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By the time Mezhen returns with a tattooed, barrel-chested guard, I’m ready—resolved to face whatever fate awaits me without flinching. I’ve survived worse odds.
“Is it time?” I grit out.
They both look somewhat nonplussed. I imagine the goon expected to have to drag me out.
“Yes,” Mezhen says, watching me curiously as I leave the room.
“He’s . . .” Mezhen starts, wringing her hands, and I look back at her. She hesitates as if searching for words. “He’s waiting. For you.”
There’s no malice in her eyes, and yet there’s a hint of something dark. Something that looks a lot like envy, but I can’t be sure. Suddenly, I want to know her story. I have a feeling she might have arrived in the country under conditions similar to Aydin’s, yet Mezhen might as well still be in shackles for all the freedom she appears to have.
Is she a . . . slave?
And why I’m suddenly so concerned about another woman’s predicament when I might be facing a worse fate is beyond me. Without another glance at Mezhen, I follow the guard out.
And find Benjamin pacing the red-carpeted hallway.
“There you are!” He comes to me and takes my elbow, which makes me flinch.
“I see no point in pretending now, so you can take that filthy hand off me.” I snap and start to walk as fast as my billowy skirt will allow.
He sighs with exaggerated patience and catches up to me. “Trust me. When you meet your husband, you’ll be glad I held your hand.”
I stumble, throwing my arms out. Benjamin smoothly catches me and steadies me on my feet.
I’ll be glad he held my hand?
If Benjamin meant to scare me, he just succeeded because my bladder suddenly lurches, even though I’ve just been to the bathroom.
Although the answer couldn’t be clearer if it were written in neon lights across his forehead, I’m still unable to stop myself from asking him. “Was it ever real . . . Did you ever even love me?”
He replies blandly as the guard nudges us to move down the hallway. “You are my daughter, Adele. Of course, I love you. You just don’t realize how much danger you’re in with those Italians.”
I shake my head, trying a last-ditch effort to make him understand. “Have you for once considered that I might actually want to be with those Italians?”
“They killed your mother. They’re still trying to kill you.”
“They’re my family!” I say, my voice getting more frantic as we near the end of the hallway. “They never tried to kill me. They found the real killer and have been protecting me.”
“Is that the bullshit they fed you?” He scoffs, as we reach a tall oak door.
“That’s the truth. They’re the only reason I’m alive right now. So, you see, you can still stop the war. You don’t have to do this. They’ll come after every single one of you if you sell me off to this guy.”
“Oh, I’m not worried about retaliation since they won’t exist after tonight.” He pushes the door and holds it open for me to enter.
Oh shit. Here we go.
***
We enter a long room reeking of stale cigarette smoke. Thick white columns carved with intricate designs rise from the floor to the ceiling and bracket the aisle. Recessed lighting casts a bluish glow across the space.
I notice the glaring lack of windows, which makes me wonder if we are in a basement. The walls are draped in rich white silk wallpaper, subtly patterned with delicate motifs that catch the light. The floors are polished concrete, buffed to a mirror sheen. A ventilation system hums quietly, barely managing to disperse the heavy smoke.
If I hadn’t grown accustomed to the Vitelli brand of luxury, I might have been slightly impressed with this attempt at underground opulence.
The room is bare, except for the painted white wooden altar at the end of the narrow aisle between the pillars. The altar sits on a raised dais, its edges and posts adorned with red roses.
Somehow the sight of those roses, like drops of blood in the otherwise white room, seems so out of place. It sends icy fingers of fear tracing down my back.
