Devil's threshold
1646 Words
The bag over my head smelled like blood and cigarettes.
I did not know if the blood belonged to the man who wore it before me or if it was my own. My nose was bleeding again. I let it drip. I did not have hands to wipe it. The zip-ties cut into my wrists every time the car hit a bump.
I could not see. I could not hear. I felt everything. Every vibration, turn the stop and start.
The car drove for what felt like hours. Maybe it was thirty minutes. Time moves differently when you are in the dark. It stretches. It warps.
I thought about Michael. About his laugh. About the way he signed "I love you" before he went to bed. About the boarding school where he was safe, far away from this city, far away from the blood and the lies and the debt that was drowning our family.
I thought about my mother. About the woman she used to be, the one who painted, who laughed, who danced. About the woman she became a ghost in a green recliner, watching cooking shows, forgetting she had a daughter.
I thought about Lydia. About the hospital. About the way she held my hand and promised to never leave. About the way she left anyway.
The car stopped.
The door opened. Hands grabbed me. Pulled me out. The bag was removed.
I was in a parking garage. Concrete walls. Fluorescent lights that buzzed and flickered. Men with guns stood in a line. They watched me with cold, assessing eyes.
One of them grabbed my arm. "This way."
I did not resist. There was no point.
They put me in an elevator. The doors closed. The elevator went up. Up. Up.
The doors opened.
A penthouse. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. Gray walls. Black furniture. Cold. Sterile. Beautiful in the way a prison can be beautiful.
I was pushed into a room. A man was sitting in a leather chair. His back was to me. He did not turn around.
I stood there. My hands were shaking. My nose was still bleeding. I wiped it on my sleeve.
He turned.
Alessio Romano.
His eyes were gray. Not blue-gray or green-gray or any shade that pretended to be warm. Just gray. The color of a winter sky before a storm. The color of stone. The color of a man who had killed so many times that death was just another transaction.
A scar ran from his left temple to his jaw. Thin, White, Old. Someone had cut him.
He did not stand. He did not smile. He did not introduce himself.
"You're late."
His voice was quiet. Quiet is more terrifying than loud. Loud men want you to know they are angry. Quiet men do not need you to know. They will show you.
I read his lips. It is the only way I understand what people are saying. I forced words out of my throat.
"Traffic." I didn't know how it came out as but i could tell it wasnot loud enough by his expressions. He watched me his eyes narrowed. The pain in my thorat had become so unbearable I could barely catch what he was goingto say next.
He watched me. His expression did not change.
"Are you sick?" He said it and i watied for a proper moment as i fought my pain ot utter a few more words.
"A cold." Two words. Each one a razor.
He stood. Walked to me. He was tall. Very tall. I had to crane my neck to see his face.
He looked down at me. "You sound different than your recordings."
I said nothing. I could not explain. I was not the woman in the recordings. I was not the woman he hired.
He grabbed my chin. Forced my face up. His fingers were cold.
"I asked you a question."
I spoke or did I only move my lips i was not sure but he caught what i said. "I might be."
My voice broke. I coughed. Blood sprayed onto my hand.
He released me. Looked at the blood on his fingers. Then at me.
"Fix yourself. The negotiations begin in one hour. Do not be late. Do not make mistakes. I do not tolerate mistakes."
He walked away.
Two guards took me to a room.
The room was bigger than my entire apartment.
A bed the size of my mother's living room. A bathroom made of black marble. A closet full of clothes that were not mine.
A maid brought me a dress. Black. Too small.
"Don Romano said you are to wear this."
She looked at me when she spoke. I read her lips. I nodded.
She left.
I held the dress. The fabric was soft. Expensive. It smelled like perfume and something else. Something metallic. Gun oil. I had smelled gun oil on Lydia's clothes when she came home from work.
I undressed. I looked in the mirror.
A stranger looked back.
