Page 14 of The Wicked
Beside me, Devil wore one of those expressions that once had me raising my guard. I could tell he was prepping his front, but I didn’t understand why he was so tense. Maybe he was scared? But putting Devil and that word together didn’t make sense.
I wanted to hold his hand, squeeze it to let him know that we were all here, we were all still alive. But I held back because we didn’t do that, and I would be a hypocrite because I wasalso in my head—for completely different reasons. I balled my hand up in a fist and steadied my breathing, calming myself.
Before I could register the faint sound of music, the men on each side of Angelo were pushing open double doors, and we were entering a different space and time. It looked like we had somehow teleported into a casino in Las Vegas. The club was bright, with white, red, and golden lights dancing around, different gambling tables, and seats filled by money-hungry people.
I felt warmth encasing my free, uninjured hand, and I tore my gaze from my surroundings and looked up at Devil. He squeezed my hand in his and bent to whisper in my ear. “You okay?”
I answered with a stiff nod. “Are you?”
He answered with an equally stiff nod.
“It’s like a fucking sin bin,” I heard Dog say, but I didn’t turn around. My nerves were too raw to fully comprehend the chaotic surroundings. Angelo led us up a staircase, which led to a more secluded area that gave way to yet another hallway.
My anticipation grew, and my stomach tightened, but it was a feeling I could control, and Devil’s hand in mine had me relaxing a little; I could only hope he felt the same relief.
Almost as if he had heard my thoughts, he squeezed my hand again before letting go the moment Angelo stopped in front of a door, using a key card to unlock it.
We walked into a large area that looked like a VIP apartment with an office, a boardroom, and a library. I noticed the men who followed Angelo had stopped at the door as we continued inside, the door closing behind us.
In the middle of the room was a long conference table surrounded by black leather seats. There was soft classical music in the air, smooth yet unnerving.
At the head of the table was none other than The Wicked himself,Elio Marino.He was holding a book, the hardcover a plain black. He wore reading glasses, and between his lips, a Cuban cigar rested, burning away slowly.
His black button-up had been rolled up to his elbows, showcasing the tattoos on his left forearm.
I couldn’t tell what the drawings were, but they looked like flames. I averted my gaze to the man sitting by his side. His eyes had been on us the moment we stepped into the room, calculating and scanning us like he was dissecting us limb by limb, to see if it was clinically safe to be in the same space with us.
My eyes shifted back to Elio, whose tattooed, ring-bound fingers moved to take the cigar from between his lips. He blew out the smoke as he closed the book and set it on the table.
Angelo cleared his throat, taking his seat. “You can sit; the chairs don’t bite.”
Devil moved first, pulling out a seat, and we all followed, doing the same.
Milk leaned into me as she whispered, motioning to the shelf, “So many books with the same black hardcovers. It’s creepy.”
My gaze moved to the shelves lining the walls. The spines were all black, hardcover spines, similar to the one he had been reading.
“They are personalized versions of every popular book you can think of,” Elio said, and my gaze snapped to him as Milk stiffened beside me.
His reading glasses were still on his face. The moment he pressed the cigar into the ashtray before him, he raised his gaze, his eyes locking with mine. My stomach jumped, but I didn’t look away.
He shifted his attention to Milk, who still sat frozen beside me. “The color of your hair is pink, yes?”
She was like stone now, nervousness pouring off her in waves. Fuck. We really shouldn’t have spent last night rehashing what this man was capable of. “Y-yes.”
Dog looked irritated and I knew he was thinking that she was making us look weak. Upper just sat there stunned, probably waiting for the other shoe to drop. Devil was tenser than he had been before we got here.
Elio hummed. “Your hair is beautiful; what is your name?” he asked.
“Um… Milk?” she answered, confusion lacing her tone.
Elio’s head tilted toward the other—which I guessed was the Casmiro who knows best—for confirmation of Milk’s name.
“An alias,” Casmiro confirmed, making me frown. “You want the real one?”
Milk’s breathing quickened.
“No. I like Milk better. It’s very… soft,” Elio said, taking off his glasses and arranging them carefully beside the book before he looked at Milk again. “To kill your curiosity,Milk.My books are all black because I do not fancy colors and black is the absence of all colors.”
