Page 28 of Vicious Savage

I shudder at the thought. I myself would not be able to stand the pain this possibility would cause my brothers. By the same token, I hope I never find myself in a similar situation — where I’d be worrying day and night over the safety of a woman. Where a woman would come along to shatter my hard exterior in order to infiltrate the inside of me. A situation where I would neatly reserve certain expressions and reactions for one person who would turn my life on its head. No. I rather prefer being on my own, controlling what I can of my own life without distraction.

We drive on, until we reach a villa and the cars come to a stop in a circular driveway. Dante informs us this will be our home base for the next few days until we can put our plan into action then hotfoot it out of Mexico, a country which is not our own and causes our anxiety levels to escalate. We don’t like what we can’t control.

I’m the first out of the car, swinging my duffel over my shoulder as I stand looking at the massive house that awaits us. The Jekyll comes to stand beside me; we are almost the same in height, and he looks up to observe the house through my eyes.

“Cesar,” he says. “Cesar Cavalho.” He says it so low, almost as though he doesn’t want anyone else to hear. I don’t know why the turnaround, but the name is befitting of the lion of a man who stands beside me. “And I stand by what I say — don’t go getting yourself killed, Attila.”

29

LUNA

Ihave no delusions about what my father is. Never have. I’m surrounded by made men. Even when I ran away, I somehow managed to find myself in their company. TJ and Attila could only be part of this life. There’s no other way to explain their capabilities. Their knowledge of all things criminal. Their use of guns. The sophistication of everything they’d done to date. And the way that my father’s face contorted when he heard Attila’s name fall from my lips tells me that Attila is far from dead. Otherwise, his reaction would have been a very different one.

Attila’s coming. I can feel it in every fragment of my bones. He wants something from my father and he aims to get it. The tracker is what will bring him here, so I have to ensure it stays with me at all times. I have to make sure it stays safe.

Heavy footfalls sound in the dungeon. They’re not my father’s. I stand back from the bars and wait, holding my breath. It’s the driver. The one my father almost killed. He comes to stand in front of the cell and regards me carefully. There is resentment in his eyes. Curiosity. I’ve never seen him before, but it feels like I’ve met him previously.

The man opens his jacket, and I take another step back into the dark. I’m defenseless in my cage; he could so easily produce a gun and put a bullet in me. Maybe that’s the one thing my father wouldn’t be able to do himself.

Instead, he produces a bottle of water and passes it through the bars with a grunt. I step forward and take it; it’s still sealed. I haven’t had anything to eat or drink in days. I know a person can survive without food, but not water. Three days without water and I could expire.

“Drink,” he says, his gravelly voice a soothing beacon compared to my father’s.

He’s tall and dark; everything about him is dark. Black hair, olive skin. Dark eyes that are almost black and seem like they’re ringed with kohl. His clothes are dark, and there’s darkness in his soul. There’s a jagged scar running down the length of his right cheek. Oddly enough, it lends him a certain amount of beauty amongst all his darkness. The man haslived.

“Thank you,” I whisper, putting the bottle to my lips.

I’m careful not to waste it; this could be my only supply and I need to make it last. The man shakes his head and tells me to drink it all.

“I’m not supposed to be here,” he says. “I have to take the bottle back with me or he’ll know.”

My father. He’s going against my father. Does he know what happens to people who betray my father? Of course he knows… he almost got killed a few days ago for far less. For veering off the road erratically when my father tried to throttle me. This is one gutsy move, and it’s like the guy is asking for a death sentence. I wonder what is motivating him.

“Why are you doing this?” I whisper, after I’ve chugged down the bottle of water. I’m grateful for it.

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to,” he tells me.

“I need to get out of here,” I whisper. He may have taken mercy on me and brought me water. But would he go as far as helping me escape my prison?

“You can’t.”

His voice is firm, final. He knows there’s no chance of escape.

“Do you know my brothers? I need them to know I’m here.”

“Enough,” he says, his voice gruff. He’s not a man of many words. “Just do as he says.”

He as in my father. Even I know this. But why does he want me to do what my father asks? He brings me water as a peace offering, but in the same breath he tells me to be obedient to my good for nothing father? Wait… did my father send him to butter me up for something? Is this all a carefully constructed ruse to intimidate me into doing something?

“Who are you?” I ask.

A man my father tried to kill would never help me unless maybe he knew his days were numbered. There was no way this man was helping my father do anything.

“No questions,” he repeats. “Just do as you’re told and try to stay alive.”

* * *

When the man leaves,I plop down onto the uncomfortable wooden plank and think. His words sounded ominously like a message. But if so, who was the message from? Scarface had quickly turned and walked away once he delivered his warning, his footsteps fading quickly until I was left with nothing but the dank air. Almost as though he’d never even been here. I lift my knees until my feet are laying flat on the plank, then start to do situps. If nothing else, I have to stay fit while I am down here. The water helped, revitalizing my energy, but it would only get me so far if I was ever able to get away from this place; I needed to stay fit, and in the absence of any machinery, situps it is. I push my weary body to do fifty then stop as sweat beads across my forehead. I throw my feet against the side of the plank, knowing in a few hours I’d feel the strain of the exertion I placed on my muscles today.

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