She was pale. Too pale. Dark circles under her eyes. Bloodstains on her collar. Cracked lips. Hollow cheeks. Her green eyes were the only color in her face.
I touched my throat. The scarred tissue. The unused muscles.
You have to speak, I told myself. You have to pretend. You have to survive.
Two weeks.
I put on the dress. I looked in the mirror again.
The stranger was still there.
I did not know if I could do this.
But Michael's school fees were due. My mother's eviction notice came yesterday. I had nothing to lose except my life.
And I was not sure I wanted to keep that anyway.
There was a knock at the door.
A guard. "Don Romano is ready for you."
I picked up my tablet. I walked out of the room.
The guard led me to a conference room. A long table. Polished wood. Five men sat around it. Each one represented a family. Each one wanted something.
Alessio sat at the head. He did not look at me as I took the seat beside him.
At the other end of the table, a blond man smiled at me.
Daniil Volkov.
His eyes were blue. Warm. Deceptive. He looked like a man who had never been told no. Like a man who took what he wanted and never felt guilty about it.
"Miss Mercer," he said. "I have heard so much about you." I watched him my eyes narrowed so I could focus on his lips becasue he was far away from me. I gave a subtle nod when I heard him and I typed on my tablet and showed him: I hope it was all good.
He laughed. "It was not. But I am willing to form my own opinion."
Alessio spoke. "Focus, Daniil." I didn't catch that because I didn't know he was talking.
The negotiations began.
The Bianchi don spoke first. Rapid Italian. I read his lips. My fingers flew across the tablet. I showed the translation to Alessio.
The Conti don spoke. Russian. I read his lips. Translated.
The Volkovs spoke. English with a heavy accent. I read his lips. Translated. It was okay at first becasue they were speaking one by one but then it became chaotic.
Everyone spoke at once. I could not keep up. I turned my head back and forth, trying to catch every word.
My nose started bleeding out of stress. I wiped it quickly. No one noticed.
Alessio spoke. "Tell the Volkovs the port is not negotiable."
I opened my mouth I was reluctant. "Don Romano says..." Cough. "...the port is not..." Cough. "...negotiable."
My voice cracked. Blood on my lips. I wiped it.
Daniil Volkov looked at me. "You look different than your photographs, Miss Mercer."
What was this guy after? I thought to myself as he was awfully calm in this situaition. And was more focused on me when he should be discussing business and it wasn't even remotely the time to ask such questions.
I typed: I changed my hair.
He leaned forward. "You changed more than your hair."
The Bianchi don shouted something in Italian. I turned to read his lips. I missed what Daniil said next.
Alessio's hand touched my wrist. I flinched.
"Translate," he said.
I realized I had missed the Bianchi don's comment. My heart pounded.
"I did not see what he said." I whispered or that is what I think I did.
"You did not see?"
"I was looking at..." I stopped. I could not say I was looking at Daniil.
"At what?"
"At nothing. I am sorry."
His jaw tightened. "Pay attention." His gaze thenmoved towards Danii who was still watching me. Alessio's eyes narrowed.
The negotiations continued.
I forced myself to focus. Every word was a battle. My throat burned. My head pounded. My nose would not stop bleeding.
The meeting ended. The men left. I sat at the table, shaking.
Alessio stood over me.
"Come with me."
He took me to his study. Closed the door.
"You made three mistakes today. One almost started a war."
I said nothing.
"What is wrong with you? I thought you were supposed to the the best interpretor in the Underworld!"
I said nothing i kept my eyes on his mouth because i could not miss a word, and it seemed to irrritate him even more. I had noticed that no one aroun him owuld look at him in the eyes so my looking straight at him seemed to not sit well with him but i couldn't help it.
"Speak."
I opened my mouth. Nothing came out. My throat was closed. I coughed. Blood dripped onto my dress.
He watched me.
"You are useless."
He walked out.
'That is it? he didn't kill me?' I breathed out. I must not be that useless after all.
- Writer
