20. LIKE YOU
SILVINA
“There, my dear. I’ve got some clothes for you to wear. Oh!” John tilts his head, smiling. “Look at that. You made me rhyme.”
I try to smile. Misery is an efficient teacher, and John’s easier to deal with if he’s in a good mood. He hooks a finger in the air, urging me to stand from the bed. When I do, he scans the Levi’s I’m still wearing and the pink t-shirt he gave me an hour ago.
“Yes, you can take that off now.”
I open my mouth, trying to think of a way to express that I’d like privacy to remove my clothes. I don’t want to get hit again, though. He folds his arms, waiting. John has an expressive face, which is in my favor. Now, he narrows his eyes in suspicion, which means I better say something quickly.
“Okay. Can I change in the restroom, maybe?”
He bursts into laughter.
I wait. Try for a smile so as not to offend him. My cheek still stings from the last time he hit me, and I don’t want Gioele to see me hurt when he finds me.
God, the state Gabriela was in when they brought her to the bunker… I roll my shoulders back, tucking away the thought off her expression before it can break me.
“You. Are so cute.” He nods, underlining his own statement. “But honestly, Silvina. You and I, we’re one. You don’t want to hide from your soulmate. Now, get out of your clothes.”
When I don’t answer, he presses his teeth together, eyes flashing dangerously. Clearly, I’m pushing my luck, and John isn’t a patient man. “Okay. Pretty Silvina, I don’t want to rough you up first thing.”
Against my better judgment, I slink out, “Can it be just you and me, then?”
He frowns, not understanding until I send a look to his leeches. “Oh. You mean you don’t want Mazzi and Zetticci in here?”
I angle my head to the side. I disgust myself, but maybe it’s what he needs, for me to act coy. Subtly, I lower my lashes, testing his response. “Yeah. Would it be okay with just you and me?”
He stands straighter, tipping his head back a little until he looks down his nose at me. His lips are generous. How can they be generous when he’s cruel?
“Okay. Scram, guys.” He makes a swiping movement behind him, and in seconds the door is closed with only the two of us left in the room.
I’m alone in a bedroom with a man I detest. He’s cruel. Merciless. A psychopath. Any other time of my life, I would have been terrified, but the human psyche adapts to new situations quickly. The main sensation running through me right now is relief.
“Now, strip.”
Strip.
I pull in a shaky breath and try to remove my clothes as unceremoniously as possible. This isn’t a show. If he wants that, he’ll have to smack me into performing for him.
I start with my Levi’s, because the t-shirt is a large men’s size and reaches down my thighs. It’s wide and unshapely, exactly what I need, with the sleeves stretching down to my elbows. I try to turn my back to him as I remove the t-shirt.
“Front to me. Now.”
I do it with my arms crossed over my chest. His eyes flash with rejection at that, so I drop my arms to my sides before he hits me again. It takes him a few seconds to control his angry breathing. Wordlessly, he points at my panties.
“I could just keep them under the clothes you probably want me to wear?” I make it a meek suggestion. I’m so bare already. If I could keep my underwear on, I’d be thankful to the universe, whatever input it had for him to change his mind.
Two steps forward, and he’s in my face. Eerily, he bends his knees, keeping the rest of his body straight, while he runs his nose up the side of my neck. He traces my cheek up to my ear before he stops.
“For you to remain in one single piece, you’ll need to stop questioning my commands. When I say, ‘Strip!’ it’s all you need to do. You will strip and will not stop stripping until I say otherwise.”
I think of Gabriela’s fingers. Of her bloody ear. The terror in her gaze when she told me about her stay with him.
“Okay. I wasn’t sure,” I whisper.
He removes himself from me, giving me space. Only, he’s not giving anything; John only steps back enough to soak in all of me again.
I take hold of my panties at the sides, bend forward so he only sees my hair and my back while I lower the last thread of shield between us from my body. It takes more courage than I have to straighten again once that shield has disappeared.
“Stand up.”
I do. I have nothing to be ashamed of, I tell myself while his stare studies every inch of me. I don’t see lust. I don’t see admiration. I don’t see disdain either. John doesn’t reveal what he’s thinking at all.
“What should I wear instead?” I say in a voice so soft he can’t possibly take it for obstinacy.
“Turn around.”
I do as he asks and feel his eyes on my ass.
“Bend over.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me. Spread your legs and bend over. I want you to touch the floor with your hands.”
“I’m not that nimble.”
“Bull. Shit. Do it.”
So I do. Behind me, there’s not a sound.
I don’t hear him walk up to me, so I jolt forward several steps when he touches my most tender folds.
