Lucifer returns, bearing gifts in a brown paper bag. My body aches from sitting on the floor, waiting for him. The couch is a hostile domain lording over the other side of the room, so my new perch is in a corner near the fridge with my back braced against the wall, and my legs stretched out over the linoleum.
He doesn’t see me at first when he comes in and sets the bag down on the counter that conveniently shields my position. I start to stand, but something makes me take my time, observing him safely from my hiding place.
He is a cold, dark shell of a man. Humanity is a mask he wears to keep the mere mortals around him from panicking at the sight of the evil smoldering within his skin. His eyes are predators hunting beneath a jungle of dark hair. His mouth is a cage—he rarely says anything he doesn’t mean. An unusual display of restraint and of freedom. So many people are forced to parrot whatever lies they pretend to believe in order to earn money or stay alive. His brutal honesty is as rare as it is dangerous.
I belong to no one.
“I’m here,” I say, rising to my feet when his eyes begin to stalk the corners, his body tensing. I raise my hands, revealing that I don’t have the knife. It’s still on the floor, and he makes sure by spotting it there, beside the wall. Then he rips open the bag and places his offering on the counter between us.
I blink, my nose twitching to register the exotic, spicy scent of gaeng daeng and shrimp pad thai. I don’t let myself register the fact that he obeyed my request. I snatch up a plastic set of silverware instead. Verbal thank-yous are for humans, so I show my gratitude by stabbing at a piece of food and choking it down.
It’s good. I’m leaning over the counter before I can help it, shoveling more into my mouth. Hot, spicy, fragrant, messy. Sauce and loose noodles coat my chin, but I don’t bother to wipe them away. Vinny wouldn’t approve, and every bite tastes even sweeter knowing that.
Lucifer watches me, however. I know it’s rude that I don’t stop to offer him any, but I can’t seem to regain control of my body until the last greasy morsel goes down my throat and all traces of it have been licked from my fingers.
The dangerous silence that falls between us doesn’t require anything to fill it. It’s almost better if we maintain the lethal tension that determines the boundary of captor and captive. I have every intention of playing my role—I do. Until I look up. Questions cloud the devil’s gaze before he can hide them. They distort the blue of his eyes. He almost looks human.
“We lived near a Thai restaurant when I was growing up,” I say, allowing my plastic fork to fall on the countertop. “My parents got food from there at least once a week. My father said that it reminded him of the food back home, but I think he was joking.” My throat aches. Talking about the past hurts worse than reliving my hell with Vinny. Some wounds are too deep to risk prodding. I’m bleeding out words, and I just can’t stop.
“We came from São Paulo when I was eight. My mother got a job at a factory, and my father worked construction and cleaned for a contractor at night. I went to school in the city, but I knew very little English, and the kids liked to tease the strange Brazilian girl.” I laugh at the memory, though the treatment had stung at the time. Back then, the world of Daniela Manzano had only consisted of two dolls with cornflower hair—Maria and Isabelli—a small apartment in the slums of downtown, her Mãe Ana, her Pai Daniel, and a younger Irmão Christoph. She had liked the color blue and loved reading books from her father’s lap, hearing him translate the words in his native Português. The world had been smaller, then. Simpler. Happier.
“I didn’t have a lot of friends,” I admit, compelled to keep telling my sordid tale, even though he doesn’t want to hear it; he stoically eyes the wall behind my head. “Then one day...I met a boy. His family members were immigrants too. He was older than me, but his English was better. I think he took pity on me, at first... He would walk me home. Help me with my pronunciation. We’d play games in the street until my father had to come and drag me inside...”
Lucifer listens in silence. I don’t know if he’s already guessed the identity of the new character introduced in the story when I finally reveal it. “His name was Vincent. His family had come over from Italy, but he didn’t like to talk about it. America was his home now. He liked green. He liked to read. He loved classical music.” It’s a simple list that I used to repeat to myself before my soul became numb to his violence. Back when I’d wanted to believe that boy was still there, lurking somewhere within the monster’s skin. “When he was fourteen, his mother was murdered buying groceries. A man working for some local gang had tried to rob the place. He used her as a hostage and killed her when things got out of hand. I think...I think all the good in him died that day.” I wrinkle my nose at the memory, trying to pinpoint the exact moment the boy—my dearest friend—became a stranger. “He tracked down the gangsters on some stupid plan for revenge, and they broke his legs in five places with baseball bats. He still has a limp,” I add, my voice falling flat. “After that, a man by the name of Antoni Capella found him in the streets and took him under his wing. He was from Italy too and had mob connections in the city.” To hear Vinny tell it, the man was a god, a more admirable father than the one he left behind grieving with a bottle of whiskey in the ghetto. “After that...”
I trail off. There is a whole new chapter of the story to tell, but I’m too exhausted to turn the page. I stare down at the empty food containers instead. I suffer Lucifer’s careful, silent scrutiny and I pretend not to notice—but it’s a much harder game to play now than before. Too many smells taint the air between us. Too many stains. Too many secrets. Too many lies.
“What about you?” I glance up at him through a wayward fringe of my hair that does little to block out the ice in his gaze. I don’t specify just what I’m prodding to learn—I’d take anything.
