Page 18 of Vicious Souls

And I have my work cut out for me.

* * *

My father comesby that afternoon to ‘check on our guest’, as he likes to say. He studies the camera feed, watching Moneybags as she paces back and forth around the small cell, obviously plotting and planning her great escape.

“She hasn’t given you anything?” he asks, a frown settling on his face. Even after all these years and at his age, my father is still a handsome bastard.

“She’s not talking,” Marco bites out, his harsh tone telling us he’s all for a firmer stance.

“What’s with the hideous clothes?”

“Don’t ask.” I roll my eyes as I lean back into a desk, watching the girl on the screen from a distance. She moves like a gazelle when she lets her guard down and becomes her true natural self, no matter what she is wearing.

When the girl raises her face and throws her head back, my father stands frozen, transfixed to the screen, his face blanching before he turns to me and whispers, almost in disbelief, “That’s not Maddog’s son, it’s his daughter.”

17

DANTE

Out of all the twists I could have predicted, this was definitely not one of them. But then, it sort of made sense, somehow. The boy had always entered the compound, and a girl had always left hours later. They had never been seen at the same time, in the same company. No one could tell us who the woman was. No one could tell us who the boy was. No one could even confirm that Maddog had a son – this was something he had told people over time, obviously to protect the identity of his child, and people had run with this fact and now it was gospel. Since no one had ever seen the child, and no picture existed, it could have very well been that Maddog’s one and only child was in fact a girl. Who’s to say otherwise?

Moneybags, as witnessed, is a master chameleon. Her many disguises would explain so many things. I just wonder who in the Murray household can confirm our suspicions. How many in their close knit circle actually know the truth? I imagine not many, if there were any at all who Maddog had shared the truth with. Who would Maddog have trusted enough to let in on this little secret? Tate, obviously. But I doubt he had trusted anyone else as explicitly, and perhaps that’s why she had stayed in disguise around the other family members. If push came to shove, she could disappear and no one would ever know who they were actually looking for, because she’d merely take on another whole new persona. In theory, it was ingenious. I just wondered how she had gone about her life until now – how had she received her education? Under what alias? Where had she been all these years? Where was she planning to go now that her father was dead and gone? And who would protect her? If our world knew the one and only heir to the Murray empire was a girl, they would eat her alive.

“How can you tell?” I ask my father, after asking him repeatedly if he's sure that the girl on the feed is in fact Maddog’s daughter.

“Because she’s the spitting image of her mother,” my father breathes, mesmerized by the vision on the screen. My father mentions the girl’s mother with such reverence, I wonder if she had been the reason that the two men, once best friends, had fallen out many years ago.

Before leaving, my father places his hand on my shoulder, coming to stand by my ear, his words for my benefit only. “Now you have this information, you go in there and you work her until she caves and confirms she’s his daughter. Then we’ll re-evaluate and make our next move.”

“She’s very stubborn,” I tell him, knowing this could take weeks and I’m fed up with being holed up in this dungeon.

My father throws me a wistful look before he smiles, his mind obviously flitting back to a past he so obviously yearns for.

“Find her weakness. Make her talk. Butdon’thurt her,” he warns, before he walks away.

* * *

“We’re goingto play a little game,” I say as I walk into the cell, shuffling a deck of cards.

Moneybags’ eyes light up the moment she sees the cards, and I can smell the excitement in the cell. I indicate the table and she takes a chair and waits for me to sit opposite her. Instead, I continue to walk around the cell, my hands folding the cards into each other as I pace.

“What’s the game?” she asks, a gleam in her eyes. I can almost swear her pupils are dilated.

“I think what you should be concerned with are the stakes.”

She frowns, her eyebrows angry slashes against her tanned skin as she fumes silently, trying not to make it obvious that she’s not happy with my answer. She knows she’s an excellent poker player, but she knows nothing about my card playing skills. The great unknown.

“It’s simple, really,” I tell her. “The game is called Truth or Fiction.” Her frown deepens. She knows exactly what I’m doing. But she hasn’t lost interest yet. She needs to be challenged. She is obviously highly competitive, and she loves playing high stakes games. She is a gambler by trade. A risk taker. And I am sure there is no way she will turn this game down.

“Rules?”

“This is a standard deck of 52 cards. I’ll even let you shuffle them,” I say, throwing the cards onto the table. She picks them up, sliding her fingers back and forth over the plastic, as though reconnecting with a long lost lover. She lifts the cards to her nose, closes her eyes and inhales deeply. When she opens her eyes again, she looks directly at me. She’s in.

“Stakes?” She’s ready to go.

“You’re getting ahead of yourself, Moneybags…” I continue to walk languidly around the room, taking my time as the tension in the room thickens, knowing there’s no way she’ll back out. The girl has an itch that needs to be scratched. She finishes expertly shuffling the cards, then lays the deck in the middle of the table, her right hand resting on them lovingly.

“We each take a card from the top of the deck. Highest card gets to ask the other a question, to which he or she must receive an honest answer. The integrity of this game hinges on honesty, Moneybags. I won’t accept anything less.” She nods her assent then rolls her wrist, telling me to get on with things. “If you choose to answer the question, you and the questioner throw your cards in the discard pile, where they go to die.”

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