Page 20 of Vicious Souls

He picks up a 10 to my 8.

“What’s your real name?” He asks me.

I take a long pause, thinking about my answer, weighing up what sort of damage this information can do to me. I don’t know why I’m here or what these men plan to do to me. I’m probably already as good as dead.

“Kingsley.”

“Who are you named after?” He asks this at the next round, ignoring the fact that I had carefully sidestepped my family name. I don’t delude myself into thinking I have the upper hand here; if he doesn’t ask, chances are he already knows who I am but wants to see how far he can push.

“Ben Kingsley.”

He looks at me oddly, but who doesn’t love Ben Kingsley?

“What’s your family name?” I ask him. What I really want to know is which criminal syndicate he belongs to. I may have grown up away from the life, but Idoknowsomethings.

He sits back in his seat, his concentration never wavering. He had known, going into this game, that I would ask some hard questions, just as he would. But he, like me, had agreed to tell the truth. “Accardi.”

“Hmmm… neighbors,” I murmur, my voice laced with bitter resentment. “Is that why you’re making a move on Murray’s territory?”

“One question only, remember?”

Too late, I realize my mistake by showing my hand. Only someone in the life could possibly know that the Accardis and the Murrays share a border. He chooses not to remark on my slip, leaving a pregnant pause between us.

We pick up our next set of cards. I’m failing miserably; there is no luck of the draw for me today. “How old are you?” he asks.

“Nineteen.”

“How old are you?” I counter, after I pick up my next card.

“Twenty-seven.”

“How do you relate to Maddog Murray?”

This is what he has been working towards. This is what he wants to know. He knows that if he gets lucky, we won’t even have to continue playing for seven days. I might just spill my guts sooner rather than later.

I’m quiet for the longest time, my lip imprisoned between my teeth. He waits patiently for me to make up my mind, expecting an answer at any moment. But I don’t give him an answer. Instead, I pick up another card and toss them both into my reserve file, refusing to answer the question.

And that right there tells him so much more about the type of person I am than a hundred games of Truth or Fiction. It tells him that I would rather lose than lie about something. I would risk death rather than spill my guts. The way I see it, I am probably doomed either way; doomed to death if it is proved that I’m Maddog’s last remaining relative, and doomed to death if I lose at this game to him. However, with this game of risk, I still have six more days to get out of the hole I have dug myself into.

“Your reserve pile is getting mighty high,” he comments. “Looks like we’re going to need a bigger table, after all.”

19

DANTE

Even though I now knew her real name, I find it hard to make the switch and refer to her as anything but Moneybags. That image of her with all that cash in a handbag dangling from her arm was one I can never erase from my memory. The girl has balls of steel.

“I’m surprised Tate hasn’t made any effort to find you,” I hum, as I walk into the cell, rolling up my sleeves like I am about to step into a boxing ring. “Either you’re an insignificant player in the Murray outfit or he cares more about keeping you gone than even you would believe.”

Moneybags sits on the bed, her legs up, tucked under her chin, her back flat against the wall. She is finally out of the hideous clothes she was in before, and is now in the fresh set that Marco provided her with. Denim cutoffs, a white tank top tucked neatly into the hem of the jeans, and a large red plaid flannel shirt that falls to her thighs, unbuttoned and embracing her like a lover. The cutoffs show too much skin, and I make a concerted effort to avoid looking at her tanned legs which go on forever. I can now confidently add ‘sexy’ to her job description. Underneath all that artificial ‘super geek’ outfit had lurked a beautiful woman unlike any I had come across before.

“I’m no one to him. I don’t know why you would think he’d come charging through the gates of this prison to my rescue.” She seems a little irritated that I have hit the nail on the head but she tries to hide it well. Her hair is folded to the side, a halo of soft waves surrounding her bronzed skin.

“Huh,” I scoff, turning to look at the wall. There are a thousand thoughts running through my head. But I only have to get one across to her, and I have to do it in a way that will make her sit up and take notice. She has to understand how dire her situation is.

“I wonder if he’ll even mourn you after I lay your body at his doorstep.” I’m not naturally a bastard, but desperate times call for desperate measures. I watch as her face blanches and her hands, placed delicately around her legs, seem to take on a life of their own as they flutter against her skin before she folds them into fists to prevent the trembling.

“You bastard!” she hisses.

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