Chapter Twelve

Colleen

 

This is the first time in my life I have not been under some sort of surveillance. Ever since I was a girl, there has been somebody watching me, mostly Alma, but sometimes Father’s employees. Even in high school, when I managed to steal some freedom by going to my friends’ houses, I was still being watched in the end. Alma always knew where I was, who I was with, if not what I was doing. But now, this is freedom. I sit up, take a deep breath, and look around the room.

 

The room is too small, too stuffy. I want to feel the icy air in my lungs. I want to walk. First the house, and now this. He’s asked me to stay, but what he really meant was don’t run away. But surely I can go for a five-minute walk, a couple of blocks and back? Surely he won’t begrudge me that.

 

I go into the bathroom and wash my face, staring at myself in the mirror. “You’re not a virgin anymore,” I whisper at myself, trying to make it seem real.

 

I get ready quickly, so that I don’t have to think about what I’m doing. As I pull on my jeans, I wonder if I agreed to stay for the money or if there is another motivation. I couldn’t just agree to stay here for nothing, could I? I have to try and maintain the narrative that I’m his prisoner. Yet when I search myself, really go into myself and look for an answer, I find I don’t know. I don’t want to leave Gabriel; I know that much. But what sort of an idiot would turn down one hundred thousand dollars? And it’s a convenient excuse, a traitorous part of my mind whispers: now I can justify being with him. I ignore the traitorous part as I ride the elevator down to the first floor, but it’s easier said than done. It seems the traitor aspect of my mind is becoming more and more dominant.

 

I walk through the hotel lobby feeling oddly exposed. It’s strange not having somebody to turn to. I try to think of a time when I was in public, on my own, but Alma has always been very careful about that. Maybe walking to and from gatherings at high school, but that only meant walking to and from the cars Father sent to pick me up.

 

The air is icy, the streets covered in sleet and snow. I walk a few blocks down the street and then pause, tilting my head back and closing my eyes. The snow settles on my face, cooling it, stinging it slightly. I smile as people walk by me, not even caring that I must look like a crazy person. Then I open my eyes and keep on walking. It’s been well past five minutes but I figure I have at least half an hour before Gabriel gets back. It feels good to walk, too, the cool ache in my thighs and calves from where I’ve been sedentary these past few … well, these past few years, really, since all my sports stopped with high school.

 

Some part of me knows that what I’m doing is incredibly foolish, but at the same time this isn’t Father’s area or the Italians’. And New York is a big, big place. I keep on walking until I come to a small café. It’s a cute-looking place with records hanging on the walls and old record prints pinned above them. The tables are oak, cracked in places. It’s nestled between an electronics store and a betting shop, a huge picture of Bob Marley painted onto the glass.

 

I head in without really thinking, since a fire burns in the center of the room. It’s busy, people crowding the tables and a five-person line huddling close to the counter. I join the line, stand there for a few seconds, and then remember that I don’t have any cash on me. I leave the line and head to the barstools on the opposite side, where a few student types sit. I take a seat and rest my elbows on the bar. I’ll head back in a couple of minutes. I have to make sure to be back before Gabriel returns … for the money.

 

I smile at myself. For the money. Is that the truth? Or is it more the thought of him on top of me, thrusting into me, turning my world into one of insane pleasure? Is it more that I want him and he wants me and, despite the craziness of the situation, that will remain constant? I don’t have anything to compare it to, but last night was truly incredible. I feel like a different person. I feel less weighed down by the knowledge that I’m a virgin, as though it was hanging over my head, the same way I felt in high school. But mostly I just feel like I want to do it again and again and again. Just thinking about the warmth and passion that exploded between us makes me—

 

The man drops heavily into the seat next to me, jolting me from my reverie. He’s tanned, with slicked-back gray hair, a gold watch on his wrist, his tight suit highlighting his bulging belly. One of his ears is scarred near the top, a chunk missing, and he is clean-shaven except for a razor-thin mustache. He smells of whisky and cigarettes.

 

“Hello,” he says, glancing at me. “Didn’t mean to frighten you, little lady.”

 

“It’s fine,” I say, turning away from him.

 

“Is it?” He follows my gaze, leaning close to me. I find I can’t turn away, because that would leave him within inches of me, without me being able to see what he’s doing.

 

“Is something wrong, sir?” I say, reverting back to the tried-and-tested manners Alma taught me growing up. It turns out not everything she had to say was useless.

 

“Wrong?” The man laughs, but there’s no humor in it. It’s more like he coughs from the back of his throat. “Nothing’s wrong with me, sweet princess. I’ve just come to this fine establishment to have a cup of black.” He smiles. “There’s nothing like black coffee, is there? Gets the blood pumping.”

