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My head drops, bringing me back to the dirty pavement outside the bar, with a couple of old drunks stumbling past and a whore on the corner flashing her tits at passing drivers.
I’m done waiting. I’m done turning my own tricks for survival. I was born an underworld prince, not some petty thief who robs ATMs for beer money and rent. O’Sullivan has to pay for what he did, and it’s time to restore my father’s honour…
And Ada?
I need to figure out a way to set her free before her wings get crushed in the crossfire.
CHAPTER 7
ADA
Dreams don’t happen in the middle of nightmares.
They occur on the edge of darkness, right before your worst fears trap you in a dirty hole full of muddy screams and bad regret.
Or so I thought.
Did he sense how close I was to giving up? Is that the reason why he followed me into the library? Did he see the bruises on my neck that I tried so hard to hide, or did he guess my plan to slip into a bathtub later with a stolen razorblade between my fingertips?
I spend the rest of the afternoon in my room, hugging my knees to my chest, playing our conversation over and over until my mind is scratched and worn.
By nightfall, he’s not so much an enigma, as the only reason I can think ofnotto slit my wrists. I know it’s crazy to put so much onto this.Onto him.I blame my heart. I blame my desperation. But something tells me that this teenage boy is different. He isn’t another of O’Sullivan’s tricks to make me think that the world has doors instead of bars.
Frankie.
Frankie.
Frankie.
They say everything changes in a New York minute. In London, all it takes is a glance and a promise.
“I’ll be here, Ada… Next Thursday, I’ll be here.”
He seemed real enough, with his wavy dark hair falling into his black eyes.
He smelled real enough, like worn leather, strength, and determination.
Climbing off the sparse, single bed, I pad across the floorboards to the window. The moon is full. She’s flooding my face with silver, just like she did the first night I was brought here; when my head was spinning with the last thing my mother ever said to me:
“Be brave, Ada. They don’t deserve a single one of your tears.”
I’ve held true to those words ever since. Despite the broken bones. Despite the abuse. Each time I've felt like crying, I’ve held it inside me like a bad secret until I’m back inside these four walls. That’s when I dance, like my mother and I used to do, and all my pain and loneliness becomes a blur of movement and memory.
“Whatever happens, keep dancing for me. You hear?”
How did he know?
Was my soul a window for him? Is that how he managed to see inside the deepest parts of me?
There are footsteps in the corridor outside. The lock turns. I flatten myself against the window as the door flies open, and O’Sullivan appears in the doorway.
It’s worse than I feared. His face has all the tell-tale red stains of alcohol, and his eyes are glittering with unserved punishments. The Irishman is a nasty bastard most of the time, but he’s an utter monster when he’s drunk.
“Downstairs.Now.”
Every muscle in my body tenses as I go to slip past him, holding my breath so I don’t have to smell his disgusting cologne.
I’m two steps into the hallway when I feel his fist close around the ends of my ponytail. Yanking me backwards, he flings me against the doorframe like a rag doll, my forehead crashing into the grooved wood and exploding into stars. Staggering to the side, I press my hand to my head, and it comes away wet and red.
