Page 127 of Silent Schemes
The shorter asshole drags a human behind him, dumps her on the floor with the practiced air of someone who’s done this a lot.
Rosalynn Lombardi.
I know the file—twenty-five, numbers prodigy, speaks four languages, never been seen in public without her uncle or a gun at her back.
She looks smaller in person, bird-boned, so pale you can see the veins in her wrists.
There’s a thin scar running from her eyebrow to the edge of her hairline.
Her eyes stay on the floor.
I get the sense she’s been trained to do that.
Enzo nudges her with his foot. “This is the payment.”
I look at him, deadpan. “I’m not in the white slavery business, Enzo. That’s your uncle’s game.”
He grins, but there’s no teeth. “She’s for whatever you want, numbers or fucking. You said you wanted the best. She’s thebest, at numbers at least. Not too sure about fucking. I hear she’s innocent, a virgin.”
I glance at the girl. She flinches.
Her hands are covered in thin gloves, but even through the fabric I see the purple of last night’s bruises.
Her mouth is stitched tight, but there’s a tremor in the lower lip that tells a better story than anything Enzo could say.
Korrin sets his mug down, steps up to inspect the goods.
He crouches, stares at her with a look that would curdle paint. “She scared of you, or just life in general?”
Rosalynn doesn’t move.
Enzo shrugs. “She does what she’s told.”
I consider it.
The guards, the trembling girl, the knife balanced between Korrin’s thumb and index. “What’s the catch?”
Enzo shrugs. “No catch. My brother’s dead. Salvatore. Shot last night in the head, in Toronto. Nothing left to pay. Except this.”
He pushes Rosalynn forward, like a chess piece.
Korrin looks at me. “What do you want to do?”
I consider. “The books are a mess. If she’s as good as they say, she can fix them.”
Enzo lights a cigarette, blows smoke right at Korrin. “She’ll do what you want. Accountant, whore, punching bag. She doesn’t fight.”
Korrin’s jaw tightens, but he says nothing.
I walk around the desk, kneel so I’m eye-level with her.
Her hair is honey-blonde, streaked with greasy dark dye.
I imagine the bruises go all the way to the bone.
“Rosalynn,” I say. My voice is soft, because soft always cuts deeper. “You know why you’re here?”
She nods, once.