Ah. Will he punish me for that?
Quiet laughter falls from him. I don’t know what to expect next, for him to slam me into the wall? Take me? Whip me—maybe have his guys come in and touch me like he did? What I don’t expect is to see silk underwear held out in front of me. He holds it low enough for me to understand I’m supposed to accept it.
I do greedily. Start to put the panties on with no verbal command. Wiggle into the bra. The air rushing into my lungs at being dressed is insane. I lift my head, stare into the wall only feet away from me, and straighten like I’ve done something huge.
“Turn to me. Let me look at you.”
I don’t feel that bad turning around now. The underwear set is a matching, perfectly sized, faded yellow ensemble. Zia Paula would have called it “old gold.” The cups of the bra are of the balcony variety. They cover half of my boobs, including my nipples. I stare right at him, instinctively knowing he’ll like that.
John smiles. “Don’t you look beautiful. Good fit?”
I nod.
“Say it.”
“It’s a great fit. Whoever got it for me knew my size.”
He bobs his head thoughtfully. “He knew your size and your coloring to a ‘T.’ I selected it myself, and there’s more where that ensemble came from. In your closet.”
“I have a closet?” That’s not good. Though it’s better than not having any clothes.
“Yes.” He waves haphazardly toward a door by the exit. “Although, you won’t be in there playing dress-up yourself. I’ll be choosing your outfits, like I have today. Now, as you pointed out during breakfast, I’m a busy man. I won’t be dressing you myself, but I do like to watch.”
He walks to the closet, leans inside, and brings out a hanger with something thin and silky-looking. Silently asking for praise, he holds it up for me, swinging it a little.
“Wow,” I mumble. The dress is as insane as the man, but I’m still relieved; he could have chosen something extremely revealing for me. This piece reminds me of an old-fashioned flapper dress. Made of light blue silk, it makes me think of an early afternoon summer sky. There are peacock feathers sewed into each lining, the ruffle at the bottom matching the peacock coloring. The rest of the dress is simple, without any lace or embroidery.
I drop it over my head and stick my arms out through the sleeves. They end mid-arm, with the rest of them being a rush of peacock-blue and turquoise strands. The dress slinks along my waist and accentuates my cleavage without being too daring. Why? I think. Why does he want me dressed like this?
John runs his eyes over me. Proud like a husband, he smiles down at me. “You look amazing. I like you like this. Now, let me get you the shoes. I’m going to let you choose between two pairs.”
Delighted with himself, he walks into the closet, leaving me to myself for all of five seconds. I wouldn’t have time to do anything about it, but the thought of him trusting me enough to leave me alone gives me an unexpected high.
When he returns, he holds up a pair of pumps that are entirely made of gold. They gleam, even in the low light in this room, and their shape is exactly what I would have chosen myself. He wiggles a second pair in front of me, playful like he is when I haven’t offended him.
“This pair was my mother’s. She bought them on a trip to Mallorca twenty years ago, but she’s only worn them a few times. I’m not sure if they’re in style now or not. What do you think?”
They’re all-gold sandals, wedges that are broken into horizontal bars. With thin straps that would go around the ankles, they must have hit the whoa! factor at the time. Now, they really don’t.
This feels wrong. Isn’t it clear which pair is the best choice? What if he’s testing me? If it is a test, what would happen to me if I chose the wrong pair?
My cousin Isaias flares into my mind. He’s an incredible negotiator. What would he have advised?
John’s smile shrinks into a smirk. Eyes narrowing as he studies me, he’s expecting me to make my choice.
Isaias would tell me to find out what John wants. I risk a glance at him right when his eyes stray to his mother’s shoes.
That’s it. John wants me to choose his mother’s shoes. What would it do to my status if I comply? Would he find me less interesting, or would he think that he needed to “break me in” more?
I take my chances and point at his mother’s shoes. “I love both pairs, but those are beautiful. I don’t know if they’re in style right now either, but they definitely go well with this dress.”
What do you do when someone you fear and detest walks toward you slowly, with a tenderness beyond anything you’d ever want to see in their eyes?
You stand still. You meet their stare, and you try to keep a smile on your face. Because if you can do that, you’ll live to see another day.
GIOELE
I’ve been outside Harmony Femme’s HQ for forty-five minutes, waiting for someone to arrive. It’s a quarter to ten in the morning, and from the opposite side of the street, I recognize Keegan’s assistant as she gets out of her car. She walks up the steps and unlocks the door.
Next arrives what must be more staff. All in all, about eight people enter, none of them John or Silvina.
