Farrah

 

As soon as Connor slammed the door and locked me in, I ran over to the keyhole to listen. Downstairs, I could hear the clamor of men gathering in the meeting hall. From the few words I could catch of their voices, I could tell that they were busy planning their attack on the Minghelli estate.

 

The Minghelli estate.

 

It was about then that the panic set it.

 

“They’re gonna kill Connor and Honi!” I panted. “Once he gets there, they’re gonna kill Connor, and if she’s not dead yet, Honi, for good measure. And all because of me!”

 

A terrible weight of guilt settled in my stomach, so horrible and nauseating that it made me dizzy.

 

“All of this is my fault,” I told myself. “Honi and Connor and Aunt Venus … they’re all gonna be dead, and for no good fucking reason!”

 

That was definitely true. Honi was going to die just because she was trying to escape whoring—which, though she’d been cruel, I could not blame her for. She was taking the bullet meant for me. And Connor … if I was Farrah, and not Princess, I could have just told the club the truth, and they would have been able to better prepare for the raid.

 

It was all my fucking fault.

 

I lowered myself back down into the bunk bed, ready to cry out of fear and frustration. But then, a wild idea occurred to me:

 

They did not have to die. Perhaps … it was in my power to stop it.

 

If I trade myself in for Honi, then she won’t have to die … Or Connor. He’s just going for Honi because Montengo is ordering him too. If he returns with her, then he won’t need to go on this stupid rescue mission at all. Montengo will be satisfied, and everyone can go home safe!

 

Except for me.

 

For a split second, I wondered if Connor would care. Would he try to rescue me anyway, even without Montengo’s orders? Part of me thought he would, but I daren’t believe it. Sure, he’s been good to you, I told myself, but that’s just because he’s good to his whores. That doesn’t mean he’s …

 

I couldn’t even finish the thought.

 

Still, I was determined. It was not right that other people should suffer needlessly for me. I needed to do something.

 

Fortunately, I still knew the code to the bunkroom, and I had the clothes I had stolen earlier. Wincing as every step I took creaked against the wooden floor, I crept over to the dresser and tugged out the leather biking outfit. It was about ten sizes too big, but it would have to do. Silently, I slipped into it. It was actually kind of enjoyable, strong and cool on my sore skin. I zipped up, dug my way into the boots, and then marched to the door.

 

I held my breath, listening. The men all still seemed to be in the meeting room, which was opposite the hallway to the door. Perfect.

 

But how to get past the guard?

 

I shifted nervously by the door, at a loss, and felt something firm rub against my breast from inside the pocket. I fished inside and found a cigarette and a lighter.

 

In an instant, an idea sprang into my head.

 

All right, Farrah, I thought. You can do this.

 

I took one of the cigarettes out, placed it in my mouth, and lit it. Next, I pulled the cotton hood that was attached to the leather jacket as far as I could over my face. I was careful to tuck my revealing hair deep within it, out of sight.

 

Staying the trembling of the cigarette in my lips, I made my way down the stairs.

 

The men in the meeting room didn’t hear me. They were too busy being loud and bawdy, fueling their bravery for what was about to come. Hardening my resolve, I turned away from them and marched solidly towards the exit.

 

There, in a small room right adjacent to the door, a guard would be waiting.

 

I took a deep breath, expelled my lungs completely, and then put the cigarette to my lips.

 

Whooooh. I inhaled as deeply as I could.

 

Ow! I thought, fighting the pain hard and the urge to cough. My eyes watered, and I felt myself growing dizzy, but I was able to hold my breath.

 

I waited a second and then inhaled again, this time not only filling whatever space was left in my lungs, but my cheeks and nose as well.

 

Now or never, I thought, and then I stepped in view of the door.

 

“Hey,” I grunted, expelling all of the smoke in one single swoosh. It billowed from my face, clogging the air and forming a stinking cloud in front of me.

 

I heard the guard shifting in his chair. I imagined him wrinkling his nose in disgust.

 

“I’m going out,” I grunted again, making my voice as low and guttural as I could. “More cigarettes.”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” the guard mumbled. Dimly, I could see him waving his hand. Whether he was trying to clear the air or waving me away, I never knew, for a splitsecond later I was past him and out the door. I heard it click shut behind me.

