Mafia Games by Vi Carter
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CLAIRE
My fingers move faster than my eyes can track. I want to slow down, but the burning need to complete the drawing has me pushing the pencil across the floor over and over again until the image starts to take shape in front of me. I’m almost smiling at how realistic this one has turned out. His eyes, they hold too much all at once—a bottomless pit.
My stomach squirms as I stare down at the drawing. Hunching over, I continue from memory of his sharp brows, long thick lashes, moving down to his sharp jaw; I pause once again as the rest of his face takes form. His face is for the front of magazines or movie stars. I shiver as I think of what lurks behind his face that’s designed to lure people in—a man who has locked me in a glass cage.
My fingers tighten around the small colored pencil that I’ve worn down to a nub. I sense his presence in the basement, but I don’t look up. I’m waiting for him to enter. I’m waiting for the click of the door. I’m waiting, and nothing happens. I finally risk a glance in his direction. He’s not alone. A man who’s been very badly beaten is dragged by another man who doesn’t look fazed at all. I can assume the unfazed one is one of my captor’s men. My gaze darts to my captor, who keeps walking deeper into the basement, the lights flickering on, lighting the way. My captor stops, and it takes me a moment to make out the coffin. My stomach heaves as I get off the ground and move to the wall of glass. The man whose face is swollen and coated in bruises looks at me, and I swear he says my name. His green eyes bounce around the space, and I can see he’s looking for an exit. I should tell him it’s pointless, that I tried. He rushes forward out of the security man’s grasp. He might have gotten five steps away before he’s restrained and dragged back kicking and screaming. My heart races as they take him over to the glass coffin.
No.
They both grab him, and the beaten man has no chance as they stuff him into the glass coffin and seal the lid shut.
“Stop!” My voice is low, but the word rumbles to life in my chest and makes its entrance on stage to no crowd.
Curling my hands into fists, I bang on the glass. “Stop.” My fists hit the glass again. What are they doing?
My captor looks up at me, and I already know it’s a losing battle, just as sure as I know the glass won’t shatter no matter how many times my fists collide with it.
His security man leaves briefly. A reel that I hadn’t noticed before is where he walks to. He turns a handle and takes the hose off the reel, dragging it back to the coffin.
“No!” My knuckles ache as I repeatedly bang the glass. I don’t stop; my voice is hoarse as they fill the coffin with water. The man fights. My vision blurs with tears as my captor glances up at me before he watches the man die. I know when he’s dead. He stops fighting, and my captor stands up, running his hands through his hair. I stumble away from the glass. The wound on my wrist has reopened, and fresh blood soaks into the bandage. He’s staring at me, and when he takes a step toward the box, I move away, not wanting him to enter.
Trepidation moves my feet faster as I seek refuge at the back of the box. I know I can’t realistically hide from him, but my fragile mind needs this right now. He moves to the front of the box, and a whimper lodges itself in my throat. I don’t want to die. It’s horrible, but all I can think of is not like that, not drowning in a coffin.
He walks past the glass box with the security man beside him. A sob pours from me as they leave the basement, and I’m left with another dead body. When will it become me who’s dead? My cries die down. I don’t think I have any more liquid left in my body.
Sinking to the floor, exhaustion tugs at me. I don’t think I can sleep, but my mind leaves the glass box and relives simple moments with my family. Moments that would be insignificant if they were still alive. If they were still alive, the small memories would fade over time. They are all I have, so I cling to them and paint each tiny detail in high definition.
I miss the smell of the newspaper. I miss the smell of oil that constantly stained his clothes and hands. I miss the smell of the porch on a hot summer’s day.
I miss my parents.
I don’t think I’ve thought about them this much in years. It’s this box. This place makes me think of them so much. Rose, my therapist, would be so proud that I’m finally allowing them back into my heart, but with each memory, my heart breaks a little bit more. The truth fills me up, and the exhaustion leaves me with no fight, even as the door clicks open, and he enters with fury fuelling his steps.
I think this is it. This is when I die. He doesn’t speak even as he reaches me. He reaches down, and I’m waiting to be pulled up roughly from the floor, but his fingers wrap gently around my forearm as he guides me to my feet. His fingers are hot on my cold flesh, and he doesn’t release me. I refuse to look up at him. I refuse to look death in the face. Maybe I'm a coward, or maybe I’m exhausted. But no matter what, standing this close to him is terrifying. He towers over me, and I’m insignificant beside him. He doesn’t release me even as he walks me through the box.
We stop, and he isn’t looking at me; he’s staring down at the floor. He’s staring at the picture I drew of him. His fingers release me quickly as he kneels down in front of the drawing. I’m looking at him over my shoulder, and I don’t want him to look at my drawing. I have a sense of embarrassment. I look away and notice the door is open. My heart lurches. I could run. I could try to escape. My gaze darts over to the man who is still in the coffin.