Or maybe I knew all along that the question would send him turning on his heel and marching down the hall, leaving me alone and in silence once again...
Lucifer storms out of the apartment again a little after dawn. I don’t lift my head from the floor to see for myself. His anger paints a blazing trail detectable through scent alone—and the sound of the door slamming shut provides another clue of his departure.
I pretend his leaving doesn’t worry me. I pretend that my first, instinctive urge isn’t to creep over to the door in order to make sure it’s locked. I pretend that even if he does turn me over to the other men, it wouldn’t matter.
I pretend, and I pretend until my sore muscles have gone numb and another sound jolts me awake again. The noise—a careful tapping—comes from the door, but I doubt Lucifer is the culprit this time, cautiously demanding entry. After four more quiet knocks the sound stops and I almost believe that whoever the unwelcomed visitor is has changed his mind and gone away.
“I know you’re in there.”
I tense at the sound of a man’s voice, but...it’s not quite as guttural as it should be. He sounds a few pitches higher than Lucifer, and his tone lacks the murderous lust of the red-haired man or one of his men. Confused, my eyes flicker over to the knife resting only a few feet away from my outstretched toes. Lucifer’s arrogance is an interesting puzzle I’m not sure I’d ever want to solve. Instead, I take advantage of the fact by easing myself upright and crawling for the blade. I move slowly, striving to make my every motion silent against the uneven flooring, but the moment my fingers brush the knife’s handle, the “visitor” knocks again.
“He’s gone,” they say, their voice low and deceptively neutral. “Open up. Unless...he has you tied up. In which case I should call the police.”
I swallow hard and drag my thumb over the edge of the blade. It’s dull, unwilling to cut even the pad of my thumb, but I press down and force it through the skin. The pain is white-hot, waking up my sleepy nerve endings and electrifying them with fear.
“I have a cell phone,” the man warns. “If you don’t answer, I’ll just have to assume that he has you incapacitated.”
Lucifer? My fingers shake, and I dig my nails into the palm of my free hand to counter the reaction. Whoever this man is, he apparently isn’t in on the intentions of the red-haired man. He’s hostile to Lucifer. Opening the door would only incite my devil’s wrath, but if this man really does call the police...Vinny would know. He would find me, and my charming fiancé would love to put on a caring show for the police officers before taking me up to that damn hotel suite and killing me slowly.
I could always take myself out of the equation; I realize while my blood continues to speckle the surface of the blade at my fingertips. How easy would it be to hack my wrists open and bleed out before anyone could ever reach me? I consider it...
But Lucifer’s infected me. It’s no longer just enough to imagine Vinny’s reaction to my little tape. It’s not enough to estimate the extent of his rage. I want to see it. I want to feel the heat of the fire I’ve set before I die.
“That’s it. I’m calling them—”
“I’m f-fine.” I struggle to inject calm into my voice, but my sore jaw disrupts my attempts. I sound garbled. I sound tired. I sound...under duress. “I’m fine,” I repeat, making my voice louder as if volume alone can counter everything else. I stand, leaving the knife behind, though I’m not sure why.
Fear demands attention, commanding my body into action. I should be cautious. I should carefully heed the threat of Lucifer. I...that voice shouldn’t sound so familiar.
“Oh really?” the man counters. He copies my tone, losing the cautious murmur. “Then open the door. Let me see that for myself.”
I shake my head, well aware that he can’t see the reaction. “No. I’m fine—”
“I’m not asking out of concern for you,” he says bluntly. “I need...I need to see that he hasn’t—I need to see for myself.”
Once again, I suspect that he’s referring to Lucifer. I need to see that he hasn’t...
Kidnapped a woman and held her hostage? If he’s looking to be reassured by my appearance, he’ll be sorely disappointed. My back feels sticky. I’m still wearing Lucifer’s stolen, bloodied, filthy shirt, and I felt no desire to shower or change when he left. I’m a false martyr relishing in the ashes of her destruction, but I tug on the hem and contemplate how much worse it might seem if I open the door wearing nothing at all.
“I’m waiting.” The voice holds a flicker of impatience along with a dare: he’ll call the police.
My hand reaches out, my fingertips brushing the doorknob. A million reasons to let Lucifer’s house of cards come crashing down race through my mind, each one jostling for supremacy. In the end, I force myself to undo the lock for only one reason alone—self-preservation. Any humiliation is better than being hand-delivered to Vinny in a squad car, already wearing handcuffs.
At least with the lack of a strong accent, I know this man doesn’t work for him.
“I’m fine,” I insist while I pull the door open merely a fraction of an inch. I peer through the crack, and if I’d hoped that my words alone would counter the effect of my appearance—namely the bruises on my face—I’m sorely disappointed.
The blue eyes watching me from the other side widen, but not entirely with shock, I realize. Before I can react, a hand smudged with dirt slips through the crack in the doorway and bats the door open wider. I’m forced to step back while a taller man—almost as tall as Lucifer—forces his way inside. His blue eyes are too familiar. Lucifer himself, after all? No...
He blinks, his gaze darkening with recognition at the same time I realize just who he is, and I feel the world start to crumble from underneath me. “P-Pyro Girl?”