Page 31 of Vicious Souls

“What about my car?”

“What about it?”

“You drove all the way home?”

“Yes. I left the car out on the road. That was the last time I saw it.”

“Interesting,” I muse.

“Interesting how?”

“Where did you go the next morning?”

“To the hospital. Where my dead father lay.”

She snaps at me and I guess I deserve the treatment for being so insensitive to her feelings. I follow her as she turns back to the sitting area, where she tucks a leg under her thigh and sits staring toward the French doors. The poor girl probably hasn’t even had time to grieve properly.

“How long will I be here?” she asks, a sigh of resignation in her soft voice.

“As long as it takes to ensure your safety.”

“You want me to believe you’re doing this out of the goodness of your heart? I know our fathers haven’t spoken in many years. What compels you now to protect me? What do you get out of this?”

Instead of replying, I take a seat next to her and turn my body to face her. We aren’t all that different, she and I. At the end of the day, we both come from the same world, with similar backgrounds and upbringings. We both belong to families laced neck deep in criminal activity, and we both have more money than we could ever hope to burn through in thirty lifetimes. In a way, I feel sorry for her. Sorry that her life has been reduced to this. That she has to live with this uncertainty and mayhem so early on in her life. And the irony is that she has no one to rely on when it comes to such affairs. Her father – her one time protector and provider – is now gone. She’s on her own, fending for herself in a sea of piranhas. And something about that image just doesn’t sit right with me.

28

DANTE

The house in the woods is not often used, a mansion that my father decided to offload to me the moment I turned 21. In all honesty, I think he didn’t have the heart to part with it by selling it, but he also didn’t have the inclination to maintain the vast property. So instead, he gave it to me, knowing I’d also never have the heart to sell a property which held such fond memories for me. For most of the year, the house remains closed, the staff sent to other properties to help maintain those while the house stands empty. Every New Years, I would make the hours long drive to the house, gather my memories, and pay homage to all our loved ones, past and present. I’d spend three days alone in a drunken stupor before Marco would come to fetch me, scolding me for my recklessness and telling me I had to rid myself of my ghosts. Rinse and repeat. Each year, at the stroke of midnight, I would find myself in this house, perpetuating the nightmare once again. Like I said, fond memories. But likewise, horrific memories that refused to die.

And then, the rest of the year, the house remained sealed. It had become a shrine. Shrouded in the past, bad memories mixed with laughing childhoods. The echoes of years past, laughter and tears and pain filtered through the massive rooms across each and every wing. I knew every inch of this house, and every corner held a precious memory. No matter how painfully useless the house had become, I would never let it go.

My feet tap on the hardwood floors as I cross from one wing to another, then make my way out the huge French doors that lead to the immaculately manicured gardens. No matter how little we now enjoyed this home, I would not allow it to be overgrown by weeds and debris. It would forever remain the way it had back then, locked in the past where it belonged. I approach the pool, stand at the edge, look down at the crystal waters as they shimmer in the sun. Helga and Shafin had done an amazing job of preparing the house before our arrival in the limited time they had. To an outsider, the house out in the middle of nowhere would look well loved and definitely lived in.

I hear the crunch of feet behind me and turn slowly, coming face to face with Moneybags. Her footfalls are soft enough to alert me, even before I turn, that it is she who’s approaching. The men scattered around the various posts on the estate would never walk so gently – they’d thump.

I wonder if it is a coincidence that she has stumbled out here, or if she has seen me from her window which looks out at the gardens and followed me out here.

“The house – what I’ve seen of it – is beautiful. But the garden… it’s magical,” she breathes.

“The best part of the house, I would say.”

I give her a quick top to bottom glance then turn back to the pool. I don’t mind the company – I just don’t relish looking at her when she is so close to me. Everything about her affects me in ways I don’t understand or like.

“Everything about this situation seems a little off.”

Her voice, soft and melodic, dances on the air between us. Not a recrimination. Not an accusation. She is just trying to make small talk. And what do we two have to talk about other than the strange circumstance in which we find ourselves in? I puff out a breath and turn to face her, my hands on my hips. There is only so far a conversation can go when you are talking to someone’s back.

“You’re not a prisoner here. If you so wish, you can leave at any time. I would highly suggest that you don’t, but I can’t keep you here if you don’t want to be here.”

“So I can just go?” She turns halfway toward the house and lifts a hand in question. “I can just walk out of here and you won’t stop me?” She looks at me skeptically. Everything I’ve told her contradicts the way in which I’ve ferried her through the night in handcuffs out to the middle of nowhere.

I shrug. Like I don’t care if she leaves or stays. I don’t. If she leaves, I’ll have one less headache. But then I’ll also have to contend with my father. He’ll lose his shit. No doubt about that.

“I’ll even supply you with a car to drive you wherever you want to go,” I offer. A little reverse psychology never hurt anybody.

“But…?” she prompts.

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