Page 18 of Vicious Hearts

“I must do that.”

“I don’t even know where you put all that food,” I tell her, my eyes flickering toward her small waist. She’s far too skinny. Something flickers in her eyes, extinguishing the light just a little. I’ve obviously triggered something, because a crimson flush snakes its way up the side of her neck before she turns away.

“How long will I be here?” She asks, her voice small. There’s that fear again, even though she’s trying her hardest to tamp it down.

“You’re not enjoying yourself?”

I’ve never had a woman not enjoy my company.

“I’m not here on a vacay for me to enjoy it. I have a job to do, if you still want to do the exposé, that is. I just want to do my job and go home.”

“Go home to what, Ariadne?”

15

ARIADNE

He issuch a bastard.

Just like all men. Every man that’s ever been in my life has been a bastard.

First the comment about me eating, which brought back so many ugly memories. Then the question he throws out about why I’d be in such a hurry to get home. Almost as though he knows there’d be no one waiting for me. As if heknowsno one would even miss me. I hate him. Hate him, hate him, hate him. And there is no way I’m going to paint him in a better light than he deserves. I will be publishing the truth, and nothingbutthe truth, I promise myself.

“Well, I guess the sooner we get the interview out of the way, the sooner I can get out of here, right?”

I push my chair back and rise from the table, setting my serviette down with a thud.

“Have you got your questions ready?” he asks, following my lead.

“That’s not the way I work.”

“Howdoyou work?”

I can’t believe he’s genuinely interested. I tell him to wait and see as I retrieve my notepad and pen from my room on our way to the office. I’ve scrawled notes on the pad. Nothing substantial, just a few comments I could use for the article. Caleph rudely grabs the notepad from my hands and scans his eyes across the page, reading aloud.

“Commanding… powerful…,” he squints to make out my chicken scrawl “accomplished… charismatic, magnetic personality… walks into the room like a lion… Caleph “King” Rojas – name doesn’t lie… success drips from every crevice of his life… distinguished, charismatic…”

He looks up from the notepad and grins at me wickedly, his lips curling at the corner in a smirk.

“I think you’ve got everything you need,” he laughs, before handing back the notepad.

I follow him, but he doesn’t lead me to the office. Instead, we make our way back to the upper deck and into a room surrounded by windows. Bench seats surround the length of the windows, which look out at the ocean, the mainland a speck in the distance. In the middle of the room is a cheese board and an assortment of beverages. Caleph throws me a bottle of water and opens one for himself. I watch as he puts the bottle to his lips and starts to gulp down the liquid, his Adam’s apple bulging with every swallow. I don’t look away. Can’t look away. I want to get every minute detail of this enigmatic man and commit it in ink to make it the best possible piece I have ever written. This will be the article that sets me apart from the rest, and I can’t fuck it up. Even I understand that I will never ever have an opportunity like this again. The enigma of made men ends here with me; I’m determined to extract the scoop of a lifetime and put to bed – once and for all – the myths surrounding the mafia.

* * *

“Before we start,I need to ask you something,” he says. I can’t ignore the way he watches me. Like he’s trying to dissect every word, every move, every flicker of emotion from me.

“You’re a man used to getting what you want,” I remind him, jotting down on my notepad. “Don’t let me stop you actually asking for something.”

He turns the notepad his way and reads, then flicks his eyes back to me.

“‘Used to getting what he wants?”

“You kidnapped me, didn’t you? I’m your prisoner, am I not?”

Caleph doesn’t seem so happy at my choice of words. Even though I am his prisoner. Sure, he may let me go if I insist, but he knows now he’s got me here, there’s no way I’m leaving without my scoop.

“You didn’t ask your question,” I say. I’m interested to see what he would ask, but nothing can prepare me for the question that escapes his lips.

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