Mafia Games by Vi Carter
CHAPTER THREE
CLAIRE
“We welcome you here today...” I turn away from the mirror and stop myself before running my hands down the front of my dress.
I feel so small but force myself to look back into the mirror. Wide blue eyes stare back at me. I appear dazed.
I look stupid. I can’t do this.
I scrape my long blonde hair off the back of my neck and hold it up to try to cool my body down. I’ve been asked to be a keynote speaker at a school tomorrow. The idea that I could give a child advice makes my insides crumble, leaving a puddle of ruins around my feet.
Worst. Idea. Ever.
I tried to say no, but the word yes took its place. I want to be a normal nineteen-year-old. I want to be confident. I want to stop being so afraid of everything. I release my hair, and it falls down, stopping at the small of my back. I try out a smile and roll my eyes at myself. I look deranged.
I leave the mirror with a bad taste of defeat in my mouth. Picking up my phone, I scroll until Rebecca’s name appears, and I hit the text message button.
I’m sorry. I won’t be able to attend tomorrow. My apologies for the short notice.
My finger hovers over the send button. I glance up at my fridge. A magnet of the Eiffel tower holds up a picture of the pyramids in Egypt. To the left, four alphabet magnets that were on my fridge when I rented this place hold a multitude of pictures of places, like the Great Wall of China, the Statue of Liberty, all the way to the plains of Africa.
Anyone who comes here would think I am well traveled. That’s two lies in one thought. No one ever comes here, and I have never left Ireland.
Glancing back at my screen, I hit send and throw my phone on the counter.
I want to scream at the thief who’s taken my courage, my backbone; all that I am left with is something that is broken, and like the sands of time, it’s pouring rapidly through my fingers. I thought time heals all wounds, but mine are gaping.
A knock at my door drives me out of my state of self-pity that I slip into far too often. The knock comes again, and a new fear knots my stomach. Could it be Rebecca? Irrational thoughts plague me as I stare at the front door.
Rebecca doesn’t know where I live, and even if she did, I had just sent the message. She couldn’t have gotten here that fast. Maybe she’s in the area? But what would she want to talk about in person that she couldn’t speak about over the phone?
I’m questioning things while looking around the small space. Two heart-shaped cushions sit neatly on the brown couch. A red throw lies across the back of it. The couch is positioned across from a small unit that holds my TV. The coffee table is old and doesn’t match the rest of the furniture, but it was here when I moved in. My laptop sits on the coffee table, half-open. I should close it.
Another knock drags my attention back to the door. Rebecca doesn’t know my address repeats in my mind.
The knock comes again, and I swallow my wild thoughts and open the door.
I blink up at the tall man whose shoulders are suitable for a rugby pitch. His dark gaze burns over me, and I feel unbalanced as I reach for the doorframe. He doesn’t speak. A normal person would ask him his name or ask him what he wanted? Not me.
“I didn’t eat, so I’m a bit dizzy.” I try to explain my reason for clutching the door frame without looking like a nut.
His gaze slices through me. I don’t want to keep looking up at him. Craning my neck isn’t helping my dizziness. I try to ignore a buzz that races along my bare arms.
He still hasn’t spoken. My brain is telling me something isn’t right.
“I’m sorry. How can I help you?” I put on my receptionist's voice. I reach for it like a lifeline. My voice sounds more stable, giving me some false bravado.
“You can’t.” His deep, gravelly voice has me dragging my brows down.
I’ve heard that voice before.
My heart had been pitter patting only moments ago and is now in full throttle mode.
“Do I know you?” I already know I don’t. I wouldn’t ever forget a face like his. Someone had carved it; his features strong and bold. He has no right to look so good. He carries himself with the same boldness that his perfect face holds.
His large frame moves closer, forcing me slightly back and making me release the door frame.
“No, you don’t, Claire.”
His voice washes over me, leaving a path of confusion and fear that seeps into my bones, making me useless at this very moment.
He moves, and the smell of his cologne and something stronger assaults my nostrils. The smell grows heavier until it’s cutting the back of my throat, making me want to cough. I try to step away and ask him to leave.
His hand covers my mouth with a cloth, and I go into full panic mode way too late. My senses start to shut down as I claw at the air, missing the mark, which is his face. My stomach roils, and I turn my head on instinct, thinking I’m going to be sick. He doesn’t remove his hand from my mouth or allow me to move my head much. I feel like I’m falling as my body loses the ability to keep me upright, but his arm is like a vice around my waist, pulling me tightly against him. I blink up into his hard face, and my mind grows more frantic before it slowly shuts down and the world turns black.
***
My mouth is dry like someone stuffed it with wool soaking up every drop of liquid from my mouth. I swallow as I push up on the bed. The soft fabric under my hands has me pausing. Pain sparks behind my half-open eyes, and I close them. My other senses come to life. I don’t smell my lavender fabric softener. I crack one eye open. I take in the white sheets on my bed that appears larger than it should.
