Page 15 of Veil of Vengeance

“What is this place, exactly?” I ask her. Her face morphs into a look of dismay, as if what she’s about to answer will make me feel a certain type of way.

“You’re at the Diamond.” When she doesn’t see anything change in my expression, she continues. “It’s a whorehouse.”

My eyes mist over and the room spins.

They brought me to a whorehouse. Oh my God. What the hell are they planning on doing? The woman must sense my panic rising because she comes farther into the cell and places her manicured hand on my shoulder.

“Listen, I know that you’re scared and rightfully so, but don’t worry. No one here will force anything on you.”

I don’t believe her, but it does ease the tightening in the middle of my chest. She holds a plastic plate up to me, and once I take it, she turns to leave, but I open my mouth.

“Wait…” I say. She turns around. “Uhhh…could you maybe…”

“You want me to stay with you?” she asks, and I nod in answer. I don’t know why I want her to stay, but I know I don’t want to be here alone.

We both head toward the sheets on the floor and sit on them.

“I’m Ruby. What’s your name?” she asks after I take a bite out of a stale piece of bread.

“My name’s Valentina,” I tell her after I swallow the gross piece of stale bread. We both fall quiet, and the only sound is me eating my food. Every time I swallow, I feel as if she could hear it.

“Do you know what they’re going to do with me?”

She shrugs and says, “Sorry, Valentina, but I have no clue. You were brought in by the Capo himself.”

My head hangs a bit because I feel stupid to think that they’d tell a prostitute who works for them what they plan to do with their captive. Once I’m done with the food, she gets up and dusts off her clothes—or whatever there is of them anyways.

“I have to go now, or I’ll get in trouble. The Johns here don’t like waiting for long.” I give her a small nod, not wanting to talk anymore. Exhaustion weighs heavily on me.

* * *

I’d fallen asleep.I don’t know for how long, but I jolt up from the spot I’m sleeping on. My back aches, and I feel more tired than I was before. Stretching my arms, I look around.

The place is empty, just me in here. My neck is stiff, so I try to rub it to see if that’ll help, but all it does is intensify the stiffness to an uncomfortable knot. I lie back down to see if it’ll help relax the muscles.

My ears perk up at the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs. I don’t get up, trying to appear as if I haven’t heard them. I focus my eyes on a spot on the concrete floor near the cell door.

It oddly resembles a bloodstain. I grimace at the thought that someone more than likely died here. The footsteps sound closer than they were a couple of seconds ago. A pair of black Oxford shoes are now in front of the cell door. Then whoever it is clears their throat as if to summon my attention.

I look up, only to find that psycho Capo is the one standing in front of the cell door. My nose wrinkles as my eyebrows pull together. He continues to look at me with what seems to be a mixture of disgust, curiosity, and amusement, as if I’m some circus monkey for him to be entertained by.

“What?” I bite out, unable to bear the unnerving stare of his. He runs his tongue over his teeth like a predator when they spot their prey, and the look in his eyes sends a chill down my spine as my blood cools.

“How old are you?” His question throws me off. I blink once, twice, and then a third time before I decide to reply.

“Twenty-one, why?” I retort, and he shakes his head at me, as if refusing to answer me.

“Why did your dad attack my territory three months ago?” he asks, I frown.

“I don’t know. I thought you said you knew all the information you needed to.”

His lips set into a line, displeased with my response. He slides his hands into his suit pants, then rolls his shoulders, as if that would ease the tension in them. As he clenches his jaws once, he sees me observing him, and I flash him the fakest smile I can muster up. He returns it with a wolfish one of his own. The smile makes two dimples appear on each of his cheeks, but they disappear as soon as they have appeared, and his face returns to its resting constipated look that seems like it’s natural state. Such a shame; he would be gorgeous if he wasn’t an asshole.

“How old are you?” I blurt out before I can stop myself. Christ, I need to get a grip.

“I’m twenty-seven.” Oh, he’s older than he looks. Even with the light stubble, he still looks around twenty-four. As if he senses my thoughts, he runs his palm over his jaw. His hands are tattooed. I can’t make out what they are, but there’s more ink peeking from his dress shirt, swirling all the way up his neck.

“Where’s Romiro?” I ask him when the silence becomes uncomfortable. I don’t know why he’s here if he isn’t going to speak. His light blue eyes darken as soon as the question leaves my mouth, turning the color of the ocean at night.

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