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A raspy sandpaper sound echoes as Joe scratches his stubbly chin. “That shit is great.”
A server appears at the main entrance, pushing a food cart. A huge dish covered by a silver dome rests on top. Everyone’s eyes snap to it. The server is a young man with a long neck whose Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. Under the red stain of acne, his skin is blanched pale.
“I got it,” Joe says, snubbing out his cigarette and heading to take over controlling the cart. The server relinquishes it, and Joe pushes it right in front of Lula and me. “Go ahead,” I gesture to her. “The main course. I sourced it myself.”
Suppressing a frown, she reaches for it. Hesitates. With visible willpower, she lifts the silver dome.
For a few moments, she stares at the contents of the dish. Even though he knew about it beforehand, Spiro sucks in a shocked breath. Kill Zone and Uzi mutter quiet curses. One of the men, a newcomer whose name I already forgot, staggers to the corner to quietly retch.
Behind the cart, Joe is looking away.
But not Lula. Her eyes feast on the gruesome sight. Then she slowly lowers the silver dome to cover the severed head of Bruno, Stephanos’ right-hand man. It’s not as gory as it could have been. After I cornered and garrotted him, I let much of the blood drain away.
Lula twists to look up at me. She’s flushed and breathing hard like she’s run up the stairs but trying to control her emotions. I can see the question in her eyes. Why?
“Excuse us,” I say. “We need a moment.”
Lula
Victor ushers me into a dark room. A flick of the lights and I see it’s a bathroom. In case I have to throw up?
A quick inventory tells me I’m not queasy but numb. I brace my hands on the bathroom sink just in case. The place is cleaner than it used to be. Not what I expected, but nothing about today is.
I expected Victor to parade me in front of Stephanos, to put me on display like a trained submissive. I expected torture or humiliation.
Nothing could’ve prepared me for the sight of a man’s head on a platter. Victor stands behind me, much like he did the first time we fucked in his bathroom. I meet his eyes in the mirror. There’s no color in my face other than my red, red lips. “You could’ve warned me.”
“Would you have believed me?”
“Hell no.” I shake my head. This isn’t my reality. I have no idea what’s going on. “You killed Bruno.” At least, I think that was Bruno. It wasn’t easy to recognize the slack features, but the shaved head was huge. And who else could it be?
Victor doesn’t deny it, so I can move on to my next question. “Why?”
“Because he shot at you,” Victor growls. The tops of his cheekbones flush as bright as my lips. “He almost killed you. You could’ve died.”
“I thought. . .” I thought a lot of things. “I thought you were going to. . .” I don’t know what to say, so I stop talking.
Victor turns me to face him. He’s a beautiful, brutal force of nature. A blizzard. An oncoming iceberg. I don’t understand him, but he’s always been honest about who he is. “I told you to trust me, and I’d give you everything. I had to prove it to you. This is my proof.”
I gape at him, my jaw hanging toward the floor. So I ask again, “Why?”
“You know why. You’re it for me.” His touch on my cheek is gentle, but I startle. “I don’t know what love is. I do know I would slaughter every man and woman on Earth and serve their heads to you on a platter on the chance it would make you smile.”
Mass murder. How romantic. “That’s not. . . don’t do that.” I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact that he doesn’t want to destroy me.
He pushes closer, crowding me against the sink, and presses something into my hand. A knife. I automatically settle it into the proper grip.
“Don’t you understand?” He takes my hand and brings the knife up to his own throat. “I’d let you cut my own heart out if you wanted.”
His hand falls away, and for a moment, I keep the blade against his pretty, pale skin.
I could do it. I could kill him.
He speaks again, and I have to lessen the pressure against his throat so I don’t cut him. “I had to prove I’m worthy of you before you’d trust me. Love me.”
I have to stop myself from saying, “I don’t love you.” Because Victor has taught me not to lie. Not to him. Not to myself.
My hand flexes, and I press the knife too hard. A thin cut appears, and blood streams down. I set down the knife and cover the wound, trying to stem the flood. “Oh. Oh no. . .”