He told me to be here at ten a.m. sharp, but the Santa Colombini love their ruses. Is this another one?
I call Isaias first. “You got someone on the way up to S.F. yet?”
“Yep. Where are you?”
“Ready to go in. John’s not here, though. I don’t know what’s going on.”
“Are you armed?”
“Of course.”
“All right, be careful. Bully and Fritz hit an accident on Highway 1, but they should be there within the hour. Felix’ guys are on the way too. He’ll have about ten flown in from jobs in Caracas and New York, but I doubt they’ll be of any use to you until the afternoon.”
“All right, man. Going in to see what this’s about,” I mutter.
“Gioele.”
“What?”
“You’ve got to keep your head clear. No matter what happens in there, don’t show any weaknesses. He likes to pull strings.”
“Takes one to know one,” I say.
“That means he’s studied you. He knows who you are, how you are, and he’ll want to make you lose your head. I don’t know what he wants to get out of this game, but don’t get impatient. You’ll want to wait with an attack until you’ve got your crew.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You’ll wait, brother. Don’t let him win. If you don’t play your cards right, he will. All intel says dude’s fucking clever.”
As I hang up, another car parks, a green Infiniti QX80, a harmless luxury car. Out of it steps Keegan Cuevas, the former owner of Harmony Femme. He walks up the stairs like it’s any other work day. I wait until the door closes behind him. Then, I follow him up the stairs.
Inside, his assistant is hacking away on her keyboard, stare focused on her screen. When she sees me, her eyes darken with recognition before she clears them again, adding a professional smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.
“Hi, Carrie,” I say. “I’m here to see John Ulrich Himmel.”
Her smile falters and dies.
“I’m his ten o’ clock.” I have no idea where Keegan and Carrie come into the picture with John. Clearly, they still work here, though, and they’re free to leave at the end of the day. The thought makes me less prone to smiles and insolent flirting than the last time I was here.
“We were expecting a call-back from you on the fifteenth. Mister Cuevas wanted you to audition for Dolls from Beggar’s Hole.”
“Wow. I missed out. How many dolls?” I cross my arms. “Just let John know I’m here.”
“One moment, Mister di Nascimbeni.”
Like the first time, she shows me to their waiting area. I’m jumpy with the urge to stalk through the locale, searching for Silvina behind every door. I have the convo with Isaias fresh in mind, though. If he says this John dude wants to get a rise out of me, I’ll try my hardest to not give it to him.
Assistant Carrie clops toward Keegan’s office on her heels. I frown, watching her knock, go in, and come back out again with him. He walks toward me, a hand stretched out to shake mine. I don’t remember us shaking hands the last time.
“Gioele. It’s nice to see you again.” He bows his head. It’s curt, to the point, and when he stares back at me, I don’t see the relaxed humor I liked the last time I met him.
“Good to see you too,” I say. “But I’m here to see John Himmel.”
“Right, come with me.” He waves me forward and into his office. I glue my stare to him, waiting for him to get to the point; this must be a part of John’s game, and I’m not going to flip out right off the bat.
“Something to drink?” he asks.
I shake my head, narrowing my eyes. “No, I’m good. I’m ready for that meeting.”
“All right. Carrie’s preparing a couple of Bloody Marys, though. You good with that?”
I shrug. “Where’s your boss, if that’s what he is? Harmony Femme was taken over, I heard.”
He cracks his knuckles, pointing at one of the chairs by a small, round table, and I take a seat while he lowers himself into the other chair. “You’ll be meeting with him in a minute.”
Carrie comes in, depositing the beverages on the table between us. I’m too restless to be interested.
“John will be on shortly, but first, he wanted me to discuss a few things with you. He’s watched your audition and likes what he saw. Now, he wants you to be prepared for a few jobs he has for you.”
My frown deepens. “What are you talking about? I’m not here for a gig.”
“He’s aware.” Keegan swallows, his Adam’s apple sharp against the bluish shade of his stubbles. I stare, trying to read his expression, but he averts his eyes. “You’re here for your cousin.”
My heart does a painful jump. “Where the fuck is she? Is she here?”
“No, she isn’t. I—” He suppresses the rest of the sentence. “You should have a drink.” He juts his chin toward my Bloody Mary.
“I don’t give a shit about John, okay? Enough bullshit. I need to see my girl.”
“And you will.” In black suit pants, an immaculate shirt that’s buttoned to the top, he leans forward in his chair without looking at me. And here he is, turning on his TV. His fucking TV?
The first thing I see is the content smile of John Ulrich Himmel.