 

“Sure,” I mutter, and then make to climb down from the stool.

 

The man lays his hand on my elbow. He doesn’t do it hard, and he doesn’t squeeze or pinch it, but he does send a chill through me.

 

“What are you doing?” I snap, wondering how big of a mistake it was to leave the hotel room. The slicked-back hair, the gold watch; it isn’t difficult to guess what camp this man belongs to. “You’re Italian, aren’t you?”

 

“Yes, ma’am.” He grins, flashing yellow teeth. “And you’re Irish, if these old sacks of skin I call ears can be trusted, eh? So what’s it to you where I’m from?” He applies some pressure to my elbow now. Little stabs of pain travel down my forearm. “You sure are one inquisitive little lady, aren’t you?”

 

“Sir,” I say stiffly, still trying to salvage some control over the situation. “Would you please let me go? I want to leave now.”

 

“Such a well-trained little birdie, eh?” He grins even wider. One of his back teeth is coated in silver, glinting. “You know all the right words, don’t you? All the right little chirpings to make, eh? I bet your momma’s one hell of a lady.”

 

“What is this?” I say, wracking my mind for something to do. But what is there? I could scream, but all that would do is alert the police, which in turn would alert Gabriel’s boss or Father and Alma.

 

“This is a friendly man saying hello. And this.” My blood turns cold when he takes out the small gun under the bar, pressing it against my knee. My body tenses up, everything going taut, like it could snap. “Is a not-so-friendly man telling you that it’s time to come with him, nice and slowly. Don’t make any sudden moves, sweetie. I’ve been on the whisky today and I don’t trust myself to be patient.”

 

“You work for Lorenzo Moretti,” I mutter, hardly able to get the words out.

 

“I work for a powerful man,” he says. “That’s all you need to worry about.”

 

“Lorenzo wouldn’t be happy if you killed me, sir,” I say, still struggling to get any sort of handle on this situation. It seems too surreal. Why did I leave the hotel?

 

“Maybe not,” the man agrees. “But I think he’d understand if I have to hurt you a little.” The metal of the gun presses even harder and colder into my knee. “Do you want to risk it?”

 

“N—no.” I breathe slowly, panic creeping. “No, I don’t.”

 

“Then stand up and walk slowly outside. I have to put this pea-shooter away, but don’t worry. I’ve got a much bigger gun on standby.”

 

He puts the gun away and looks at me expectantly. I want to do something but he’s much bigger than me, plus he has that look about him that Father’s men do: ready to kill, fight, be killed on a moment’s notice. If I tried to scratch his eyes out or bite him, it would only make him angry. In his anger he might even forget Moretti; he’ll shoot me in the head and then regret it later, but his regret won’t mean anything for me.

 

“Can’t we work this out?” I ask as we walk, side by side, through the snow. He’s leading me back toward the hotel. “Isn’t there something we can do? What if I pay you?”

 

“I’m paid well, girl. And if you’re thinking of paying me with that body of yours, don’t bother. I get better than you every day of the week.”

 

“What then?” I say, unable to hide the desperation from my voice. I don’t know what Lorenzo’s going to do to me, but I’m guessing it’ll be worse than what Gabriel has done. Much worse, considering that what Gabriel has done has not been even slightly bad, even if it should’ve been. “What?” I repeat, when he just goes on walking, always watching me out of the corner of his eye.

 

“Just keep walking,” he says. “That’s all I need from you. And shut the cunt mouth, too.” He suddenly turns vicious, baring his yellow teeth at me. “I’m tired of listening to that whining voice.”

 

I bite down on my lip and walk beside him, willing myself to scream out to everybody we pass. It’d be better to be found by Father than to disappear into this man’s prison, I know, but I also know that he could just hit me over the head and carry me off. I’m stuck between fear and the potential for violence.

 

Finally, we round the corner and end up at the hotel. We walk toward a car parked just opposite the hotel, which makes me wonder how long they’ve been out there. A man sits in the driver’s seat of the car, twisting to look over his shoulder at us. When we get close enough, he starts the engine. He’s an Italian, too, even older than the man walking beside me, with a bald head apart from some slick, glued-down wisps on the side.

 

I have never been as religious as Alma would like, but when I spot him, I’m certain God has something to do with it. Gabriel, heading back into the hotel, right across the street. I wouldn’t scream for strangers. I wouldn’t scream for dumb luck. I wouldn’t scream for fear.

 

But I will scream for Gabriel.

 

“Shut up!” the man snaps, trying to bundle me into the car.

 

Gabriel spins, pauses for a moment, and then goes for his hip.

 

“Fuck!” the man roars, shoving me roughly into the car.