“You have a gift.”
I shiver at my captors compliment. His voice is gravely against my flesh. I fold my arms across my chest.
He rises and takes the two steps towards me. When he reaches for me, I unfold my arms, and he gently takes my arm again. He walks me to the door, and I pause. A soft tug has me stepping across the threshold.
“Is this the part where I die?”
“Not today.” He looks at me over his shoulder, his fingers trailing down until he circles my uninjured wrist.
There are worse things than death.
The stairs feel strange to my limbs as I climb the steps. How long has it been? Days, weeks, months? It feels like a lifetime. We leave the basement; my bare feet touch dark oak flooring as I’m led through a hallway. I feel dazed by all the lighting and wonder if this is a dream or maybe I had been in the coffin. My gaze jumps to my captor, who still holds my wrist. If this is a dream, then what is he doing in it? As if sensing my thoughts are on him, he glances at me over his shoulder again. His dark gaze has me dropping my eyes to the floor. I keep my head down as we move through the hallway until we reach a set of double doors that he pushes open.
I blink up at the blue sky. The sun looks glorious. It looks larger than I remember. I have to shield my eyes as we step outside and into a warm breeze. From the way the sun sits, I’d say it's early afternoon. The patio stones are warm under my feet. My captor doesn’t stop there. He leads me out onto grass that cushions my feet. After we walk through the lush grass and past an apple tree, he releases me.
I want to ask why I’ve been granted this freedom, but I don’t. Thoughts of going back to the box creep in, and panic squeezes my stomach painfully. I need to separate myself from that and try to just live in this moment with the sun on my face and the breeze in my hair.
“Have you always drawn?” The question smashes into my illusion.
He’s walking close to me, but I’m afraid if I move away, it will anger him, and he will put me back in the box.
“No. I’ve only been drawing the last few years,” I answer honestly.
“Well, it’s exceptional.”
His compliment makes my heart swell. He doesn’t seem like a man who handed out many compliments. “Thank you.”
He stops walking, and so do I. “You’re welcome, Claire.” He says my name with such familiarity, and for the millionth time, I’m wondering why I’m here.
“Why am I here?” I blurt.
“I thought some fresh air would be a nice reward for the drawing.”
Bullshit. He hadn’t known I had drawn it when he had arrived. I don’t call him out on his lie. I wouldn’t dare. His gaze drops to my wrist, and his jaw tightens.
“You need to stop hurting yourself.”
You need to stop killing people.
“I’m sorry.”
He exhales loudly and runs his hands through his hair. My stomach dips, and shame at even admiring him for one second raises my body temperature to an all-time high.
Movement in my peripheral vision has me following the large dog that darts through the grass. The closer he gets, it’s clear he’s a greyhound. His zig-zag pattern is bizarre but seeing a dog has me forgetting everything and ready to call to him.
I hear the cock of the gun and spin towards my captor. It takes my brain a second to realize what he intends to do.
“Don’t.” I reach for the gun that he pulls away from me.
The dog races closer. I see another flash of black. “Please don’t.” I move away from him and towards the dog, who slows down enough for me to really see him. His mouth is white, and it matches the large white patch of fur along his stomach.
“Claire.” The warning in my captor’s voice has me stopping but so has the dog who half hunches in the grass. I see the damage. He’s been beaten badly. I hold out my hand. “It’s okay, boy.” I swallow a lump at the cruelty before me.
“Claire, come away now.”
I ignore the second warning. “It’s okay.” I stretch my hand out, and the dog raises its head slightly. It’s weary, and I don’t blame him as my captor pulls me upright. “Fuck’s sake, it could have rabies.” His words are barked into my ear.
I don’t look away from the greyhound. “He’s been beaten. He’s served his purpose on the track, and no one wants him.”
My heart hammers in my chest.
“How can you know that?” My captor sounds irritated.
I take a peek at him; he’s still holding the gun. The dog hasn’t run away, and that’s encouraging.
“My father was a betting man; he took me to the dog races sometimes. Just let me check him.” I plead.
I don’t expect the answer I get. He curses and puts his gun away. “You stay back. I will check him.”
He takes a step towards the dog, who whimpers and cowers.
“You’re frightening him.” I fold my arms across my chest, my fingers itching to reach for the dog.
My captor ignores me and bends his large frame. The dog doesn’t run but lies on his belly while whimpering. People can be so cruel. This world can be so cruel. As my captor reaches the dog who growls, I watch a moment of redemption, a moment of a beast transforming into a man. His hand touches the dog, and he rubs his bowed head. “Easy, boy.”
The dog’s whimpering ceases. I take a step closer.
