‘I spared your life, Stella. You have Sal here to thank for that, but your life comes with my terms.’
I don’t answer, not right away. I just watch as he slides a thick envelope across the desk. My fingers tremble as I open it, grime smearing the edges. Inside, I withdraw a contract. Black ink. Legal nonsense, but one sentence in big, black, bold lettering stands out.
I SWEAR UPON BLOOD AND SILENCE TO WALK UNDER THE SHADOW OF DON ANGEL GABRIEL SANCHEZ LEWIS, AND HEREBY SURRENDER ALL RIGHTS, PRIVILEDGES, AND FUTURE WITH NO EXPECTATION OF RELEASE.
‘What does this mean?’ I ask, my voice coarse and cracked.
‘Sal told me your home blew up. So you’ll live here, at themasia. Remote. Quiet. Enough space to disappear.’
‘Disappear?’ I gasp.
Gabriel leans in, his voice lowering in volume. ‘As far as I’m concerned, Stella Anderson died on that mountain. You will also strip your face of this makeup, and –’
‘And then what?’ I interject. ‘Who am I? I won’t be a sex slave.’
‘Sign the contract, Stella. You either walk out of here as mine – no past, no name, no debts, or you don’t walk out of here at all.’
‘So who am I?’
‘From now on, you’ll be known as The Curator.’
I stare at the contract again. It doesn’t mention “Curator”. That’shislabel.
‘Themasiashall not only be your home, but a vault of forgotten sins and you shall be its keeper.’
I wasn’t spared. I was re-purposed.
‘What will you expect of me?’
‘Your duties will involve crafting cover identities for some of my operatives – through forgery, makeup, dialect coaching, and psychological conditioning. You’re the best I’ve seen. I couldn’t think of anyone better at becoming someone else, because you had to erase yourself first. I’ll also expect you to dispatch any loyalist growing sloppy or suspicious. Call it “routine auditing”.’
‘A hitwoman?’
‘In short, yes. Sal negotiates. He’s the one who still asks before someone disappears. But he seems to have issues pulling the trigger,’ he says, eyes glaring at Sal.
The pen feels heavier than it should. I hesitate as Sal watches me from across the room, whiskey swirling in his glass like a tornado. Clearly irritated.
‘You haven’t left me with any other option,’ I state, as I scribble Curator, my voice stripped bare.
Mr Lewis answers with a handshake. The deed is done. My name, my past, every year I’d earnt surviving, vanished beneath Mr Lewis’ seal.
‘Get cleaned up,’ he says. ‘There’s fresh clothing laid out in the guest suite, as well as shampoo and a toothbrush. Sal will show you the way. And one more thing; break the rules, and I’ll kill you myself.’
I don’t argue. There’s no one to argue with. Sal nods as he walks beside me.
Themasiafeels colder than expected. Pictures stripped from the walls, furniture nailed down, no warmth, no softness. Mr Lewis follows us as we walk out of the room, snatching Sal’s arm. ‘Hold up.’ His voice is calm, and Sal jerks slightly in response as Mr Lewis leans in towards his ear. ‘If you’re going to fuck her, make it quick. I need you in the dining room in twenty minutes, and the Curator down at the stables. Oh, and before I forget, clean your fucking dick stain off the side of the Chrysler, and get it parked up.’
Sal and I ascend the stairs. ‘Stables? What’s there? Horses?’
‘Not entirely...’
‘I need answers, Sal, not riddles.’
‘It’s where he keeps what shouldn’t exist. Cars. Bodies. Yourrealarchive. The physical storage. Come on, let’s get cleaned up.’
Sal’s different. He and Mr Lewis might be family, but their personalities couldn’t be further apart. Sal is unlike any man I’ve ever met. He listens, not to respond, but like he’s collecting pieces of me to store in his memory palace, and I find myself rearranging parts of my day to be near him. That’s not normal. Not for me. That’s not safe. But it feels...good. Dangerous. The way all good things do. Then, there’s Mr Lewis. Polished. Calculated. The kind of man who’s offered me an opportunity laced with unspoken and never-ending debt. Sal’s untouched by it all. He just sat there in the corner of the room like he hadn’t noticed the tension choking the air. Now he laughs with me like we’re not both standing on a landmine. I know better! And yet, I lean closer, speak softer, and show him pieces of the real me – the fragile broken mosaic I hide beneath black lipstick and perfected charm. I could fall for him. I think I already have. But what does that mean if I’m stuck inside Mr Lewis’ cold orbit? Am I just a pawn in his game of chess? Either way, I need to figure out who I am in all of this, before Mr Lewis decides for me.
CHAPTER 24
