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He gives me a bored look. “You have a visitor.”
I stand, following him down the echoing concrete hall. Self-hatred fills me as that rush of hope rises high in my chest. Thinking it could be her.
Wanting it to be her.
It never is.
I know I’ll be locked up here for the rest of my life and she’ll never lower herself to coming here, to see my face again.
We reach the visitor’s room. A bleak place made of concrete just like the rest of this shithole. A man waits for me, his presence one that fills the room like air. You can’t not look at him.
I lock eyes with him, knowing that’s the only way to greet a man like him.
He’s a tall man with broad shoulders. His hair is cropped close to his skull, his olive skin a deep tan. His eyes are calculating, but with a deep warmth of intelligence behind the flashing irises.
“Take a seat,” the man says, knowing I’m waiting for his instructions.
I slip into the cheap plastic chair, hiding my cuffed wrists beneath the table, and wait for him to speak.
He looks around. “This place is a coffin.”
It’s a harsh truth. Living in here, like a caged animal, it’s no life for any man.
“I agree.”
“If I take you from this place”—he takes a long, dramatic pause, letting his gaze rove over the concrete walls, the metal bars, the lack of sunlight— “then you exist.”
“You’d…” I don’t know what to say. “Do that?”
I push down any hope, knowing how terrible reckless emotion is for your health.
The buzz of the alarm. The opening of the barred cell door. The words you have a visitor.
Always wanting it to be her but it never being her.
Hope kills you a little bit at a time.
I quash the dangerous emotion, clenching my jaw. “Who are you?”
I sit back and wait.
He takes his time before speaking. “Like I said, if the family resurrects you from this death, then the family is the reason you exist. We expect you to defend it with your life.”
“The family?”
“Yes. The family.” The stranger gives me a long, hard look, leaving me feeling like there’s a chill in this stuffy room. “If there is a threat, we exhaust every resource until the threat no longer exists.”
“And why me?” I ask.
He says, “We need a numbers guy.”
“A numbers guy?” I feel like a parrot, echoing his words back to him, but in this moment, it’s all so surreal. It’s difficult to be articulate.
He nods. “For the family.”
The family. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. Power, prestige, wealth. The rulers of the city. There is only one such family.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
