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Jeanie
Gavino parks his Range Rover outside of an office building on the edge of the downtown district. It’s smaller, set in the oversized lot of a strip mall, with no sign out front except for a generic name, Cactus Commons. It’s an utterly meaningless title and only makes the place seem that much more suspicious, like it was made to host meetings between shady property developers and gangsters.
“You ready?” Gavino asks, not looking at me. Two other cars are parked in the lot, both of them high-end SUVs, both black with shining wheels, both with pitch-dark tinted windows.
“I’m not sure what to expect, if I’m honest.”
“Benedict will be here. The last time you saw him, he was cutting up your face.”
I touch the bandage on my cheek. It’s been three days since the attack and I’ve spent most of it recuperating in my suite back at the villa. A doctor came to see me, despite my protests, and said I just needed rest to get back to normal again, which I knew already. But Gavino insisted.
Which is strange. He seems to vacillate between looking at me like a bug on his windshield and treating me like a queen. He’s paying me more than I ever imagined I’d make in my entire life, and he’s letting me stay in his insane mansion house filled with his closest family, and we’re practically strangers. He’s doing it to keep me alive—and because he says I’m interesting.
I haven’t figured out what that means yet.
“I’ll be fine,” I say, which isn’t really true. I’m trembling and scared out of my mind but I can’t turn away from this meeting. It’s the first thing he’s asked of me since we began this business arrangement, and if I start quitting and acting afraid already, he won’t bother bringing me around anymore.
He studies me like he can tell I’m lying, but he doesn’t call me on it. We climb out of the car together and head to the building. Gavino takes the lead, walking with a slight swagger like he owns the damn place—and he really might for all I know. He pulls open the doors and we step into a bland business complex with the most nondescript waiting room imaginable, barely more than a few chairs, a coffee table, and some magazines. A young woman sitting behind a reception window takes Gavino’s name and sends us right back to a conference room.
Malcolm is waiting in the hall. He beams as we approach. His gaze slides to me and his smile falters for a moment, his pupils contracting, his lips pulling down—but the uncertainty disappears a second later as he shakes Gavino’s hand.
“I see you have a new employee,” Malcolm says and laughs as he slaps Gavino’s shoulder. “I’ll admit, I’m surprised. I hear they don’t last for very long.”
“They last as long as I need them,” Gavino says, smirking as he looks at me with a lascivious twinkle in his eyes. “You tossed her aside and I thought I might put her to work instead.”
“That’s an interesting way of putting it.”
“Easy there. She’s my actual assistant now. I wouldn’t want to get slapped with a sexual harassment suit. Right, Jeanie?”
I show my teeth and nod. “That’s right, Mr. Bruno.” If he’s trying to test me, I’m about to fail and stab him in the throat.
Malcolm laughs louder, clearly delighted, and leads us into a basic conference room. The table has a phone, some glasses, a water pitcher, and a few windows affording a lovely view of a Mexican grocery store and a nail salon across the nearly empty parking lot. This room has about as much personality as a snail.
We get settled and Benedict enters a moment later. He pauses, staring at me. His eyes seem slightly unfocused and there’s a bandage wrapped around his head like it’s holding his brains together. His teeth show, his lips tugged back in a snarl, and Gavino half stands as if Benedict might dive across the table and try to throttle me. I wouldn’t be surprised—Gavino might’ve knocked something loose in that psychopath’s skull.
Instead of attacking, Benedict slowly sinks in a chair beside his boss and says nothing.
“Now then, we’re all here,” Malcolm says, ignoring the very unseemly vibes his right-hand man is giving off, and begins to shift through a stack of papers. “I believe we last left off with ownership stakes.”
The boys begin to negotiate a deal that I only vaguely understand, and after about a half-hour of boring back and forth that doesn’t lead anywhere, I finally tune them out. After a while, when it becomes clear that I have nothing to add and won’t be going anywhere anytime soon, Benedict ignores me completely, acting like I don’t exist. Twenty minutes pass before I excuse myself to use the bathroom. I splash water in my face, stare into the mirror, and try to psych myself back up. This is what you wanted. You’re right across the table from the man you hate the most. This is where you needed to be.
Except it’s not.
I wanted to be a ghost in Malcolm’s company. I wanted to hide in his mailroom, snoop through his files, and find a way to hurt him. Instead, I’m sitting in a conference room trying not to fall asleep while they argue over percentages. It’s maddening, frustrating, and I wish I could do something other than take it.
But I can’t. I know I can’t. At this point, if I want to be anywhere near Malcolm, I need Gavino.
I step back into the hallway and stiffen in shock like someone just lit off a firework and stare up as Benedict looms over me.
He’s standing directly across from the bathroom door. I consider going back inside but I doubt that would stop him. The building is empty aside from the young girl up front and our little group, and I’m not sure if anyone would hear me scream right now. The place is so quiet, like all the sound gets sucked into the thick carpet, and I’m so alone.
His eyes narrow. He doesn’t move as he lingers, staring, head tilted. I remember him pinning me down and dragging the knife across my cheek with glee. My fingers twitch toward the bandage on my face, but I resist the urge to touch it.
His lips curl.
