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“A little over an hour,” I say out of the side of my mouth, realizing that Beef Jerky is lingering by the door. I’m not certain about the time. Everything is warped in here, sped up and stretched out at once. I wonder if that’s how Ivy always feels.
Her breaths crash around me like she’s come to some kind of conclusion, but I don’t get to ask her what that is because Beef Jerky finally struts inside with a smug glower. His mask is off, and his face is as unfortunate as his smell. All pockmarked and glum, like no amount of joy could transform him.
“Craterface,” I chirp faintly so only Ivy can hear.
She cackles under her breath, followed with a mumbled, “Grease. That’s so good.”
“Something funny, Red?” our leading villain snipes.
“Just enjoying my accommodations,” Ivy croons. “How about you, Leo?”
That has me giggling, too, because that’s Craterface’s first name in Grease, and only Ivy could pull that out of her head so seamlessly. Our lack of cowering in this moment clearly irks Beef Jerky. His jaw clenches, and his eyes turn beady, certainly not improving his looks.
“Our leader will be here in a few minutes. You won’t be fucking laughing then, you goddamn whores.” His whole stance is threatening, but all we can do is not cower and buy ourselves time, so I smile big in return even though the sight of him repulses me.
Never let them see. “This is a big moment for you, isn’t it?”
“You gonna be a mouthy bitch like your friend now, huh? All brave for your final moments, sweetheart?” he taunts.
“You’ve been instructed not to touch us,” Ivy chimes.
“Right, or you would have,” I agree, hoping to hell that’s true because the mere thought has my stomach folding in on itself.
“Did you tell your boss that I was here?” she asks.
“Yeah.” He spits on the floor, some black goo that must be from chewing tobacco.
Gross. I’ve honestly never seen anyone do that in my life, and I swear he was just smoking.
His tongue sweeps over his broken teeth with a squeak. “He’ll make quick use of your leprechaun pussy to get the answers we need. Happy?”
“He didn’t ask my name?” She turns toward me with pouty lips, so I pet her head. I doubt she feels any braver than I do, but we’re both going with it. Snapping her blue eyes colder, she sings, “I’m guessing he’ll be interested.”
Always keep them guessing.
“You know,” I pipe up, “you seem to be the guy who knows stuff. You should be the one to tell him.”
“Tell him what?” he grits out, but his expression falters, like he realizes he’s about to step on a land mine.
Ivy winks at me, so I proceed to fill this jackass in. “Her last name is O’Reilly.”
“O’Reilly,” he mutters, working it out, but still not catching on.
“Not to brag, but I’m the head of the O’Reilly family. And I’m married to the head of the Cabrini family,” she supplies.
And there it is. His face pales, his breathing shallow, but he says nothing. We just sentenced him to death, no matter how he looks at it. His boss or our men. There’s no way out.
How’s that cage, asshole?
“Yep,” Ivy says, popping the P and examining her nails. “You kidnapped a KORT chair. How will Silas feel about that?”
His Adam’s apple grows alarmingly large on a swallow. The poor guy really should stick to masks. He scratches his head, glancing back at his fellow thugs outside the room, likely trying to decide how to handle this. Spoiler alert: there’s no good way.
Play their game.
“You’re having a Wolf of Wall Street moment, aren’t you?” I say with a smart-ass grin, betraying a boldness that must belong to my alter ego.
Ivy throws a finger out toward him, pushing her whole body into the gesture while paraphrasing the exact line I was thinking of with a giggle. “He’s not fucking leaving.” But then pity dresses her features, and she twists toward him. “Run. You only have minutes.”