 

“Christ!” I swore, throwing my hands onto my knees and struggling to catch my breath. The cigarette I had was still burning between my fingers, and I threw it down it disgust.

 

“I’m never smoking those again,” I thought. Finally, I was able to clear my eyes enough to look around, and get to the next stage of my plan:

 

Stealing a bike.

 

There were dozens parked out and around the compound. Some new and brightly polished. Some scuzzy with earth and in need of attention. I chose one of the nicer-looking antiques. I knew it would be easier to hotwire.

 

“Thank you, Dad,” I muttered, as I harnessed the skills that few but the daughter of a Devil’s Wing would have had. In less than a minute, I had the motorcycle hotwired, and the engine jumped to life beneath my fingertips.

 

“Excellent!” I said, feeling the excitement of freedom surge through me. I mounted, revved the engine to max speed, and tore out of there.

 

About five minutes later, as I was nearing the Minghelli estate, I realized it was probably smarter to sneak in quietly.

 

Speaking of which.

 

How the fuck was I going to get in?

 

And then I realized I had an inside ally. Honi!

 

Feeling excited, I reached for cell phone I had stowed in the jacket pocket and checked that it still had battery life. It had a single bar, which would be just enough. Thrilled with my own genius, I slipped into the driveway of the Minghelli estate—totally wowed, by the way, by its beautiful enormity—and parked my stolen bike behind a magnificent maple tree that guarded the front gate. Fortunately, dusk had fallen about an hour before, so it was dark enough for me to stay in the shadows.

 

At first glance, there seemed to be about a dozen entrances. The main atrium, of course, which I knew to avoid, and then a number of side entrances. Some, I assumed, were for the privacy of the occupants, while others were probably built for servants. That’s how old the house appeared.

 

House? Maybe I would have been better off saying ‘mansion.’

 

I crept to one of the side doors, praying that I wouldn’t be seen and taken in before I could get my story out about Honi. Then, I turned on the cellphone.

 

A dull vibration told me that it still worked. From memory, I dialed Honi’s cellphone number. Did she still have it? She loved that number, and I imagined she would have swapped it to the new phone Montengo had given her. The bigger question was, could she have found a way to hide it from the Minghellis? I knew from experience that professional whores were excellent at concealing things that were important to them—especially considering how little they tended to wear. If anyone could have smuggled in a cell phone, it was Honi.

 

Ring, ring. Ring, ring.

 

It must have buzzed at least a dozen times. I was about to give up and disconnect, but at the last moment I heard the rustling of the receiving end clicking on and the whisper of Honi’s voice. “Hello?”

 

“Honi!” I gasped, a little too late to be quiet. “It’s me! Farrah!”

 

“Farrah?” she echoed. She seemed more surprised that anything. “What the fuck do you want, Farrah?”

 

I took a deep breath, trying to find the best way to explain myself. “Well, Honi, after you were taken by the Minghellis, I was really scared. I didn’t … I didn’t want you to suffer because of me.”

 

A hoarse chuckle met me on the other side. “That’s a laugh,” muttered Honi. “All those years between us, and only now you care?”

 

I wanted to get angry, to yell and shout at her about how stupid she was being. But I reminded myself she was scared. Alone, confused, and scared, just like I was. If I wanted to save her, I needed to play along.

 

“You’re right, Honi. I’m sorry,” I replied back. “I’m so sorry. That’s why I’m here to save you. I came to trade places so you can get out of this terrible place.”

 

There was a long silence on the other side of the line.

 

“Honi?” I ventured, afraid that she had hung up.

 

At last, she said, “You really want to help me?”

 

“Yes, Honi! I do! I do!”

 

“And when you say, ‘came here,’ you mean here. The Minghelli estate?”

 

“I’m right outside, looking for a way in.”

 

I heard her taking a deep breath, and then she said, “So here’s what you’ll do. Believe it or not, the Minghellis have not been that cruel to me. They don’t want me dead. They want me to work for them.”

