Page 12 of A Debt So Ruthless

“This is slow for me, Songbird. Consider it a courtesy since I know you’re not used to this yet. Soon, you will be.”

Those last words are ominous, and I try not to think too deeply about what they mean.

“Aren’t you at least worried about being pulled over?” I ask.

He laughs again, a disbelieving bark of sound. It’s like I just asked him if he ever worries about Santa putting him on the naughty list. Like it’s something nonsensical.

I lapse into silence, unsure why I’ve even engaged him in conversation in the first place. I return my attention to the outside world. We pass Edward Gardens and turn onto Brindle Path, one of the most expensive streets in one of the country’s most expensive cities.

I’ve never been in this neighbourhood, but I know exactly where we are. Millionaire’s Row. A lush, secluded neighbourhood of sprawling mansions on gigantic lots. It doesn’t even feel like we’re in Toronto as we pass castle-like houses on entire acreages of their own. My house is large, but it’s nothing like these ones.

We continue along the street before turning onto a long and winding driveway. Gigantic trees arch on both sides, casting shadows on the glistening drive that’s like an entire road unto itself. Despite the drifts of snow on either side, the driveway is immaculately snow-free and salted, its smooth black surface reflecting moonlight like still water.

We travel so far into the trees that the main road disappears. I worry at my lower lip, feeling like I’m falling further and further into a trap. Like I’m headed for the underworld and I’ll never claw my way back out.

A huge gate looms ahead, manned by a tattooed guy in a booth. Elio doesn’t stop, doesn’t even slow down, and I gasp, thinking we’ll crash right into the wrought iron, but we don’t. The gate slides sideways, the man in the booth giving a deferential nod as we drive through.

I wrench around in my seat, staring backwards as the gate closes behind us. Black bars slicing through the night and cutting me off from where I came from.

From everything I’ve ever known.

I turn around to face my new future as Elio stops the car and darkly mutters, “Welcome home.”

Chapter 7

Deirdre

Home.

This building isn’t like any home I’ve ever seen. Maybe on TV, or in an architecture magazine, but not in real life. It’s gigantic, a massive geometric structure of glass and metal. Rectangles on top of rectangles glittering in the dense woods of the property. Dimly, I wonder how close the nearest neighbouring property is. As if he can read my very thoughts, Elio tells me that the closest house to this one belongs to his Uncle Vincenzo, head of the famiglia, where he lives with his wife Carlotta and daughter Valentina.

The fact he guessed what I was thinking makes me feel like I’m not even safe in my own head, and suddenly I can’t stand being this close to him. I unbuckle my seatbelt and force the car door open, holding my violin and bow awkwardly in my arms, wishing I had the case. My feet hit the freezing pavement, and I’m reminded of my lack of shoes. But I refuse to be carried this time.

Elio doesn’t try it. He just gets out of the car and watches me from in front of the vehicle.

He’s not the only one watching me. Two mafia soldiers stand at the house’s massive, metal front door.

“Going to run?” Elio asks. He perches his hip against the SUV’s hood and leans sideways in a pose of easy languor, like he doesn’t really care if I do. But his eyes give him away. They’re intense. Ravenous. Showing me the truth of the hunter ready to strike beneath the relaxed exterior.

“No,” I tell him. Where would I even run to? Into the woods without shoes where his men would track me down in no time flat? No, I have to be smarter than that. Keep myself safe, alive, until I can figure out another plan. I raise my chin and hold his stare, fighting the urge to dance back and forth from one foot to the other. My feet are so cold it hurts, but I focus on the pain. It gives me something to anchor myself.

Elio looks satisfied with my answer and straightens up. He raises his right arm in an after you sort of gesture. I swallow hard and walk towards the door.

The soldiers at the door aren’t looking at me now but at Elio. Waiting for the slightest signal from their boss, ready for the subtlest and most silent of instructions. One of the men punches in a code and then opens the door. I kick myself for not taking note of what the numbers are.

I hesitate in the large doorway, panic inside me telling me that maybe I really should run. If I go through that door, there’s no coming back, and I know it.

But Elio is at my back, his heat penetrating the jacket and oozing down my spine. I hate the way it contrasts so sharply with the pain of the cold. It turns his body into a vicious sort of comfort, something a terrible part of me wants to sink into. I take a swift step forward through the door just to get away from him.

But of course, he follows. The door closes with a quiet boom, and I jump, nearly dropping my violin. Part of me is still confused about why Elio went back to get it in the first place, and I hug it to my chest, seeking comfort in my new prison.

If this is a prison, it’s a beautiful one. The entryway is massive, with natural grey stone cut in big slabs for the floor. To the left, I can see an expansive dining room with a long, live-edge wood table. To the right is a huge open-concept living and kitchen area. Straight ahead is a set of iron steps leading ominously upwards.

Elio grasps my arm and heads for the stairs.

“Where are we going?” I ask, stumbling along with him. His legs are so much longer than mine and our strides are mismatched. I wouldn’t be surprised if he normally takes the stairs two at a time.

“Upstairs,” he grunts, and I shoot him a sharp look from the side. No fucking shit we’re going upstairs. It’s what we’re going to find upstairs that I want a warning about.

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