Page 74 of Blood We Steal

“Yes,” I responded without hesitation, and waited for her answer. Again, I saw nothing.

She took the word in, didn’t nod, didn’t acknowledge it at all.

Instead, a haunting smile on her face, she stretched up and pressed her lips against my cheek. She pulled back and looked at me, her expression giving away nothing. I stared back at her, the phantom weight of her lips still on my cheek. It struck me then, the desire—the need—to kiss her lips almost as strong as my need for revenge.

No.

I wouldn’t acknowledge that weakness, wouldn’t let Simone burrow any deeper under my skin.

She watched me, saw the change on my face. I turned her, pressed her cheek against the desk and pulled her hips back and entered her roughly, like that could take away the tenderness I was fighting to keep at bay.

And she yielded to me, every soft moan, every arch of her back indicting me. I pulled out and stroked my shaft angrily, Simone’s body drinking in every stroke. I came hard, fast, any pleasure I might have felt dying as soon as I looked into Simone’s eyes.

I washed my hands in the small metal sink, grateful for the running water and the excuse to break Simone’s stare.

I didn’t trust myself to stay here, so I headed for the door, and was stopped by Simone’s quiet whisper.

“Good night, Rubin.”

I forced myself to look at her. Forced myself to remember. “Good night, miu,” I spat.

I watched long enough to see her flinch at the word.

Then I left, telling myself I was happy.

THIRTY-SIX

Simone

“Out of ink.” I frowned down at the blob of blue on the notebook paper. It was a telltale sign, the last little spurt of ink before the pen became completely useless. But I wouldn’t give up hope. I let the ink dry and then started to write.

The rollerball scratched against the paper, but no more ink was forthcoming. I was officially down to four pens, and the day’s inventory was ruined. I tried to look at the bright side. The first couple of lines were a bit uneven, so I could build from there without having to start over again.

I’d been awake since before dawn, the power of sleep failing me when I’d needed it most.

The memory of that rat, heavy on my shoe, made my stomach turn, but even that was preferable to thinking about Rubin. The bargain had been simple and clear. I’d held up my end; Rubin had held up his. But still, that weak, soft part of me that I hadn’t yet killed had cracked open the slight possibility that maybe, possibly, the depth of Rubin’s hate had an end.

But it didn’t.

I was a miu, a rat. Vermin to be exterminated.

I’d never let myself forget that again.

I held tight onto the now useless pen as I walked through the hallway. I could hear those things outside, scrapes inside the wall that I refused to analyze, and the noise of the men. Some working out, surprisingly heated conversations—some in English, others in Albanian—the yells of disappointment or happiness, the sound of cards smacking metal. After two weeks, these had become the soundtrack of my life.

“I got your ass next time.”

Aaron’s voice for sure. In a tone I recognized. He was down, but knew for sure he would win. I wished him luck and turned to the office. I opened the bottom drawer, space I had claimed as my own, and pulled another blue ink pen out of the wrinkled cellophane package.

I neatly creased the plastic and put the pen back, and grabbed another legal pad—yellow, because that was all they had, but any port in a storm.

Three Christmases ago, Rubin had gifted me bespoke stationery. I remembered the day I had opened the box. It was Christmas, a day like any other in Rubin’s business. I’d made Aaron and I Cornish hen, dressing, macaroni and cheese, and lima beans with sweet potato pie for dessert. Then I’d watched the first half of the football game before heading to work. The box had been on my desk and Rubin stood beside it, clearly waiting for me to arrive.

“Is that for me?” I’d asked, too shocked to smile but undeniably delighted by the box.

“Open it,” Rubin had said.

“I don’t want to. The paper is so beautiful,” I’d said, rubbing my hand across the package, which had bold black and gold wrapping and a matching bow.