Page 98 of A Pawn in the Game
Hello darkness, my old friend.
I try to take some deep breaths, but it doesn’t make a difference. I cross my arms over my chest, tapping my palms gently on my shoulders, but still—nothing. So I go back to an old favorite, the grounding technique.
Five things I see.
The papers strewn around. The suspicious-looking stain on the back wall…
What’s that sound? I jerk my gaze to the road.
Oh, thank fuck… He’s back.
Jumping from my chair, I forget all about the grounding exercise and wait patiently for Luka to get out of the car. My heart’s working on overdrive, but it’s excitement I’m feeling, not anxiety.
He slams his doors before opening the trunk. He lowers, and with a grunt, lifts something from the car.
Not something. Someone.
The figure has a black bag over its head. Its brown shirt is half-ripped, probably from fighting, and his pants are riding dangerously low. Luka works in silence, like we agreed, bringing the figure to the chair I was sitting on.
Stifled groans escape the textile bag, and I know Luka must have gagged him. He works on handcuffing the figure to the chair and gestures for me to lower the overhead door. Almost jumping in place, I rush to do that. The warehouse rattles lightly as the door snaps shut, and the figure jolts in response.
Still in silence, Luka draws me into a comforting hug. My face buried into his neck, I breathe in his scent, which relaxes me like a cocktail of benzodiazepines.
Time to do this shit.
My fingers pinch the top of the black bag, and I count to three before lifting it.
One, two, three.
Dad’s eyes widen as he notices me, his muffled sounds now louder without the coverage of the bag. I’m pretty sure my face mimics his because the fact that it’s him tied to this chair isn’t a surprise, but the way he looks is.
He looks older, which makes sense. But he doesn’t look ten years older. No, he looks like he lived two lifetimes while we’ve been distant. His face is carved with deep wrinkles. His glasses are crooked, lines surrounding his sunken eyes. He lost weight. His skin is pale and sickly. The man looks like death is knocking at his door.
I’m not sure what I expected, but this wasn’t it. I thought he would be this grandiose figure, powerful enough to destroy my life. But he simply looks… pathetic.
Luka unties the cloth around his mouth, and he spits it out to the floor.
“Sophie, you’re here! You’re okay.” His voice is hoarse but rushed.
“No thanks to you.”
“I tried. I tried to get you out. We were working on it.”
“You were making sure your ass was safe while I could have been killed, or maimed, or raped, for all you cared.” My voice sounds weirdly calm.
“You know it’s not like that.”
“No? What’s it like then? Because from where I’m sitting you could have sacrificed yourself to save me, just like you could have sacrificed yourself to save mom. But you didn’t, didn’t you?”
“I did my best. I never wanted to get you involved in all this. Not your mom and not you.”
“You involved both of us the moment you started working with the fucking mafia.”
“You don’t understand what it was like. I just wanted my girls to have a comfortable life.”
My skin prickles at his use of ‘my girls’. It’s what he used to call us. But he lost that privilege a long time ago. “Yeah, mommust be really comfortable six feet under. And I was super comfortable, held in a dungeon for two fucking months.”
“It was never my intention…”
