Page 58 of Twisted Fate

“Get up,” Leo says.

He has all the power. I have none. And he wants to make sure I know it.

“Get up now. Or I drag you to your feet.”

I get to my feet, managing to keep the sheet around me, clutching it together at the chest. It’s clear he wants me as vulnerable as possible. Frightened. Off balance.

Once I’m standing, he settles back into the chair he was sitting in when I woke up. He stares at me as I stand there, awkward, afraid.

I wait.

“I want to tell you a story,” he says. “When I was nineteen, my father had me confront a man we suspected of spying. I asked him questions. He gave me answers. I didn’t like his answers. I asked him if he was right handed or left. He told me right. So I took a knife and starting with his right little finger, I sliced off a bit of finger for each answer I didn’t like.”

He grabs my wrist and pinches the end of my right little finger to the furthest knuckle with his left thumb and index finger. Then he pinches the next knuckle and the next. “I kept slicing.” He pinches the end of my right ring finger. “He never did give me an answer I liked.”

I shiver as he moves along my right ring finger, pinching each section in turn, then starts on my middle finger.

He lifts his eyes to mine, dark, soulless. His expression is ruthlessly neutral.

Then he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small box. It’s black, tooled leather with a gold clasp. “A souvenir,” he says, using his thumb to slide the clasp free then flip open the lid of the box.

There are ivory beads inside.

Except they aren’t beads at all.

They’re little bones. Ivory bones.

I feel sick.

He sets the box down on the low table beside him, then lifts a knife with a long blade.

“See this curve?” he asks, turning the knife. “It’s good for skinning. And this handle? Textured rubber so my grip doesn’t slip, even in wet conditions.” His smile is terrifying. “Things sometimes get a little bloody.” He leans back in his chair, balancing the knife with his right index finger on the hilt and his left index finger on the tip of the blade. He stares at me, saying nothing.

Bile burns the back of my throat. Fear tightens my chest, my breathing shallow.

“Tell me about yourself,” he says at last, silky smooth and full of threat, like a snake gliding through grass.

“You already know who I am.”

He nods. “Alina Madsen. Cocktail waitress. Twenty-three years old. Sister of Markus Madsen. Girlfriend of Enzo Bianchi.” He says the last words like he’s spitting poison.

“Not an impressive bio, I’ll admit it,” I say. “And I am not Enzo’s girlfriend. I dated him. He wouldn’t take the hint when I no longer wanted to date him.”

“Girlfriend of Enzo fucking Bianchi,” he repeats softly.

“Do you label every woman you’ve ever dated as your girlfriend?” I snap and instantly regret it.

His eyes narrow.

“I don’t know where Enzo is,” I say to him. “I already told Damian this.”

“Yeah, but the difference between me and my brother is that I know you’re lying. Which is why I told him to bring you here this weekend. Miles out at sea… do you know what happens to pretty little liars who get in the way of me and the information I want?”

I clutch the sheet with both hands, trying to still their trembling.

Now everything makes much more sense. Me being here was Leo’s idea, not Damian’s. Of course. I sensed that something was off when he first mentioned the boat. I sensed he wasn’t asking.

“If there was a lie detector here, I’d take it,” I say. “Because I’m telling you the truth.”

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