Mafia Games by Vi Carter

CHAPTER TWENTY

CLAIRE

 

Richard. His name keeps spinning around in my head. “Richard,” I say his name under my breath, trying it out over and over again like saying his name might eventually start to feel normal. Saying his name makes him more human. Monsters don’t have names.

Richard.

He knew my brother. They were friends. None of this made sense to me. The man who had spoken looked exactly like Richard; only he’s older. At first, seeing another person out in the garden had my instincts wanting me to run to him and tell him that I have been kidnapped, but like the wheels of a watch spinning, the scene before me had me pausing as I took in the details of our new arrival. His dark eyes, dark hair, and the overall air around him made me think of my captor. Even the tailored suit that coated his frame-like armor reminded me of Richard. As I looked longer, I knew he wasn’t one of Richards’s men but his father. The most disturbing part I had become aware of was that Richard was afraid of his father. Someone who was crueler than Richard? That made me afraid of the man, too. The word fear had developed an entirely different meaning to me since I’d arrived here.

 

I lick my lips—that kiss.

I’m pacing the box. It feels smaller, and the air feels thinner. I want out of it. The small taste of freedom and fresh air had left my skin itchy being back in this box.

I bit my bottom lip as the kiss continues to resurface in my mind, demanding I give it the full attention it clearly thinks it deserves.

He had kissed me. I kissed him back. I shouldn’t have, but with his lips gliding gently over mine, time had ceased to exist. Our history no longer came into play. All that mattered was the moment. The feel of his lips on mine, I had been lost in the kiss. That never happened to me before. I bit the inside of my cheek at the memory.

His name, the kiss, the fact he knew my brother continues to circle in my head until pain starts to grow like my thoughts are nurturing the ache.

I’ve been locked in here for hours with no idea what has happened on the outside. I’m wondering if Connor is okay. I’m wondering if Richard is okay. That’s the part I’m trying to bury, the part that has any real feelings for him.

I walk across the table and chairs that I had drawn on the floor but stop at the image of him— the image of Richard with his dark eyes and dark soul.

My heart palpitates unnaturally in my chest.

This time I’m aware he’s there, but I get my breathing under control before I look up at him. He’s in a fresh suit, but his eyes look worn out like he’s lived too many lives and just wants to lie up somewhere and rest.

I want to ask so many questions, but I don’t.

“Are you okay?” He asks as he clears the last step of the stairs and joins me in the basement.

“No. I’m not.” I answer.

His smile rocks my reality, and I’m unstable. “You don’t like your shoes?” He points at the red sneakers on the table.

I had taken them off the moment I had been returned to the box. They felt almost unnatural on my feet.

“You know my brother?”

“Yes.” His answer startles me.

I knew his father had said they were friends, but to hear him say it makes this whole situation a bit clearer.

“Did he tell you to do this to me?” I step closer to the glass. They must have been laughing at me all this time. Watching me slowly lose my mind.

I kissed him. I had kissed Richard back. My cheeks heat up at how foolish I must look right now.

Richard’s lip twitches.

I march the rest of the way to the glass, and my fist smashes into the wall. “This isn’t funny.” Tears burn my eyes. “When will this stop? When will he be happy? When I’ve completely lost my mind?” The questions fall fast from my lips.

“I did this to him.” Richard walks around the perimeter of the box until he comes to the door.

“Don’t come in.” I plead.

The door clicks as he disregards my request. He steps in but doesn’t move toward me. “There are some things you don’t know about me. Your brother didn’t know much about me either. I think if he did, he wouldn’t have beaten me nearly to death.”

My mouth opens, but I close it quickly. I couldn’t defend Leonard; it sounded like something he would do. He’s always had such a vicious nature.

“I don’t remember you.” I finally say, knowing if I ever saw Richard, I would have never forgotten him.

“I was in the asylum with your brother.”

I don’t have to ask why he was in an asylum. Yet Leonard had been unbalanced. Richard didn’t seem that way at all. I wouldn’t have thought him unhinged. A killer, yes, but not unstable. There is an order to Richard that I’ve never seen in Leonard.

“My father placed me there as a form of punishment.” His confession meets me head-on with disbelief.

“The man who arrived in the garden?” Just as we kissed.