“Claire!” The warning has me stopping in my tracks but also causes a low growl to rumble from the dog.
“Easy, boy.” He touches the dog again, and the growling stops, much to my amazement. “He’s been beaten badly.”
I take another step closer and try to look over my captor’s wide shoulders. He’s separating the dog’s hair, gently looking for wounds. His long fingers are gentle; he’s a conundrum. I just watched him kill someone in such a cruel way. A shiver races across my bare arms at the memory.
“Why did you kill that man?” My thoughts evolve into words.
I don’t know what I expect him to do. Spin around and hurt me, kill me? I don’t know. But he doesn’t stop assessing the dog for damage. Through some whimpers and growls, he continues.
“He deserved it. He beat me nearly to death.”
I’m sorry is on the tip of my tongue, but I don’t say it. Yet I’m looking at his back and remind myself that he never laid as much as a finger on me. He took me from my home, but he hasn’t hurt me. I kneel down beside him. He shifts but doesn’t say anything.
The poor dog has several cuts. I reach out and gently touch his side. The dog’s head whips to me, and he bares his teeth. Leaning away, he stops.
My captor turns to me, ready to say something, but his gaze trails down to my bandage. “We need to change your bandage.”
Dark eyes travel up to my face, and my heart grows frantic in my chest. No matter what happens, his gaze will always haunt me.
“Help the dog first,” I whisper. We are too close, and I have the odd sensation again that I don’t want to put my finger on because my thoughts toward him are inappropriate when I’m not half terrified. My face heats, and I refocus on the dog. My captor is still watching me. His gaze burns a path down the side of my face. It seeps into my skin and fills my stomach, making it queasy.
“Fine, I’ll help the dog, then I will change your bandage.”
I can’t look at him, so I give a sharp nod of my head.
He exhales loudly. “Easy, boy.” He speaks to the dog as he rises slowly. I get up and watch in astonishment as the dog gets up and starts to follow us back to the house. It’s like my captor has cast a spell on the dog. Maybe that’s how he gets his victims here, that or drugs them.
I take a peek at him, and he’s watching me again. We reach a door that he opens. “You first, Claire.”
I hesitate. I didn’t want to go back inside. As if he reads my thoughts, he pushes the door open further.
“If you don’t, I’ll shoot the dog.”
His unfair threat has me moving past him. His smell encircles me as I enter an empty garage space. My captor encourages the dog in, and once the dog has entered the garage, he closes the door.
I focus on the dog that’s sniffing around with his tail dragging on the ground. The dog's ears are pressed to the side of his head. To hurt an animal is like hurting a child. It is wrong.
I kneel down as my captor makes his way to an intercom on the wall.
“I need some water, cloths, and bandages.”
“He needs a vet,” I say.
My captor’s sharp gaze swings to me. His jaw is tight, and I want to hide. I’ve overstepped. He turns his back on me.
“And a vet.” He lets the intercom go.
Clicking my tongue, I gain the dog's attention. He’s still half afraid of coming over to me, but when I reach out, he lets me pet him. I want to tell him I’m afraid, too.
“He’s hungry.” The dog’s bones prod into my hand.
“One thing at a time, Claire.”
The dog relaxes slightly as I rub around any wounds. My captor is leaning against the wall with his arms folded, watching me. I try to ignore him, but that’s a hard thing to do. He’s there. You can’t not notice him.
The door opens, and it’s the bald man who enters carrying the items my captor asked for. He doesn’t look surprised to see a dog here or me.
“Thanks.”
He hands everything to my captor and, without a word, leaves. My captor stuffs the bandages into his black trousers’ pocket.
“Let me do it.” I rise and hope he will allow me to clean the dog.
The set of his jaw and the tightness of his shoulder gives me my answer before he speaks it.
“No. He’s an injured dog, and he isn’t going to like anyone handling him.”
I stand up but don’t move away. My captor brings the bucket and cloth with him. Kneeling down, he takes my place and calls the dog to him. The greyhound comes but whimpers again.
I can’t look away as he cleans the dog with a tenderness that doesn’t make sense. The image of the man thrashing in the coffin of water pummels my mind, causing me to momentarily lose my breath.
“Why a coffin?”
“Why not a coffin?” He answers back. The dog is standing, but he doesn’t stop my captor from gently cleaning him.
“I think that will have to do until the vet gets here.” He stands up with his bucket.
“What will happen to the dog?” Did it really matter?
“I’ll find him a good home.”
His words make me want to laugh. It’s not the kind of laughter that’s belly deep or high pitched; it’s one that is drowning in tears.
“Just don’t kill him.” I frown as I say the words.
He watches me again before stepping closer. My heart beats harshly against my chest. He’s too close.
“Now, let me look at your wrist.”