Page 29 of Vicious Souls

“The bagels are fresh,” Dante says, using tongs to place one on my plate. I scrunch up my face, looking down at the pastry distastefully, then reach for my coffee. Straight black. The aroma assails my nostrils as I lift the cup to my lips.

“God, she even drinks like a man!”

The sudden burst of surprise energy that enters the room results in my burnt tongue, and I lower the cup to the table and curse as I turn deadly eyes toward Marco. He is obviously not my biggest fan. He takes a seat next to Dante and stares at me as though seeing me for the first time.

“Now I understand… was that Marco’s room you put me up in last night, then?”

I look from one man to the other, a sly smirk on my face. Marco looks at me as though I’ve grown two heads and turns to Dante to ask him what I am on. Dante in turn rises, slaps his napkin against the table in anger, and stomps out of the room, but not before he mutters, “She’s all yours.”

26

DANTE

Ican’t hear myself think beyond the thunderous roar in my ears. The girl is driving me insane. My father tries to calm me down, but the more he throws soothing words my way, the more irate I become. I don’t understand why I’m the one that's been tasked with babysitting duties.

“The security here is second to none!” I scream, and I’m sure my voice can be heard beyond the walls surrounding us. “Explain to me why –WHY–I am required to stay here and act as bodyguard for some snotty nosed rich girl who is a disaster waiting to happen.”

“First of all, put your voice down, Dante,” my father warns. “I will not have you advertising this discord to the whole household. You may not like a job you are tasked with, but you will do it nonetheless. And gladly.”

“The woman has been nothing but trouble since I set eyes on her!”

“Son.” It’s one word. One firm symbol of our relationship. He puts a hand to my shoulder and squeezes. I close my eyes, inhaling deeply as I quietly ask for the patience needed to deal with this chaotic little fireball. “All the problems you’ve had since you met her are not of her doing. If you look carefully, you’ll see that forces around her – beyond her and beyond you or me – are at play here. She’s not inviting trouble. Nor is she trouble. Trouble is following her.”

“Exactly,” I whisper. “So why must I be the one to clean up her mess?”

My father gives me a long, deliberate look, as though assessing my ability to be worthwhile in this role. I don’t doubt my ability; I just don’t want any part of the mayhem that is Kingsley Murray.

“Have you forgotten the waterfront? Have you forgotten what’s at stake here? I promised you that, with the waterfront in our arsenal, we’d be unstoppable. Untouchable. You can’t lose sight of that, Dante.”

My father’s words pierce my soul. All he’s ever worked toward and striven for lay within the corners of the waterfront, the port and waterways with access into and out of the city. That’s all he’s ever wanted, and now he is so close. Who am I to come and begrudge him what he wants most in the world? Who am I to stand in his way or make things hard for him? What sort of a son have I become that I would allow a little girl to sway me from doing my duty towards my father? Am I that much of a coward? To give up so easily at the first sign of aggravation?

“Leave it with me, father.” I hang my head in shame. “You wish and it shall be.”

* * *

The one thingI know about Kingsley, above all else, is that she loves a challenge more than the average person. Give her a wager, a puzzle, a riddle, a challenge any day, and she will take it with both hands and hit the ground running. And she loves – even thrives on – winning something for her prowess. No matter what that something is, for her it’s about winning. Cracking the jackpot. It is never about the money. She has enough to feed a third world country, so I’m sure it’s never been about the money.

I realize I have to keep her entertained. Reading books and watching TV just won’t do it for this girl. I know this because I watch her pacing back and forth in her room on the cameras I switch on after my meeting with my father. The cameras in the bedrooms are generally always off, accessed only by me. But now I feel the need to switch on the eyes in her room, if only to learn more about the thorn in my side. The sooner I know her inside out, I can get what I want, and she’ll be out of my life for good. Then I can go back to my world the way it had been pre Kingsley Murray.

I watch her as she walks back and forth, in military fashion, her arms swinging forward until her fists bump one another, then back and forth again. It was no wonder she had smooth, taut arms; it’s all the arm stretches and fist pumping she does. She is calm and assured as she walks, even though I can almost see her brain working at 300 miles per hour. She is deep in thought, no doubt wondering what has brought her to this huge pre-war mansion out in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by an army no less and more weapons than could be found in an armory.

The room is spotless, as immaculate as it had been when she first walked into it, and I can see that she is a creature of clean habits – she had made the bed herself (perfectly), showered and placed all her laundry in the basket, and left everything tidy and orderly after helping herself to the clothes in the walk in. I send a silent prayer of gratitude to anyone who will listen that she is at least considerate of keeping the place clean. I probably would not have been able to tolerate it if she had decided to trash the room. Or anything else in the house, for that matter.

I sit back in my chair and watch her as she continues to pace the room. At one point, she stops walking, and I can swear I see a lightbulb go off in her head. She angles her head in thought, shakes it as though whatever she’s thinking is crazy, then throws her arms up in the air helplessly and continues on her war march around the room. When it looks like she’s had enough and is suitably bored, she throws herself down on the bed and looks up at the ceiling in quiet contemplation, blowing out a strawberry, much as a bored child would do. That’s my cue.

I make my way to her room and knock gently on the door, waiting for her to open. She gives me a frustrated yet puzzled look when she realizes it’s me.

27

DANTE

“What, no barging in without knocking? Isn’t that how prisoners are usually treated?”

She folds her arms across her chest defiantly and cocks a hip smartly, meaning to show me her tough side. She fails miserably, but she stirs something in me that has long laid dormant. She wants to play with fire. She means to challenge me. I want to take her up on her empty challenge.

“And prisoners – especially those as beautiful as you,” I start, taking a lock of her dark hair in my hand and wrapping it around a finger before I move closer to sniff it. She smells divine. She reeks of sin. And danger. “Are usually subjected to brutality. Rape, murder… malnourishment. Are you inviting me to watch you as you shower, Moneybags?”

She slaps my hand away and turns away from the door in a huff. I follow her, joining her at the French doors that lead out to the balcony.

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