Page 13 of Vicious Hearts

I’m a mess. I’m barefoot and I’m emotionally raw, my naked heart laid bare for all to see. People mutter and curse as I shove past them, and I right myself just as I’m about to knock over an old lady. I apologize profusely, my tears coming quicker and faster, until I’m standing at a set of pedestrian lights. Only, I don’t wait for the light to turn green. I step out onto the road to the sound of a deafening cacophony of car horns. A car screeches to a stop, almost knocking me over. The car heaves and settles, the doors flying open before I’m hustled into the car and held down at gunpoint.

10

CALEPH

The bane of my existence is sitting in a chair, her hands and feet bound, a thick blindfold covering her eyes. There is mascara caked to her face, and her hair looks like a bird’s nest. Her dress is torn in three different places, one of which is at her cleavage, exposing a decent amount of skin.

“Why is she so roughed up. Did you hurt her?” I ask, looking at Manny carefully. The one thing I won’t condone is violence against women. Not the non-consensual type, anyway.

“No boss, she was a mess when we picked her up.”

I look at him in confusion. In all the years he’s worked for me, he’s never lied, but I’m the first to put my hand up and admit that there’s always a first time for everything. “How? Why? Weren’t you watching her?”

“We were. She came out of some apartment block like a bat out of hell, crying and screaming. Stumbled through the street until we picked her up. Almost got herself knocked over by a car when she stepped out into traffic.”

I turn my eyes back toward the woman, analyzing her carefully. She hasn’t said a word since they brought her in, but her tears haven’t stopped, her shoulders quaking miserably.

“She say anything?” I ask him.

“She was losing her shit… something about treachery and traitors. Then she just fell asleep.”

“Bring her a blanket and untie her.”

* * *

It’shours before she lifts her head and focuses her unseeing gaze around the room. She lifts a trembling hand and pushes the blindfold upward over her head, her breath shaky as she inhales. Her eyes flicker, adjusting to the bright light. I push off the wall and walk to the doorway, dimming the light to stop the irritation to her eyes.

There is something awfully familiar about her as her eyes swing toward me. She folds the blanket against her chest and regards me with some curiosity, but she says nothing as she continues to wait for me to say something.

“You thirsty?” I ask, grabbing a bottle of water from the side table. I walk over to her, popping the lid open as I go. She takes the bottle and presses it to her lips, her eyes scrutinizing me as she swallows. I watch the column of her neck as it moves with every gulp, and she depletes half a bottle without stopping to take a breath.

She’s not your average prisoner; she doesn’t kick and scream and demand answers like most do. Instead, she waits patiently, knowing that if her captors wanted her dead, they would have killed her already. Instead, she bides her time and waits to take, instead of giving. The consummate journalist: no wonder she was able to persuade the masses that I was a mafia kingpin.

“I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of meeting,” I start. “Caleph Rojas.”

A look of surprise crosses her face, before she skillfully masks her shock with a neutral expression. She can’t hide the crease in her brows, though. Stemming from her concern over all the ways I could dispose of the journalist who went head-to-head with me, an alleged criminal mastermind. In our previous brief interaction, I hadn’t been interested in giving her an interview, and now I had kidnapped her. Logic would dictate that I was out for revenge.

“Well, there’s obviously no need for me to introduce myself; you already know who I am,” she says, putting on a brave face. But she doesn’t fool me; she’s shitting bricks thinking of all the ways I can damage her.

“It’s still a pleasure,” I say, an amused smile playing at my lips.

“Can’t say the same, but whatever,” she shrugs. She has a sassy attitude.

Her care factor slips. It’s almost like she wants me to punish her. She simply doesn’t care, and I give her fifteen minutes before she’s no longer afraid of me.

“What happened to you?” I ask.

“Your goons stole me right off a busy street, that’s what happened!” she screams. Her anger flares up suddenly, licking up my spine like fire. “What do you want from me!?”

And there it is. She is afraid of me, after all. Although maybe not as afraid of what I’ll do to her as much as not knowing. The girl is certifiably suicidal.

I hum quietly into the silence. She glances my way curiously, cocks her head and seems to toss around scenarios in her head of how to make her great escape.

“Where am I?” she asks.

“Somewhere safe,” I tell her. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“What then?”

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