Page 50 of Cara
“Look at this.”
Victoria leaps from the messy top bunk to the floor.
Unbeknownst to her, I’ve been monitoring the complex for hours, specifically a woman aggressively stabbing a hanging bag with a knife. The speed of her movements and precision of her strikes have thoroughly engrossed me for hours.
My sister passes me a manila folder.
“What’s this?” I ask.
Just as curiosity compels me to open it, I shut it just as fast, unable to fathom why she’s showing me a picture of our father. She nods, urging me to look further. “Isaac gathered the intel.”
“Why?”
“Vito’s weak. Struggling. Hiding behind Strata.”
I shove the papers back at her. “I don’t need to know this.”
“They’re coming for you. At the very least, you should know who is coming,” she states gravely.
Walking to the edge of the space, overlooking the length of the warehouse, I cross my arms, my mind singular. “It won’tmatter if I don’t know how to defend myself. Same with you. You’ve been here before and never thought to train?”
“No. This shit is no joke, Sophie. This is hardcore. You’re angry, scared, but I promise you don’t have to go through all this to protect yourself. You’re smart. Capable. If who you are is the same person who bludgeoned that bastard in Madrid, you are more than able to survive this.”
“You don’t understand. You never could.”
“Then make me.”
“No.”
“Why?”
Because you’ve never been used.
Discarded.
Left for dead.
My eyes shut, containing the damage I could unleash.
Victoria sleeps soundly, right through the night.
She isn’t awake long enough to realize that my eyes barely close, ensnared by the need for revenge. She has no idea what it means to need it like air.
Years ago, I went to my sister, expecting to find the girl I grew up with. A young woman interested in fashion and traveling. Her cold, calculating demeanor was a wake-up call. I learned everyone has a side they keep hidden from the world.
Mine has yet to be unleashed.
Xavier knew it was there.
He did his best to settle my angry heart back then. I'm sure when he sent me off, he knew I’d struggle, even if he told himself differently.
Sonya, a Hungarian sporting sculpted arms sleeved with ink, knocks on the rusty door frame. “Food’s out. Hurry, or you’ll get scraps.”
Victoria drops the folder onto the bed, sighing on her way out. “You coming?”
“I’ll follow in a bit.”
The hall grows silent as the crowd hurries to the dining hall next door. The woman, like me, has chosen to stay. She doesn’t flinch at all when I approach her. Part of me questions whether she’s aware of how long I’ve been observing her. I feel certain when she passes her knife to me. Language prevents us from speaking, but actions are enough.
