With a sigh, I fall back into the pillows and stare up at the canopy above my head, dressed in rich red velvet curtains interspersed with this flimsy cream silk that feels like the fine filaments of a spider’s web. That’s what this place is, a web, one that Grey and I have been cocooned inside of, just waiting for the final bite.
For the first few weeks, I was virtually useless. I could barely sit up on my own, and I limited my bathroom trips to once a day, crying and sweating as I dragged my broken body to the toilet. The doctor—this horrible man named Tommaso Setola—offered something to me that looked essentially like a puppy pad. As if Gidget, daughter of the Death by Daybreak Motorcycle Club, and outlaw even among outlaws would actually deign to soil herself.
I’d rather bleed and suffer for dignity’s sake.
Anyway, as soon as I started to feel better, I began canvassing the place for escape. Once, I asked about the stained-glass windows high above our heads, the decorative mosaic slits that beam a kaleidoscope of colors into the room during late evening. Specifically, I asked Grey what was on the other side of them, like if we found some way to scale the stone walls and get out while somehow not being seen on camera, where would we be going?
His reply? A cemetery.
Euphemistic or not, I got the point: we’re not getting out that way.
I roll over to my side and revert back to my favorite activity of late: a nap.
Because the more I sleep, the faster I’ll heal. The stronger I am, the more hale, the easier it’ll be to make my move when the time comes.
Another week passes with little change in activity level.
“I thought I hated my life before …” I start, as Grey and I lie on our backs in bed, staring at the ceiling together. I’m not sure I’ve ever allowed myself to get to know another human being the way I now know Grey Wolfe. He has no middle name, by the way. Like, in most cases, I might find his name hilarious. But here, in this place, with the Don for a father? It actually terrifies me. There’s a level of confidence in naming one’s son ‘Grey Wolfe’ that shows that the Don isn’t afraid of anyone or anything. “But this is worse.”
Grey turns his head slowly to look at me, studying my healing features with interest. He likes me, I think. Or else he’s just grateful to me for risking my whole world to rescue him, I’m not sure.
“You should’ve left me behind,” he says, and not for the first time. But what good would that have done? I ran right into the arms of the enemy. Grey, at least, has provided me some sort of protection here. Without him, I’d be in a rape dungeon or I’d be dead already. No doubts about that. I know how the underworld works, and it isn’t cackling villains and second chances. The mafia doesn’t leave you in a room with one inept guard, and wait for a great escape.
They shoot first and ask questions later.
“Yeah, well,” I start, grabbing a biscotti off the tray beside me and munching on the chocolate covered tip. The food here is bomb, I’ll at least admit to that. We eat like kings. Like kings, because of course, we’re nothing but prisoners here. Even Grey, the last remaining heir to the Grey Wolfe Mafia throne is worth little more than a cozy jail cell. His dad is as likely to feed him to the Irish wolfhounds he keeps as he is to train his youngest son in the business. “Let’s talk about something else. Can’t rewind time.”
And I’m sick and tired of being trapped in memories. Being stuck here has given me more time to think than I ever dared dream of—than I ever had nightmares about. I think about my sisters constantly, and when I’m not thinking about them, I’m thinking of the four horse-fucks of the apocalypse.
It occurs to me that I was sixteen when I had sex with them all. That they’re much older. That it should be wrong. Yet, whenever I close my eyes and fall back into that moment, all I want to do is relive it. See, told ya I was fucked up.
“What was Kian like?” I ask, because as much time as Grey and I have spent getting to know each other, we don’t really talk about Queenie or Kian. It’s too painful, I think, to look at one another and know that the people we loved the most were both lost because of underworld politics and bullshit. “My sister must’ve really loved him. I found some … writing that she left behind. She likened their relationship to Romeo and Juliet.”
Technically, it wasn’t writing that I found, but words scratched into the baseboards of the old party house in town, a crumbling manor known to locals as The Artefact. Just semantics.
“Kian was … ruthless,” Grey admits, reaching up to rub at the side of his face. His fingernails are coming in nicely, taking up about a third of the normal nailbed. “He was the perfect person to take over this nightmare.” He waves a hand loosely to indicate … well, his father’s entire crime syndicate, I think. “But when he met your sister, something changed. He started sneaking out and disobeying orders, stopped sleeping with other girls, started lying.”
I look back up at the ceiling.
“Do you know how they met?”
Grey shakes his head in response to my question.
“I can only guess that it was at the casino?” he queries, and there it is again, mention of the casino. It’s what kept him from dying that day, and the only reason Cat took that gun out of my hand.
“What’s up with the casino anyway?” I reply, wondering how much we can say without getting into trouble. I assume Grey knows our limits here better than I do, and decide that if he’s not worried about our conversation, then I won’t be either. It’s not as if the mafia’s going to let us go regardless of what we do or don’t know.
“I have no idea,” he admits, and I can sense that even though that’s the truth, he has his theories, theories that he won’t be mentioning in the presence of the cameras. “All I do know is that Kian loved your sister; they wanted to run away together and start a family.” He exhales sharply and when I glance over, I see that his eyes are squeezed shut. “The day he died, I was supposed to be helping them. But I went to the casino with my friends instead. I figured he’d gone through his entire life without asking for my help, so why did he need it that day?”
I think about my last words to Posey—fuck off. That’s the last thing I said to my sister before she was tortured and killed. I understand the regret and longing in Grey’s words. You never really know how much a single moment matters until you find out it’s the last.
“Where did he die? How did he die?” I ask, because I’m trying to understand. There are so many things here that don’t make sense. Queenie was in love with Kian. Even if Cat was going to forbid them from being together—which he most certainly would have—why go after the guy and kill him? He would’ve known that was a guaranteed way to start a very personal war with an immensely powerful group.
What was the point?
And why, on that day of all days, were we home without any of those dickhead officers around to help us?
That’s the part that confuses me the most of all, the piece of the puzzle that doesn’t fit into any of my theories. Killing Kian was enough to start a war all on its own, so it wasn’t for the excuse. Cat just told his boys that a mafia brat raped his daughter and bam, gauntlets were thrown.