Page 91 of His Black Onyx

Chapter 48

Malia

I can't believe it's really happening. Even now that things are in motion.

There's no turning back, no way for me to escape. It has been about two weeks now since my abduction in Atlantic City. Two weeks that felt like an eternity.

Two weeks that changed my life forever.

Everything during these two weeks has built up to this day. The day of the rendezvous. The day to turn Mission Onyx into action.

We're driving, and I'm sitting in the middle, wedged in between two men—but only one of them grants me much needed comfort.

Nate is sitting to my right, our hands tightly clasped together. He hasn't let go of my hand all morning, and I wish he'd never have to.

But I know this will end. And it will end sooner rather than later.

I don't feel like myself today, but that's probably for the better. I've been dolled up for the rendezvous, my black locks pinned up and my face painted for the first time since that night in Atlantic City. They had a woman sent to my room early this morning, someone I'd never seen before. She was older than me, and she didn't speak much, unless it had to do with hair or makeup. I tried to catch her eye, to understand who she was and what her relationship with these criminals was, but she always made sure never to look at me directly.

Maybe she was forced to do it? Maybe they abducted her, too? I will probably never know. And I didn't dare to ask, because Nate was in the room with us.

He has been at my side nonstop all this time, and I'm glad for it. I want to believe that my feelings for him are not based on a lie, on a charade he played to make me obey. I don't want to believe that. It's easier to give into these feelings, to trust that he really cares for me, like he said—and to think of him as a bittersweet memory once all of this is over.

My heart aches at the thought of it.

I'm wearing a long sequin dress in a light rose color, golden earrings and a matching necklace. It's too much. The hair, the makeup, the dress and the jewelry—everything is so over the top and so unlike who I am. I would never doll myself up like this, and I don't feel comfortable at all.

But in a weird sense, it helps. It helps to not feel like myself today, because I'm not supposed to be myself.

I'm Onyx, trained to play Lailah, a Covey girl who died in front of my eyes and whose last words will stay ingrained in my heart forever.

"Get it done."

I will get it done, even though it's wrong. I will kill for these men, because they're forcing me to. Because I have no other choice.

And I will never tell a living soul about it. Nate and I have gone through this. He helped me prepare a story to tell, once I'm free again. I will have to lie, but it will be made easy by the fact that my entire story is based on playing dumb.

I won't know who kidnapped me. I won't know what happened, because I was drugged. I won't know anything about any mafia families and I definitively won't know anything about a crime syndicate called The Covey.

Hopefully, all that matters will be my return, and the fact that I won't be able to talk about anything, because there seems to be nothing to talk about.

Which also means, I'll never be able to talk about Nate.

My eyes trail over to him next to me. He's looking out the window, seemingly absentminded and daydreaming.

But I know he's here. I know he's with me, and I know there's nothing but me and the mission on his mind. This is the day he finally gets to execute his plan of revenge, and as twisted as it may be, I feel a sinister pride in being able to help him.

We're not alone. Mike is sitting to my left, while Daveed is driving the car, with another henchman sitting next to him in the passenger seat. I've been introduced to him once, but immediately forgot his name after. My mind is too scattered, too occupied with what is about to happen.

And there's one thing that really troubles me: I'm not the only one who is nervous.

All of them are tense, too. I can literally feel the pressure imbuing the atmosphere in the car, causing everyone's shoulders to sit beneath their ears as silence stretches between us, only waiting to be broken.

But by what? Music? What would we even listen to?

What kind of soundtrack would fit a murderous plot?

I notice Nate moving next to me, and our eyes meet, holding on to each other in quiet reassurance. His lips move as if he wants to speak, but he doesn't say a word.

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