Page 33 of Vicious Savage

“Don’t try anything funny, Luna. I’m warning you.”

“Do I even get a choice in who I marry?” I ask. Because of course, that too is what is expected of me.

“No.” At least he gives me his honesty. “May the best man win.”

And with that, he turns and walks away, leaving me on my own again.

* * *

A little while later,Scarface brings a woman down to the dungeon and asks that I stand back from the door. She appears to be in her late thirties and she’s carrying a black hardcase that looks like it weighs more than she does. She has a garment bag folded over one arm and she struggles with everything she’s carrying as Scarface lets her into the cell then closes the door again.

“I’ll be back in an hour,” he directs at the woman, before he takes his leave.

She sets her bag down on the wooden plank and asks me to sit, her eyes glancing off me quickly. I dare say she’s been told not to ask questions and not to engage me in conversation. She brings out her tools and makes quick work of looking over colors as she turns my face this way and that, considering angles and shades.

There’s no mirror here, so I have no idea what she’s doing, and I probably won’t even see the finished product, but she starts to apply base layers and foundation before she glides a brush elegantly across my cheeks. I slant my eyes towards her as she works, hoping to catch her eye, but she doesn’t meet my gaze, working instead as though she’s on auto pilot.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

She doesn’t flinch.

“My name’s Luna.”

She could be deaf for the lack of reaction I’m receiving.

“How long have you been doing makeup?”

She ignores me as she traces a pencil against my lips. I continue to watch her out of the corner of my eye, but she doesn’t bat an eyelid. Any help I had hoped she could offer me is non-existent. She’s not interested in hearing my story.

I wonder if she even knows who I am. Does she know that I’m the daughter — the one and only daughter — who will probably be sold off tonight? Does she know what I sacrificed to get away from this place? The kind of life I’ve had in this home, so different to the life any person would assume a person in my position would live?

Does she know anything? Does she? Would she have accepted this job had she known it was to makeup a girl that’s been kept in a dungeon? Most likely to torture her some more? What does she know?

She doesn’t want to know anything beyond the job she’s been paid to come and do. She just wants to get the job done and leave, never to see me again. Maybe that’s easier for her. It’s easier to stomach the dark when you know you’ll never see this person again. It’s just so much easiernot to care.

“My father killed my mother…” I say. If she won’t answer my questions, at least she’ll hear. It’s the faintest flicker, but her hand stills and the eyeliner stops stroking against my lids. Her eyes flutter, then glance in my direction, before she looks away quickly. Her hand starts to move again, but it’s shaky at best. So, she’s not immune to me. But her fear of my father is greater than her empathy.

34

ATTILA

Castillo’s maid Maria was made for this life. I guess being around a cartel boss for so many years has taught her a thing or two. When the RSVP’s for “The Auction Of The Century” start coming through, she collates the invitations into those attending and those who will not be. She alone controls this information. And she alone has the foresight to make a note of those not attending, who she turns around and adds to the ‘attending’ pile.

The majority of our men will be infiltrating the venue in the catering trucks as wait staff. A few of us will be walking in as invited guests, thanks to Maria. The fact that the party is a masquerade ball is the added bonus that has us lining up all our ducks in a neat row. This is by far the luckiest break we have had so far.

I’ve been fortunate enough over the years to remain off everyone’s radar. My name may be whispered in darkened hallways, and I am referred to at times as the Bogeyman. No one really knows if I actually exist, because I’m an enigma, and those few who have had the pleasure of dealing with me and lived to tell the tale have been tight lipped at best. This is the code by which Caleph and I have always lived — to keep a low profile and give people only what is absolutely necessary. This formula has served us well.

I tie my hair back in a short, low ponytail. It’s nothing to write home about, but it does wonders for my image as a man with too much money and nothing to do with it. I wear my tuxedo, my shoulders filling out the jacket like a footballer’s. This is the way I was built. I don my mask and take a look in the mirror. There’s enough mystery there that even someone who has intimate knowledge of my existence wouldn’t know who I am behind the mask and the disguise.

The drivers arrive and we travel toward the venue in two different cars. Dante and I will be arriving separately through the front door, ‘invited guests’ keen on bidding. Cesar will be with the wait staff. We’ve accounted for every possible scenario, but there’s no telling how this will go. Anything can happen and something probably will.

* * *

We’ve doneextensive research on all the players at the ball. Thanks to Maria, the list of guests she provided us with was invaluable. I have to remember to reward her well once this is all over. Without her, there’s no way we would have gotten this far in the game.

For security’s sake, Dante and I arrive separately, within minutes of one another, giving our names at the door and gaining access easily. Too easily, I think, but Castillo is a desperate man. And unless someone betrays us, there’s no way he’d see us coming.

The ballroom is so crowded with people, it’s not hard to blend in and avoid scrutiny. I estimate about a hundred and twenty or so people in attendance, the majority of whom are men. A handful have brought along female partners. Sadistic couples who like to play.

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