Felicity
At first, my plan is to simply confront Daniel. Then I realize how foolish that would be. I won’t be able to have a real chat with him if I just walk up behind him in full view of everybody. So instead, I slide into a huddle of people in view of the men’s toilets, and wait. I barely hear what the people say, though I make all the right responses in all the right places. And I don’t see them. I look over their shoulders and watch Mr. Black’s nephew.
He must be nervous. During the short time I watch him, he drinks three glasses of champagne. Few of the politicians talk to him. To them, he’s just an intern, a soldier who’s yet to earn his stripes. They have no reason to talk to him. He mills around awkwardly. Then I notice that he’s crossing his legs, like a little kid who’s dying for a pee but doesn’t want to go. I almost laugh, but then I realize what that must mean. His uncle told him to stay out here in case . . . In case the bullet misses and he has to finish the job. Jesus Christ.
I hold my glass of champagne so hard I think it will shatter, waiting for this little boy to go to the toilet. Finally, face red, he makes his way through the crowd and toward the men’s room.
“Will you excuse me?” I say, and move away from the group.
A moment after he enters the toilet, I slide in after him. It’s a fancy place, one of those places with a lock on the door. I turn the lock and peak my head around the corner. He stands at the urinal, groaning as he empties his bladder. No other men are in here. I glance at the cubicles. No feet. We are alone.
It’s a testament to how much being with Roma has changed me that I don’t hesitate. This situation would’ve seemed beyond bizarre a few weeks ago, but now I charge him. I’m across the room in less than a second. I slam my forearm into his back, pinning him to the wall. He claws for his gun. I reach down with my free hand and snatch it from his waistband. Then I press the barrel into the back of his head. But I keep my finger away from the trigger, just in case I squeeze it by accident. I don’t want to kill the idiot.
“Woah! Woah!” he cries. “What the hell is this? Who the hell are you? What the hell is going on? Hey, man!”
“Woman,” I correct. “You might remember me. I’m the girl you thought was so sex-crazy I’d want to fuck a stranger in a cell.”
His arms drop at his sides. “You’re the woman who kicked the shit out of me and left me in a cupboard for five hours?” he mutters.
“That’s me,” I say.
“My head still hurts from that,” he whispers.
“I bet it does.”
“Listen . . . please . . . I’m not into this at all. It’s my uncle, he’s a . . . persuasive man. You can’t say no to him. Men who say no to him don’t go on living very long, you know?”
I press my arm harder into his back, squeezing him up against the tiles. “I don’t care,” I hiss. “Tell me everything you know. Tell me now. Tell the truth. And tell it quickly.”
“But if my uncle finds out . . .”
I bring my forearm back, aim, and elbow him in the neck. “Tell me!” I scream.
He lets out a yelp and slumps forward.
“Tell me!” I repeat.
But then I see that I’ve knocked him clean out.
Dammit.
I step back and he slides down the wall, almost landing in the urinal. I catch him and drag him to a cubicle, open the door, and drop him onto a toilet seat, leaning him against the wall. He’s breathing, but his eyes are closed tight.
I find the safety catch on the gun and switch it, and then reach up and wedge it between my underwear and my waist. It bulges, but that doesn’t seem so important right now.
I need to get to my dad’s men. I need to tell them that somebody is going to try and take his life. I need to tell them all of it and I need to do it now.
I sprint for the door.
As I run, I think: Does that mean Roma’s here? Roma, you’re not a part of this, are you? Roma, be alive, be safe. Roma, come to me.