Page 17 of Vicious Souls

Moneybags has her eyes welded to me, obviously contemplating her next move. She may be just as confused as I am. Or maybe not. She has the upper hand here – she has obviously known who I was the whole time she’d been in the cell, and had enough time to concoct her story. I, on the other hand, have been none the wiser as she sat here shaking her head, nodding at times, her gaze fixed to the floor. In a disguise. The same disguise the boy had worn each and every time he’d left the Murray compound to visit his father. She was obviously the decoy, no two ways about it. Maddog was making me suffer even beyond his grave.

I wipe a bead of sweat that has formed above my brow, my gaze never leaving her as I contemplate all the things I would now have to reconsider. There is only one way to do this. Keep moving forward. If we don’t have the boy, Moneybags will give us the boy.

“You still have to shower.”

I hear my voice as though it comes from a strange, far away place, not even contemplating the words before they leave my mouth.

“Will I have my privacy?” she asks.

“What in the actual FUCK!” Marco yells, looking from Moneybags to me, then back to Moneybags again. “Nowyou’re talking?”

I suddenly understand why she hadn’t spoken til now; so we wouldn’t know that under the horrendous glasses and the inadequately sized clothes, there lurked a woman. She had hidden it well. The voice would have given her away. As would the breasts hidden beneath the ghastly clothes that hung off her small frame like twin parachutes. And the eyes – there’s no way her feline eyes and symmetrical eyebrows could have belonged to a boy – hence the massive glasses covering half her upper face. There is a reason she has been hiding behind this disguise. Maybe multiple reasons. And I aim to find out what those reasons are. One way or another.

* * *

After she showers,with guards stationed at the bathroom door and others yet located under the bathroom window in case she doesn’t heed my warning not to attempt an escape, I walk her back to the dusty cell and stand behind her. She takes in the little card table that has been set up in the room, the two chairs opposite one another. I can feel her tensing, see her fists clenching and unclenching at her sides. The table and chairs may have reminded her of an interrogation room.

“Sit down,” I order her, my voice both rough and commanding. I’m not taking any chances with her this time. My father will never let me live it down.

She slides into a chair and tucks her knees in the narrow space under the table. We sit in silence for many minutes, her gaze fixed on a ridge in the table, mine fixed on her as I think of all the ways I can slowly but surely break her. Pietro walks into the cell carrying a tray of food, which he sets between us, and I lift the domes and set them aside as the fragrant smell of freshly cooked food wafts through the cell.

“You look like you could use a decent meal,” I tell her, pushing the soup bowl toward her. “I know you haven’t eaten in a few days; you won’t be able to stomach anything heavier than soup.”

Moneybags picks up the spoon and holds it above the plate. Her hand shakes, a tense fear radiating from her body, then sets the spoon back down and lets out a deep breath. I luxuriate in her discomfort, considering all the ways I could possibly make her more uncomfortable. When she looks up at me, her eyes fluttering beneath thick lashes, I nod at the soup, wordlessly telling her I expect her to eat.

“It’s too hot.”

“Let’s wait, shall we?” I suggest.

“Why am I here?” she asks, the question she’d been dying to ask from the moment she’d arrived.

“We’ll talk after you eat.”

“You’re just going to sit there and watch me?”

“I’m guessing you could use the company.”

Moneybags clucks her tongue and turns her face away, exhaling an exasperated sigh. She picks up the spoon again, digs it into the bowl, and blows on the soup before lifting the spoon to her mouth. Everything about her is a mystery I have to solve. Even the way she eats is luxurious, refined. She may be a magnet for trouble, but she has the manners of a lady. Which is quite at odds with a stand in. There’s no way this woman was hired to pretend she was Murray’s son. Why even would they hire a woman for the role?

She ignores the bread and olive oil on the tray, finishing her soup noiselessly, obviously enjoying it, then sets her spoon down and picks up a serviette, dabbing delicately at the tips of her mouth. She folds her napkin perfectly and sets it back down on the tray. Every movement she makes, no matter how minute, has me mesmerized as I continue to watch her.

She places both hands on the table casually, on either side of the tray, watching me as she waits for my next move. We could very well be playing an accelerated game of knockout as we stare each other down; first one to blink falls.

“What’s your name?” I ask her, when she sits back in her chair, obviously waiting for me to start the conversation. I had told her we would talk after she ate. I just hadn’t told her what we’d talk about.

Moneybags smirks and reminds me that her name is Moneybags. “It’s kind of grown on me,” she laments, her smirk morphing into a semi-smile.

“You look ridiculous in those clothes – I’ll get Marco to pick up something else. Don’t want you drowning in fabric.”

“That could only mean I’ll be here for a while yet.” She is a smart girl. But then, hadn’t I already known that, knowing what she was capable of back at the club?

“I’m sure you’re going to be here for a while. I want you to be as comfortable as possible during your stay with us.” Moneybags lifts her chin, revealing her neck to me. She smooths a hand down her throat thoughtfully, as though navigating an itch, her eyes fixed on me. Her brain is working at a hundred miles an hour. So many questions in her head, but she obviously doesn’t want to show her hand and let me know what she is dying to ask. She doesn’t want to show her fear. And she doesn’t want me to spot any weaknesses in her. Which tells me she is three things;

A strategist

A master manipulator

A genius

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