Page 45 of Carnival
17
James
Slowly, I peel my eyes open, only to be met with bright, sharp, and blinding light. It pierces through my eyes, an intense ache spreading through my skull. It takes me a couple of moments to gather my thoughts, to get used to the sudden light, and to realize that I’ve been immobilized.
I’m not tied up; I’m just sitting on a chair. However, I cannot move my body. My face muscles are still working, but the rest of my body isn’t listening to me, as if I’d been paralyzed from the neck down.
Panic sets in inside me when I realize that this isn’t a terrible dream but my current reality. I skim my surroundings, a terrible stench hitting my nostrils. I recognize it immediately — death, blood, and decay. My brows scrunch as the smell spreads around, and I can see the remains of dried blood all over the deep green tiled walls, and I think there’s a severed head in the corner, but I can’t move my head enough to see it.
A clearing of the throat snaps my eyes forward, and a low groan slips from me. Out of everyone that could’ve taken me here, it just had to be him — Hudson De Santis. The current head of the De Santis assassin organization, one of the most feared men alive. Also the man known for his brutal torturing methods.
“I apologize for the state of the room,’’ he says, but he isn’t looking at me. He is sitting in a chair across from me, a small table next to him. On the table are a simple Glock, a small plate with cookies on it, and a teapot. The pot is white, with some ridiculous-looking flowers. It looks as if a two-year-old had drawn it, and it looks terrible. A matching cup is in his hands as he takes a slow sip, reading newspapers. “I didn’t get the chance to clean up; I’m sure you understand how busy our line of work gets.’’
“What have you done to me?” I ask, my voice coming out in a throaty rasp.
“Oh,’’ he chuckles, setting the newspapers aside on the small table and looking at me with a smile. It’s not a warm, welcoming smile. It tells me to count my days because this motherfucker is about to kill me. “One of the women working for me, Freya, is quite gifted in creating different poisons. She paralyzed you from the neck down. It should pass soon.’’
“It should?”
He shrugs. “She’s never tested it before. You’re our guinea pig. We shall see.’’
My mouth opens a little, and I’m about to retort; however, he beats me to it. He finishes his tea, puts the teacup back on the saucer on the table, and leans forward, propping his elbows on his knees.
“Why is your mouth open? Would you like a cookie?”
Now, I’m fucking confused.
Hudson chuckles. “My jokes aren’t appreciated these days. Shame, truly,’’ he sighs, any trace of humor vanishing from his face when he leans back in the chair, arms folded in front of his chest.
“James Maddox, twenty-two, birth mother Janice Eaton, died in childbirth. Father is Brody Maddox, overdosed on fentanyl when you were two years old. Ever since, you’ve been jumping from one foster family to another, until you turned eighteen, when you joined the organization. So, tell me, how am I doing so far?”
My jaw clenches so hard that I’m surprised my teeth don’t crack. Hudson notices the reaction and smirks, further provoking my anger. My fingers twitch by my side, and I release a small sigh of relief that the paralyzing poison seems to be wearing off, but it doesn’t ease the anger that is simmering beneath the surface.
“Aha,’’ Hudson glances at my fingers, then back at my face. “Looks like you’re going to live. Great,’’ he mutters, and I don’t miss the sarcasm on his tongue. “Now, let’s talk, James.’’
My brows narrow, and I’m practically trying to count down the minutes until I’m no longer bound by the poison so I can wipe the fucking smirk off his face.
“About what?”
“Did you or did you not know that Rosalie’s birth parents were a part of the same organization you’re working for?”
I blink once.
Then twice.
Then thrice.
His words echo in the silent room, and even the terrible stench of blood doesn’t bother me anymore. My mind is reeling with thoughts and everything I thought I knew about the organization itself. They aren’t perfect — they’re criminals, but they treated me well, so why wouldn’t they tell me about the connection between Rose and them? A few people do know about Rose, and they would definitely be high up enough to know about the connection.
‘‘I take it you didn’t know,’’ Hudson concludes, my baffled expression giving it away before I school it back to neutral, stoic, and unmoving.
“How involved were they?”
“Enough to get killed for wanting out.’’
I take in a sharp intake of breath. “No, I didn’t know. Had I known, I never would’ve—’’
“You never would’ve what?” He cuts me off. “Taken my daughter to the carnival owned by the people who killed her parents, not once but twice? You never would’ve kidnapped her?!” He starts raising his voice, and I suppress the urge to roll my eyes.
