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It’s freezing cold and the city street is empty. Lights glitter and leftover flakes float in the wind. Our skin chills and we walk closely, steps in sync and a quiet contentment about us.
“That wasn’t so bad,” I say. “I imagined it’d hurt a lot more.”
“Careful. Ink can become addictive. You blink and next thing you know you’ve got five.”
I laugh. “I’ll worry about getting this one colored in first. I was thinking reds and purples. Green for the leaves.”
“I know I’ll enjoy looking at it… when you have nothing on.”
“You just couldn’t help yourself!”
“Alright, we’ve done something you wanted. Time to do something I want.”
I stop short, my hand still in his. “Should I be worried?”
“This something we can do at the compound. C’mon, it’s freezing out here.”
“If this is something in the bedroom…”
Salvatore merely grins and then pulls me along.
* * *
We stand in the basement outside the heavy steel door that’s guarded by two of Salvatore’s men at all times. As far as I know, it’ll be the first real time he’s been inside since he first set up the room two weeks ago. So far, he’s let his men handle the situation.
Shivers run through me, straight down my spine. I look up at him.
Something’s shifted in his expression. His jaw’s hardened and his features have contorted into what can only be described as cool, composed rage. It darkens in his gaze as he stares ahead of us at the steel door.
“You don’t have to come in with me,” he says.
I squeeze his hand and step into him. “Of course I do.”
“I won’t be myself in there. I will be violent… I might lose control.”
It’s a dark confession that hangs ominously in the air between us. I follow his gaze to the door, my heart beating faster. While I’m trying my damnedest to leave behind some of the darker impulses that have taken over me in the past year and a half, it’s a reality that it’ll always be a part of Salvatore.
Even in the aftermath of what we’ve been through—his language has always been blood and violence.
I’ve long ago accepted it as a part of him. As part of what he does when necessary. In situations where he must for the lifestyle he lives. Other situations where he must for survival and for revenge for what’s been done to him.
…and me.
“Okay,” I say quietly. “He deserves it. Anything you do.”
“Are you sure you’re okay with that? With me keeping him here? So close?”
“I trust you and your men. I feel safe. And I want him to suffer for what he did to you.”
“Open the door.”
The guy on guard nods his head and does as instructed. Using the long, jagged key on his ring, he sticks it in the lock; it clicks as he turns it and draws the heavy door open to reveal a pitch-black hole.
Salvatore steps inside first. I follow right behind. He flicks the switch and the bulb dangling from the ceiling turns on, casting the half dead man crumpled on the floor in pale light that blinds him.
“Hello, Pop… or should I sayscarafaggio. How’re you holding up?”
Lucius lies in tattered clothes, the burns that cover his body a sight that’s difficult to witness. From my time as ADA, I’ve been on my share of gruesome crime scenes, but there’s nothing like watching Lucius flop on the floor in true lifeless, disfigured fashion.
