for her she looked like a child hooker. I know that she has to be legal if she’s legally engaged to Stacatto, but still... There’s something inherently creepy about seeing her tits bound by a push-up bra, her eyes wide and empty in porcelain sockets.
“I know the perfect man for the job,” Arno insists.
“Who?”
He holds my gaze for a second, his eyes narrowed. Then all at once his shoulders slump, weighed down by exhaustion. He looks ten years older, and something tells me that, despite that promise to sleep, he hasn’t laid off the drink since this morning. “You,” he says.
I whirl on him. “The hell I am—”
“Please, Dante.” He stands and starts to pace. He moves his hands through the air as if to illustrate the fucking insanity his mind must be entertaining if he thinks I’ll agree. “I’ve been thinking,” he starts. “You’re right. If we play our cards...Stacatto will be willing to negotiate for her. And fuck, I want...I need to make the fucker squirm.” His eyes glow with an unsteady gleam. Stacatto will pay all right—and dearly—if Arno has any say in it. “But this shit has to go down properly. I can’t trust one of those other fuckers to do it right. To let her...I would ask Francisco, but he’s gay.” He breaks off suddenly, his eyebrow raised. “Unless you’re...”
I roll my eyes and bunch my hands into fists, trying to ignore the infernal itching. It creeps up again, inching toward the first knuckle of every single finger. “I’m not.”
“You’ve just...I’ve never seen you take a girl,” Arno says quickly. “And even if you were gay, that would change nothing between us.” I don’t know whether to be irritated or honored by the fact that he seems to mean it. “But if you aren’t...”
“No.”
“It’s free ass, Dante.”
“No.”
“I’d do it myself, but I’ll kill her.” His eyes are desperate. He can’t seem to stop flexing his fingers as if already wrapping them around the girl’s slender throat. “I can’t...I can’t. Please.”
I grit my teeth and turn to face the wall. My hands shake fully. The familiar buzzing eats away at the back of my skull. The only way to silence it is to punch the wall so hard that I feel the impact in my fucking bones. With my throbbing knuckles still pressed against the dented plaster, I force out, “Why me?”
“It has to look good. The bitch needs to be willing or whatever the fuck she wants. I know you loved Rish, but you don’t...”
“I don’t what?” The words come out riding a growl. The beast is nibbling away at his cage, hungry and restless; it takes more effort to rein him in. I blink and my vision’s red. Blink again and the wall is white.
“You don’t get...emotional,” Arno says as if it’s as simple as that. Emotional. I laugh, only the sound trickles out of me, more like a wolf’s jagged snarl. “You don’t,” he insists. “You don’t let shit get to your head. You can think clearly when all I want to do is...”
Kill. Bite. Fight. Fucking rip. Tear. Destroy. I swallow hard. Ruby-colored light seeps across the room. The buzzing surges into a deafening hum.
“Do this for me,” Arno says, sounding miles away, “and I’ll get Espi to talk to you.”
“What?” I turn, shaking my head to clear it. Arno flashes from normal to scarlet and back again.
“Espi,” he says, drawing out the name. “I’ll talk to him. I’ll get him to at least listen to you. He won’t be happy about it, but if you do this for me...I’ll make it happen.”
My jaw clenches around another refusal. My eyes narrow, but I swallow hard and push it down—just like Arno knew I would. “I’ve been looking for him,” I say coldly.
“I know.”
“Then why do you fucking wait until now—”
“Because he doesn’t want to talk to you,” Arno says quickly. “He made that very, very clear.” He rubs at his jaw as if the kid punched him there. Fuck, maybe the little shit had. “But I know of a way to make him. Though like I said, it won’t be pretty.”
I inhale, squeezing my eyes shut. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. My fingers are on fire, aching to punch something. Or maybe gouge—starting with Arno’s fucking eyes. I don’t need a middleman to talk to Espi. It could take time, but I know the kid will come around on his own. Blood is thicker than water and shit. I cycle through my options. When I open my eyes again, the walls are a pale off-white. Arno’s the same albino asshole he’s always been, and the buzzing has gone silent.
“You get me a talk with Espi, and—”
“I’ll bend over backward in a little pink skirt if you do this for me. Brother?” He takes a step forward, his hand outstretched. The jagged scar we made as teenagers seems to lurch against the dusky skin of his palm, and I feel my own hand twinge in answer.
I don’t say a damn word when I slap my palm against his. I don’t say a damn word when he gives me a brief rundown of how to work the camera before racing from the room as if that might keep me from changing my mind.
Standing there, while the girl finally creeps out down the hall...I don’t say a damn word.