New York City,
United States
The basement smelled of dust and old sweat. A single lightbulb, hanging from a wire, swayed slowly above the chair, casting a ballet of sickly shadows across the cinderblock walls. The metallic smell of blood had saturated the warehouse air.
Despite everything, I liked this place. The silence was thick there, almost respectful.
I stared into the void, just above his left shoulder, where the paint was peeling in a shape that looked like a cloud. All I could think about right now was my stomach.
Ana was on leave. Her daughter had just given birth and, according to the unspoken rule of our household, family came before my ironed shirts. Without her to prepare the roast, the prospect of my evening looked bleak.
A restaurant, maybe?
At my feet, the "chore" was groaning. A certain Martin, tracked down by my men a few hours earlier. But of course, traitor was far too noble a word for that kind of waste.
A wet sound, a gurgle. Martin had just spat something red.
— You're nothing but a self-centered bastard, he articulated painfully through his swollen lips. A little smug asshole who can't see past his blond strands…
I absentmindedly smoothed a rebellious lock, my gaze lost on a damp stain on the ceiling. I couldn't have cared less. His insults slid off me like water off the leather of my shoes. I sighed.
How boring.
— Shut up, Martin.
— It's Mat—
The sharp crack of a blow to his neck cut off the correction. Martin, who apparently wasn't named Martin, slumped forward, spitting out a mixture of saliva and blood. The sound made a dark puddle on the cement.
Urgh… Back to what matters. Where should I go eat?
Ah, right. Will had vaguely mentioned a French restaurant. What was the name again?
Plat Doré, hmm?
Will rarely gave compliments. If he even mentioned it briefly, it had to be worth it. I could already see myself sitting at a table, a glass of wine, a hot dish. Something simple. A good steak.
Yes, a steak, well seared on the outside and super tender on the inside. Mmmh, and that juice running with every bite, what a—
My gaze, until then lost in the drifting dust, finally settled on him.
He flinched.
I felt it. The fear dripping from his skin, the primal instinct screaming at him to back away, to disappear. It was good. It was always good.
I stood up. My soles scraped against the floor. I walked over to him, grabbed him by the shoulders, forced him upright in his chair. My fingers felt his bones beneath the bruised flesh. I patted his shoulder in a friendly way, a silly smile plastered on my lips, the kind you give to children or fools.
— You seem like a good guy, Martin.
I stepped away from him. Immediately, my men tightened the circle. I felt his gaze on the back of my neck, burning with hatred and terror.
I paused, my hand on the door handle.
— But I'm starving.
I opened it. The dull sound of a gunshot cracked behind me, muffled, almost polite. Like a period at the end of a sentence.
— See you in another life.
I waved over my shoulder, a silent order not to follow me. Outside, the night air was cool. I got into my sedan, placed my phone on the holder, typed the restaurant's address into the GPS. The engine purred.
I drove. The city streamed past, a kaleidoscope of anonymous lights.
A notification flashed on the touchscreen. A name: Will.
I answered instantly. He never called to check in. Never.
Maybe he missed me? No. Impossible.
I smiled, but an icy doubt slipped in, tiny, behind my ribs.
— Hello, Will.
His voice, on the other end, was flat.
— She's back.
My foot slammed the brake pedal. The car swerved, the tires screamed. Around me, the world kept turning, indifferent.
Me, the man with the eternal smile, I was trembling.
It wasn't fear. Nor anger. It was something buried, an old shiver, forgotten, that I hadn't felt in a very, very long time.
— What?
One word. Alone. Lost in the cabin.