Since when did I put on a white bedspread? I sit up further, my eyes absorbing everything my brain refuses to acknowledge. My wall is gone. A sheet of glass rises before me. I slam my eyes shut as my heart stalls in my chest. My bare arms take the onslaught of my fear as each hair rises.
I duck my head into my chest. I can smell him.
I start to stand and nearly fall off the bed. A fist slams into my stomach as I spin in a full circle. This can’t be real. What is this?
This isn’t real.
My legs carry me to the glass wall. I want to touch it to prove to myself that the box isn’t real. I don’t want to touch the glass in case it is real. Bile claws its way up my throat, leaving a burning path of fire in its wake. I touch the cold glass, and a scream that I didn’t know was there spills from my lips as I dance back away from the glass. I spin to the other wall.
Shaking my head, I stumble to it and touch the glass wall. It’s real. Another scream pours from my mouth, and I run to the next wall.
“What is this?”
My heart thrashes against my chest, and the room shifts under my feet. But I can’t accept what I’m seeing. I touch the glass again, and my mind bounces so fast that I can’t keep up with one thought. My body overheats before it grows cold.
The world stills when I notice him watching me.
“No.”
He smiles as he walks toward me. But his smile isn’t normal. It’s hard and arrogant, almost gleeful, yet angry. That smile would make you want to run while your feet stayed rooted to the spot. That smile is reserved for people who are close to meeting their maker.
“No,” I whisper again. My neck feels tight, like all the small bones in it might snap at any second.
“Welcome, Claire.” His deep voice is like a match being run along a flint.
His voice sets a fire in my veins that has me slamming my hand against the glass that doesn’t even rattle. “Let me out.”
He stalks even closer. His black eyes dance with a darkness that I want no part in.
“Let me out now. My family will report me missing to the authorities.” My voice shakes and rattles.
He tilts his head slightly to the left. “No one will ever find you, Claire.”
I flounder, my chest ready to cave in. I hit the wall again like I can break through the glass and remove the cruel smirk from his striking face. “Let me out!” I scream until my throat is hoarse.
My fists are no match for the solid wall of glass. They fall to my side, and I clutch my white dress.
White dress? I stop touching the material and raise my hands in the air. I’m backing away from him. These aren’t my clothes. The walls spin, and I’m drowning in terror.
I can’t breathe. I clutch my throat like I might be able to fight whatever is cutting off my air, but there is nothing I can do as I struggle for oxygen. My legs buckle, and he stands, watching me crumble. My heart slows, and black spots sprout in front of my vision. I hit the floor. His feet move along the wall, and I don’t want to close my eyes. What will happen? My heart slows even further, and pain squeezes my chest. A tear runs from my eye as my body gives out on me.
***
I open my eyes. I’m on the floor. It’s not my apartment floor. The memory of his dark eyes has me sitting up. My head is spinning as I glance around the glass box. I’m alone. There is nowhere for him to hide. That tiny bit of knowledge calms me for a split second before I start to panic again.
I am in a glass box.
I get up and try not to notice the tub, toilet, or sink. Like this isn’t built for the long term. A wardrobe behind me has me tempted to walk to it, open the doors and see what’s inside.
No need. You won’t be staying.
The voice of reason has me gliding to the wall again, and I touch it. That single touch has me biting my cheek until I taste blood. This is real.
I run my hand along the glass, trying to feel for a crack, but I don’t feel anything. The pulse beats in my fingertips that are slippery from beads of sweat.
I step away and close my eyes. A sob I keep swallowing demands its release, but I tell it soon. First, I need to get out of here. I swallow the sob, but tears still escape. I blink them away and wipe my hands on the white dress that I want to take off. I try not to think about how it got on my body or who took off my clothes, or what happened to me when I wasn’t lucid. Trepidation triples and weighs down my feet, making my movements sluggish.
I need to get out of here.
I run my hand along the glass again and keep walking. Nothing obstructs my movements. Everything in the room stands away from the glass. I pass a small table with two chairs. My stomach curls in on itself. Two chairs. Why two? Why chairs? Why a glass box? Panic starts to claw its way up, and I force the sense of dread down unsuccessfully. My fingers hit a small bump, and three seconds later, another. I stare at the area and follow the outline of a door.
There is no handle or anything that would allow me to open it. I push the door at first, but nothing happens. I slam both hands against it, but the glass doesn’t budge.
I turn around and pick up a chair. I picture the chair hitting the wall and glass shattering on top of me. My mind paints a vivid picture of a wave of jagged glass crashing down on me. There is no time to reconsider what I’m about to do. All I know is that I can’t stay here for one more second. I charge at the outline of a door like a warrior who’s gripped with fear but determination and slam the chair against the glass. The wood cracks and splinters with the impact, and coldness seeps into my shaking hands as I drop the broken chair.
A scream pours from my mouth as I fall to my knees amongst the broken chair and my fractured mind.
I don’t want this to be real. But I know it is.