Richard nods. “My father.”

Each word is becoming too much, and I need to sit down. The table and chairs are right beside Richard, so I opt for the bed because that's the furthest point away from him.

“So I’m here to what, to hurt my brother?”

“Yes. I saw how happy you made him.”

I laugh when all I want to do is cry. “I don’t make him happy.” A fist curls in my stomach.

“Does he make you happy?”

I look at Richard, the question not sitting right with me. “No.”

Richard steps up to the table and chairs.

“So, how were you going to use me against my brother?” I ask the question I wanted to ask the moment he had mentioned my brother.

“Kill you.”

All the hairs rise along my body, and I fall silent.

Each step he takes toward me has me closing my eyes. I smell him. The air stirs in front of me, and I know I should open my eyes. Alarm bells ring loudly in my head as his fingers touch my bandage.

My eyes snap open. He’s kneeling in front of me; there is a softness in his gaze that I’ve never seen before.

“I told you already you won’t die by my hand.”

I nod my head.

He could order someone to kill me. The bald man whom he had called Davy springs to mind.

“My father...” He starts, but his words trail off.

Holding his stare becomes too much, and I look away.

“He will be the one who kills me?” I ask his feet.

Richards’s fingers touch my chin. “I won’t let that happen.”

I’m staring into rich brown eyes, and I want to believe him, but he put me in this box. He had planned to kill me.

“I want to go home.”

He hangs his head. “Claire, that’s not possible.”

I’m ready to get off the bed, but his fingers curl around my wrist, the touch sinking deep under my skin and keeping me seated on the bed.

“Please.” It’s a whisper.

Richard glances up at me, his fingers still wrapped around my wrist. His brows rise, and irritation widens his eyes. “I said that’s not possible.”

I bit my lip to stop from shouting. I am going to die in this god-forsaken box.

“Is my brother dead?” I find myself asking.

“Would that upset you?” Richard answers my question with a question.

If this were anyone else, I would question how serious they were. The sharp gaze that Richard holds me under tells me he’s very serious.

“Of course.” The moment the words leave my lips, I’m questioning them. I didn’t care for Leonard, but him dying made me feel even more alone in this world. I would have no one left.

The sadness of that thought has a laugh dribble from my mouth. Richard loosens his hold on my wrist.

“You’re going to kill him, aren’t you?” I ask, but I don’t want the answer.

Richard’s gaze holds the answer that his lips don’t form.

He would die, and I would be alone.

Tears fall from my eyes without my consent. They are silent tears like my emotions haven’t caught up with them yet.

“I told them he wasn’t right.” I pull my hand out of Richard’s touch. “I told them he hurt me.” I’m mumbling. I focus on the glass over Richard’s shoulder. He’s silent as he remains kneeling in front of me.

I’m in a confession box, and I’m ready to spill my sins. “They didn’t see it. Maybe I didn’t convince them enough about how dangerous he was.” I’m focused on Richard. “Maybe if I had tried harder.” The image of Richard wavers, and I blink, allowing the tears to fall down my face. “Maybe they would be alive today.”

I swipe at one eye and glance away from Richard again.

Another laugh rumbles my chest, and I slap my chest like the laughter had no right to make an appearance.

“But I’m sure you and my brother exchanged war stories.” I wipe my other eye angrily.

“He hurt you?” His words are low.

I really look at Richard, taking in how dark his eyes have grown, a dot in an inkwell. His jaw twitches several times.

Is he angry?

“He never told you why he was in the asylum?” I tilt my head, trying to see Richard from a different angle.

“No.” He growls. “But you will tell me.”

The demand has me sitting up straight. “No.”

Richard gets up and towers over me. His hands are curled into fists, and fear grips my shoulders and drags them back. I’m waiting for him to strike me. I’m waiting for this to end. I don’t look up at him. I’m not that brave, but I know better than to run. Men like him would love that rush, and I refuse to give this man or any other more power over me.

He doesn’t move but remains stoic in front of me. My heart gallops in my chest; the wait is often worse than the action.

My head snaps up. I stare at his back as he walks away from me, exits the box, and closes the door. He never looks back, even as he climbs the steps and returns to his life while I rot in this place.