 

“Oh, no!” I gasped. “But I thought you didn’t want to go back to whoring—”

 

“Not whoring. They want me to help them with their finances. They think I’m Farrah Michaels, remember?”

 

It took about three solid seconds for that to set in. After a minute, I replied in a whisper, “Oh.” I didn’t know if I should be terrified or proud. “So what do you want me to do?”

 

“I need your help coming up with something awesome,” she said. “Down in the basement of the building, you’ll find hundreds of records for the Minghellis and all their finances. I left the crawl-window down there open when I arrived, in case I needed an escape route. I want you to sneak in there, do some of your bullshit financial wizardry, and give it to me.”

 

My eyes widened as I realized her plan. “But, Honi,” I protested. “That plan will never work in the long run. Eventually they’ll figure out—”

 

“Look, Farrah, do you want to help me or not?”

 

I sighed. “Yes, Honi. I’ll do it—”Click!

 

For a second, I thought she had hung up on me. But no. I looked down at the cellphone and saw it give a last flicker of light before its battery died.

 

I was cut off, with no way to get new information to Honi—whether I wanted to or not.

 

“Fuck,” I muttered, stuffing it back in my pocket. “Now what?”

 

I really only had one course of action open to me. I would go in through the basement like she said and figure things out from there.

 

“Here goes nothing,” I muttered, and then jogged round to the other side of the house. I was grateful for the dark leather of my stolen clothes. They helped conceal me in the night.

 

On the other hand, the dark made spotting the little crawlspace window, no more than a foot and half high, much more difficult. Thank God for the full moon. That was what helped me find it.

 

I bent and pressed against the glass.

 

For a terrible moment, nothing happened, and I thought Honi had lied to me. At last, though, it shifted, creaking with age and dust, and pushed open enough for me to slither through. I was lucky that I was so small compared to an actual biker. I doubt Connor could have fit in this way.

 

I dropped, banged my leg on an invisible table, swore, and then stood. It was pitch dark, so I fished around for the lighter that came with the coat, and flicked it on.

 

Even the basement of this place was enormous. It dwarfed every apartment I had ever lived in—combined. Antique furniture filled the section I was in, looking extra big and ominous in the flickering light, but as I looked down the opposite end I felt a breath of fear. There were metal cages, lined with everything from cots to shackles, dangling from the ceiling.

 

Thank God, Honi was not in one. I double checked that they were empty. I didn’t want any surprises.

 

Thinking that I might as well investigate the financial documents while I was down there, I looked around and spotted a tower of fancy wooden filing cabinets. I wasn’t sure if they would contain financial information, but they certainly seemed a good place to start.

 

I began digging, fascinated by this treasure trove of strange information. Ancient newspaper clippings, discussing disappearances. A framed picture of a restaurant on opening day. Tax papers—all legitimate at first sight—from fifty years ago.

 

‘Wow,’ I thought. ‘The Minghellis have been in power a long time.’

 

After about an hour of searching, I was pretty sure I was not going to find what I needed. I was looking at this point out of pure curiosity—and, if I was honest with myself, I was delaying deciding what to do next. No matter what choice I made, someone was bound to get hurt.

 

Then, a small chill went up my spine. I felt myself being watched. I turned. There, in the shadows, a pair of gleaming green eyes staring at me from the darkness. I bit back my gasp and leaned forward with my lighter. What was it? It certainly wasn’t a person …

 

“Ow!” I cried, wrenched my hand away as a four-clawed paw darted from beneath a table, swiping at my lighter. For a second, my heart pounded, and then I quieted a laugh.

 

“Silly me,” I mumbled. “Here, kitty, kitty.”

 

From its hiding place, a large, ginger cat appeared. It allowed me to touch its nose, and then continued to go about its business in the basement. I was sure there were plenty of tasty rats for it to chase in a place as old as this.

 

I resumed my searching. Awhile later, I heard a slight scratching sound from the top of the stairs, but I figured it was the cat. Later, when I heard the sound of something heavy touching on the stone floor, I again thought that the cat had knocked something over.

 

But when I heard a footstep behind me, clear as day as it crumpled a piece of paper beneath its heel, I could assume no more. I whirled to see who was behind me.

 

And found myself face to face with the barrel of a gun.