Page 54 of Devil's Thirst

I’m utterly terrified that Lina’s near miss with a passing car was less of an accident and more of a failed attempt at murder. I can’t discount the likelihood that it was a message for me. And I think Sante suspects my fears. He saw my reaction to her recounting of the events.

I feel like I’ve been running on a treadmill, but the speed continues to increase until I can feel my legs failing to keep pace. I’ve done everything I can to prevent a fall, yet I can see it playing out in slow motion before my eyes. What if there’s no stopping it? What if nothing I do is enough?

Protecting my family feels more critical than ever, but I don’t know how. I can’t turn back the clock and undo the past two weeks. I have no way to prove I’m not guilty of whatever they think I’ve done.

The fear is paralyzing.

Time skips forward without my notice until the car stops, and I realize I don’t know where we are.

“What’s going on?”

Sante turns off the engine, engulfing us in silence. “What’s going on is we’re gonna go in here and eat, then you’re going to tell me what the hell is going on. My patience is at an end. You have the next hour to come to terms with whatever conflict is holding you back.”

Proclamation made, he exits the car.

This isn’t unexpected. He’s not the sort of man who accepts defeat.

The thing is, unless he literally tortures me, I don’thaveto tell him anything. I already feel myself caving, so it probably won’t come to that, but I like to think I still have options.

We eat in relative silence. Even my thoughts are uncharacteristically quiet.

I imagine this feels along the lines of a death row inmate eating his last meal. Maybe that sounds overly dramatic. I’m not so sure. My choice today could have life-and-death consequences. Therefore, I take each minute I’m given. I sit with my emotions. I appreciate the present moment for its serenity and try to assure myself that somehow, everything will work out for the best.

My grip on that coveted sense of calm falters as we leave the restaurant. The car is only a short block away, but it might as well be in Jersey when a catcall whistle slices through the air, followed by the lewd cackling of two men seated on a set of entrysteps down the sidewalk from us. We have to pass them to get to the car.

Instinctively, I clasp Sante’s arm. What I really want to do is turn around, but his pace remains perfectly fixed in the same direction. He has to be aware of them. They’re making more and more noise as we approach, and their obnoxious tone is unapologetically belligerent. Not that I can understand what they’re saying. It seems to be Russian, I think. It’s hard to tell if the slurring is part of the accent or more from intoxication because the two are clearly drunk.

Ten feet.

Five feet.

I ready myself to rush past when Sante does something unthinkable. Instead of getting out of there as fast as we can, he comes to a stop.

My stomach threatens to return every bite I took at dinner.

“Must have some seriously tiny dicks to enjoy scaring a woman,” Sante muses, hand in his pocket. Every word is spoken with such casual indifference that I have to wonder if he’s lost his mind. Is he trying to pick a fight with them?

The man with a bald head spits at Sante’s feet, then stands, grinning to reveal two silver teeth. “This little cunt seems to think he has balls, eh, Pyotr?”

The other man doesn’t move. He stares us down and murmurs something to his friend in Russian. He’s quieter, but that’s what scares me the most. I’m reminded of a coiled snake ready to strike. And the wicked scar ravaging one cheek doesn’t help.

Sante plows ahead as though totally unfazed. “Think you two owe her an apology.”

Why is he doing this?

I don’t want an apology. I want to live to see another day.

“Let’s just go, please,” I whisper pleadingly into the fabric of his suited arm.

“Listen to the cunt while you can still walk out of here on your own two legs.”

Sante squeezes my hand, then shifts my body away from his. His intent is clear—you need to get back.

I don’t argue.

“Biba know you’ve strayed this far from home?” Sante asks, still perfectly calm.

At the mention of the name Biba, the other man rises to his feet. Both glare menacingly at Sante as the atmosphere takes a decidedly dark turn.

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