Page 25 of Dimitri
I won’t lie, I strut like Catwoman under Batman’s watch while following the restaurant hostess’s directions. I’ll never be picked as the demurest woman in a room, but for how many times my ass has been kicked the past year, I’m taking tonight’s triumph as a win. Even if I don’t get the job, I’ll feed off the adrenaline of my victory for weeks to come.
The quickest flashback of a pair of golden-brown eyes flashes before my eyes when I’m partway down the dark alleyway. The food scraps on the ground make it obvious the restaurant receives most of its deliveries here, but because of the late hour and the early closure of businesses due to Thanksgiving, it seems shadier and more obsolete.
“Third door on the right,” I mumble to myself when I stop in front of one that has ‘Distribution’ etched on the door.
Believing there will be a less-shady entrance past the graffiti-coated door, I push it open with only the slightest creak. The décor isn’t any more inviting on the inside. There’s nothing but scary shadows dancing across the faces of four middle-aged men.
The scene grows more confronting when I notice who their attention is fixed on. They’re honing in on a smaller, more timid-looking man huddled against an outer wall. His face is bleeding, and his hands are held out in front of himself in a non-defensive manner. He’s clearly scared.
My throat dries when a lone soldier breaks away from the pack of hungry wolves. He speaks to the frightened man in a heavy accent, his tone both demoralizing and angry. “The service you ordered was delivered as specified, so not only am I refusing your request for a refund, I’m anticipating a subsequent payment for your insolence.”
Even with my business diploma unfinished, I’m not so stupid to believe this is a distribution disagreement. I’ve heard rumors about a mob mentality in Hopeton, but I’ve previously brushed them off as hearsay. I can’t do that this time around. My potential employer is getting fleeced—fleeced of money that could possibly come from my thirty-five dollar an hour salary.
With my veins still hot with adrenaline from my clash with the restaurant hostess, I conjure up a ruse that will see both Mr. Petretti and me leave this room uninjured. I should be scared, but seriously, what’s the worst that could happen? The men I’m about to confront are pushing sixty, if not seventy. I survived being run over by a car, so I can most certainly handle a mobility scooter.
Confident I’ve got what it takes to divert disaster, I blurt out, “I’ve called the police. They’ll be here at any moment.” I didn’t call anyone. My cell battery died 1.8 miles from Hopeton. I just want them as scared as Mr. Petretti. “If you don’t want to be arrested, I suggest you leave right now.”
My gall takes a step back when the man in the center of the group pulls a large black gun out of the back of his pants. I was prepared to face a handful of bruises from the whack of a walking cane, not a maiming bullet from a semi-automatic weapon. “Or perhaps I’ll just take care of business now instead of later.”
The minute snippet of air in my lungs races out with a scream when he cocks back the hammer on his gun before he squeezes the trigger. He doesn’t just gun down the man he was in the process of shaking down. He blows off his entire face.
Certain I’m next on the maniac’s hit list, I mumble out, “Never mind,” before pivoting on my heels and darting away.
I make it three steps before a bullet whizzing past my ear stops me in my tracks. “The next one I’ll aim at your head.” Confident he has me scared enough I will do anything he asks, the lone soldier requests that I spin around. “I want to see your pretty face one final time before I blow it away.”
After forcefully swallowing the bile racing up my throat, I do as requested. My knees weaken halfway around. The elderly gentlemen circling the now-faceless man aren’t the only men in the room. There are another four in the far corner of the dark space. They’re all wearing black and have guns much larger and more capable of hindering facial recognition in their hands.
They appear bored until the only man seated rises to his feet. Unlike his mean-looking counterparts, he starts his assessment of my body from my snap-frozen toes to my whitened face. He takes his time, seemingly storing every little detail for future use.
I wonder if he does that to all his victims, or am I special in some sick, twisted way?
My hand unintentionally moves to flatten my frizzed hair when the stranger’s narrowed gaze shifts from my eyes to my hair. It’s longer than I normally wear it, and back to its natural red color. Waking up in a hospital room cuffed to a bed changed me. I’m not as straight as an arrow, but I’m most certainly trying to improve myself.
Being ‘me’ was the very first step.
I drop my hand like it’s a bomb when the dark-haired man pushes off his feet to cross the room. He has an arrogant walk full of cockiness and self-assuredness. It matches his persona, which is almost as suffocating as my lungs’ inability to suck in air when he stops to stand in front of me.
Goosebumps rise across my skin when he raises his hand to my face. I’m anticipating for him to wipe away the blobs of wetness rolling down my cheeks, so you can imagine my shock when he merely brushes away the bangs I had cut to cover a scar no amount of concealer can hide.
The room is cloaked by darkness—in more ways than one—but I can tell the exact moment the ugliest of my past rears its horrid head. The dark-haired man’s discovery of my two-inch scar screws up the face of the elderly man behind him. He looks sickened like I’m suddenly as ugly as I feel.
I’d rather his disgust over the gleam his eyes held when they first landed on my face. Even someone with the purity of a saint couldn’t have mistaken the longing in his heavy-hooded gaze.
I glance over the stranger’s shoulder when the man behind him says, “You seem to have caught the eye of my son. I’m not surprised. He has quite the fascination for redheads.” The man I’m guessing to be mid-sixties places himself between his son and me. His strut is as vile as the amused smirk on his face. “Is she one of yours, son? A little plaything for the night?”
My throat aches to release a frustrated scream when the man whose eyes seem oddly familiar mutters, “I forgot I ordered her. What can I say? The schedule of women coming and going from my life every week often gets confusing.”
Everyone laughs except me. I know he’s lying, but I can’t tell if that’s a good or bad thing. He’s a little hard for me to read. He seems to be protecting me, but there’s an undeniable amount of anger radiating from him. It’s as if he’s torn between wanting to soothe my panic or double it.
I stop seeking answers in his beautifully tormented eyes when the man with the gun points it at my head. “Unfortunately, you’ll have to find another plaything for the night. This one knows too much.”
I shake my head, assuring him I know nothing. “I won’t tell anyone what I saw.” I shakily cross my heart. “I swear to God.”
“God can’t help you now.” He smiles a grin you should only ever see in hell. “But be sure to tell him I said hello.”
I don’t breathe for a second when he curls his finger around the trigger for the second time. His expression is so impassive. He shows no emotion whatsoever.
I can’t cite the same thing.
