Page 28 of Filthy Little Fix
I've been monitoring the Volkovs' reaction to the new attacks. There were futile attempts to push me back with honeypots. It's cute they implemented that. I saw the trap from a mile away. Afterward, they strengthened some vulnerable points, some easy entries. But I'm already inside.
Monitoring is fun, at least, while I return to the monotony of the office.
I fill out an Excel document in ten minutes—the same one Chad couldn't do—, check logs, observe the static, inert life of my fern. Super interesting. Nicole tries to bring up some idiotic subject, and the most I can do for her is force a smile.
The wounds on my face improve every day. I still have a lump on my jaw from a broken and sore molar, but it's no longer as visible, and what doesn't cause unnecessary questions from my coworkers doesn't bother me as much (though it hurts like hell). I have some fascination looking at it in the mirror. A piece is missing, and the enamel is cracked. I remember Dante, inadvertently, every time I chew out of habit with that molar. The pain is excruciating. Like him.
At six in the afternoon, I get up from the hard swivel chair and put my few belongings in my backpack. Nicole and Chad call me to eat pizza. I decline. I'll keep declining until they give up.
My walk back home, after the subway, is on empty, quiet streets. A residential area, with few cars and houses that are clones of each other. It's cheaper because it has a history of crime in the vicinity. I don't mind walking alone. I'd even be grateful if I were robbed.Thanks for the adrenaline.
I cross the street. It's the crosswalk, but I don't look both ways. I walk in a straight line, not caring about peripheral lights, until a car slowly stops in front of me.Is this asshole giving me high beams?
I squint, trying to distinguish something in that explosion of light, and I see: a black SUV, with dark, certainly armored windows. Like that time. Like when Dante took me.
I lower my backpack, resting it on the sidewalk, and the front door opens. I recognize him immediately: Luca, impassive, casting his immense shadow over the asphalt. His expensive suit and obviously troglodytic body make it clear he's not a civilian.
"Déjà vu," I say. He doesn't approach, and no other men get out of the car. There are no signs of violence. "Where's the bag this time?"
He ignores my question. "The boss wants to speak with you, sir."
Sir.
"I'm half your age," I say.
Luca walks unhurriedly to the back door. He opens it, stands beside it, and gestures, palm facing me and fingers pointed toward the car.
"Please," he says. It's no plea. It's an order. I imagine he'd drag me by force if I said no.
I approach as slowly as he did, pulling my backpack back onto my shoulders, hanging it on one shoulder strap. I stop in front of him. I look into his eyes, whose color I never knew. They are brown. Not as dark as Dante's, not as light as Nicole's.
I can glimpse the holster beneath his blazer. Armed.
"I was expecting more violence," I say.
He shows nothing but attention and something close to hesitation. He knows I'd like the violence. He must think I'm an unpredictable lunatic.
"Mr. Volkov's orders were to bring you untouched," he says. He reinforces his gesture of pointing into the car and repeats, more impatiently, "If you please."
Untouched. So he can be the only one to hurt me?
I give him a smirk before getting into the car. Luca lets out a discreet sigh of relief. He closes the door for me, like a gentleman, and I barely recognize the same man who pulled my hair and pushed me through the warehouse corridors.
Of course, he's not alone. The other big guy in the driver's seat says nothing, doesn't even look at me. He accelerates after Luca gets in, and this time there's no blindfold preventing me from recognizing the way.
I don't know if I like this.
I map the route. It's long. We're not heading in a rural or commercial direction. Instead, we're going toward a distant neighborhood known for its security and ostentation—a gated community.
I stay silent the entire time. As the gates open and the car drives into the community—a cluster of mansions and luxury buggies—I peek through the windows.Buggies. For what, playinggolf? The lawns of all the mansions are impeccable, maintained by some poorly paid day laborer, and we pass to the furthest, largest mansion. It's surrounded by well-pruned, dense bushes, and the front garden has a fucking fountain with a stone bird statue.
The car parks in front of the mansion.
What the fuck is this?
Luca gets out of the car, and, again, like a gentleman from a thousand years ago, opens the door for me. I step out.
"I have hands," I complain.
