Page 54 of Refrain

“Arno,” the dining man says cheerfully. He’s beautiful. That’s the second striking revelation.

With caramel skin and a flawless complexion, he’s the golden angel to Espi’s ivory. Insanely long lashes flutter against his cheekbones whenever he lowers his eyes to his meal. A dark thatch of closely cut curlscovershis head, framing a face set with strong, breathtaking features that appear deceptively innocent when paired with the blood on his jeans.

“Is there a reason why you’re interrupting my breakfast?” he wonders beneath a thick Spanish accent.

“You could say that.” Arno’s callous shrug is as close to a sign of respect as anyone’s likely to see from him, I assume. “We need to talk.”

“Talk…” The other man frowns at his cereal bowl and then sets it aside, unperturbed by the pool of blood occupying the same space. He wipes his hands on his jeans and then stands in a single fluid motion. He’s tall. Nearly as tall as Arno, but the slight height difference doesn’t tip the scales of power in either’s favor.

This man, he must be Jose. Only now does it strike me that I have heard of him before, just by another name. We called him “The Shredder of the Cartel” around the precinct. It was the nicest term to describe what he did to his victims.

The horror stories clash with his smiling façade. I’m almost fooled by it—until the moment he comes to a stop inches away from Arno and meets the other man’s gaze directly.

“You come into my house, unannounced…” His tone deepens, revealing a hint of the danger lurking underneath. “You interrupt the lovely breakfast I was having with Julio here. For what? Totalk.” He throws his head back and laughs.

It’s a beautiful, charming sound that serves as a violent contrast to the way his hand shoots out and finds my neck. White explodes behind my eyelids. I can’t breathe. His grip is the only thing holding me upright as he yanks me closer to him and out of Arno’s reach.

“Pretty friend,” he says while my eyes stream and my lungs constrict.

My heart surges, desperate to panic, but an old familiar instinct keeps it at bay. It’s been years since I’ve had to anticipate the violence, but my body remembers how to react. Stay still. Hold your breath. Count…

It’s the only way to keep from blacking out too soon.

One. Two. Three.

“She smells like a Russian spy,” Jose says. “Is there a reason that you brought her onto my property, Arno?”

“You kill her, and she can’t tell you what she knows.” There’s a rehearsed calmness to Arno’s tone. He’s been through this before.

Jose’s grip tightens, his fingers digging in. Ironically, the thoughts floating through my brain seem oddly detached given the current circumstances. I’ll bruise if he lets me go. I’ll suffocate if he doesn’t.

Four. Five.

“You hear…about…Russians?”

I catch bits and pieces of the words as Arno spits them out. Black… I blink frantically but only seeshadow.

“Who took them out?” Arno asks. “Think your fucking operation isn’t next?”

My lungs shrivel, collapsing in on themselves. I’m vaguely aware of the moment death slowly begins to creep…

“Fine.”

Air!My owngaspis deafening. I’m choking, down on my hands and knees, as twotanfeet pad out of my peripheral vision.

“Let’s hear her talk,” Jose commands.

But I don’t know if I’ll ever find my voice again. He was careless. Spiteful. Piotr always made sure never to damage my windpipe during his attempts to drag whatever words he wanted out of me. Words like—Fuck me. I love you. I’m yours.

Jose got carried away. While I gasp, Arno’s forced to pick up the beginning of the story for me.

“Someone set up that hit and took out nearly a third of the Russian Syndicate overnight. Shit like that doesn’t happen on a lucky whim. It was planned.”

“Keep talking,hombre,” Jose says.

I glance up and find him pacing the sliver of concrete before the body on the floor. From thisangle,I can see the man’s face—what’s left of it. One of his eyes lies loose in its socket while the other stares dead ahead, unseeing.

“You know who’s behind it?”

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