Page 233 of The Wicked
Devil’s eyes widened. “What the fuck… did you just call me?”
“With all due respect, Mr. Marino, we have direct orders from the boss to not engage in further dialogue with you or any of the Street members after passing the message across.”
My mind was tuned out of the conversation going around.
The soldier held my arm again, pulling me back towards the door.
“Wait… wait, just hold on a second.” I turned, the soldier’s grip still on me as I settled my gaze on a worried Upper. “Upper, what was your stat on Chika when you last checked?”
Upper blinked. “He arrived in Mexico,” he said, and then warily creased his brows. “But we got word about an hour later that he was found dead in some alley close to a busy street.”
My stomach jumped.
“Dead,” I echoed the word.
“Yeah,” Milk answered this time. “We don’t know what could have happened; it’s still a mystery.”
“We have to go,” the soldier urged.
“Yeah,” I said absentmindedly.
“Hey, Z.” Devil called my attention, and I half-heartedly focused on him as my mind raged with questions I already knew the answers to. “When he gets back, I’ll talk to him.”
“Yeah,” I said quietly as the soldiers pulled me out of the house. I didn’t even fight to tell them to let me go and that I could walk on my own.
I just had one thought on my mind.
If I don’t think of perfectly constructed answers before Elio shows up, I will be wholly and royally fucked.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Zahra
I underestimated the torture in waiting.
It had an unnerving effect that slowly ate at your nerves, building up uncountable goosebumps on your skin, especially when waiting to receive judgment for a crime you knew you were guilty of.
I was aware that this was Elio’s game, making people wait so that they would imagine how the scenario would play out, bite their nails while thinking of what could be happening outside, who could be spilling out truths, fucking up their chance of survival.
As things had—dare I say—progressed between me and Elio, his making me wait was the last thing I was expecting. He had told me countless times that he didn’t like beating around the bush. If he had shit to ask, why didn’t he just show up and ask me instead of playing with my nerves like this?
I flexed my fingers, trying to stop them from shaking. I would have gotten over the events from the bus if I had been given enough time to relax before this fucking ambush. But the worry of whatever this questioning thing would result in worsened the state of my mind. My hands were still so cold.
I had been here for almost three hours if my calculations were correct. I had no idea how long he wanted to make me wait.
The place I was kept in looked like a prison cell with one window. A small bed without covers, a small table with no chair, dim white lights, faded gray walls, and a quietness that could cut you to the bone. But it was better than the hot room.
With my mind scattered all over the place, I didn’t think I could take that much heat.
I stood up from the bed again, pacing the room’s length while massaging my wrist.
Chika was dead.
I didn’t kill him.
Unless he had enemies I didn’t know about, his death was most definitely Elio’s doing. And if Elio had reached him first, then I was fucked.
My suspicions had been correct; the original painting was in Mexico City. And going back to the root of this whole fucked-up quest would most likely get me to the original painting.
