Saint:A Dark Mafia Romance(32)

"You know, it's always the quiet, smart ones you never see coming."

I don't say a thing, and he just chuckles as he closes the door and steps toward me. I tense as he gets close, moving to sit on the corner of the desk in front of me and tapping the file folder against his knee. He eyes me before glancing down, opening it, and whistling lowly.

"Jeez, valedictorian, a shoe-in at Boston University for undergrad, and it looks like they practically begged you to enroll in that double master's program they got you in."

He clears his throat, scanning the file.

My file, apparently.

"Straight A's until - huh, until a few months back, looks like." He glances up, smirking. "A C?" He makes a tsking sound. "Well that just won't do, will it?"

Agent Marlow grins at me, before making this sarcastic sad face.

"Awww, what's the matter? Conversation not stimulating enough for you?"

"Guess I'm not feeling chatty," I mutter.

He chuckles. "Shit, you sound like Roarke. Guess he rubbed off on yah, huh?"

He winks lecherously, and I bristle. He glances back at my file.

"So, you start snagging C's, you stop going to class, and then, wow. Then you burn down some poor little shit's garage." Marlow glances back up at me. "What are we going to do with you, Sierra? I mean what would your parents say?"

My lips purse tight.

"And your siblings? Rowan, Ivy, Kyle and Stella?"

I feel a cold sensation trickle over me, and he grins sharply.

"Still don't feel like talking, huh?" He shrugs as he reaches into the pocket of his two-sizes-too-big sports coat and pulls out a pack of cigarettes.

"Smoke?"

"No," I say quietly.

He shrugs, sticks one in his mouth and lights it with a silver Zippo lighter he pulls out of the other pocket. Smoke curls around his pudgy face, drifting and wafting up to the ceiling in the dry stillness of the ancient room.

"Here's what we're going to do, Sierra. This arson charge?" He blows smoke through his nose. "I'm not gonna hit you with that one."

"Are you even really with the FBI?" I blurt out.

He smirks. "That I am."

He must get the meaning in my words because he laughs right after that.

"Oh, what - this?" He looks around the empty, dusty office and shrugs. "Ahh, you're one of those poor schmucks who still thinks the world is black and white. You think I'm ‘bought' or some shit since I'm working for Anton."

"Aren't you?"

His eyes narrow. "I don't work for free, missy, but no, I'm not bought. This is just how the world works." He puffs on his cigarette. "There's a war coming, and I hate to say it, but your little Irish boy-toy and his pals are going to be on the wrong side of it. Because I've picked my side, or rather, the side that wants to win picked me. Anton's not an idiot, unlike Roarke and his little gang."

Marlow eyes me, clearing his throat.

"But let's talk about you. Here's the deal, Ms. Hammond. This arson charge isn't going to come out and bite you, but it is going to linger - waiting around, watching your back. Call it insurance if you will."

I glare at him. "I'd call it leverage."

"Call it whatever you want, but it means you work for me now. It means you do what I fucking say, and talk to who I fucking tell you to talk to."

He grins, his eyes sliding over my body, making me shiver horribly.

"Maybe I ask all sorts of things from you."

I immediately want to throw up.

"I'll turn myself in," I hiss at him, pulling tight at the ropes binding me.

"No, you won't."

"Watch me," I spit.

"Does your brother Rowan own that dive bar of his outright?"

I glare at him, hating the smug look on his face.

"Yes."

"How's his fire insurance?"

The blood drains from my face.

"You son of a bit-"

"That sister of yours, with the kid?"

I shake my head, the rage bubbling up inside.

"Be a shame if he followed a ball out into the street or something."

"Fuck you!" I grit out.

Marlow just laughs.

"Shit I can do this all day! Your other sister? The one with the lifestyle blog and all those pretty Instagram pictures? Suppose something happens to fuck up that money-maker of a face? Or how about the next time your daddy takes Mommy out for a nice dinner, some drunk assholes just happens to be going a little too fast to see the red light, and just-"   





 

"Enough!"

I'm shaking, and a single, searing tear rolls down my cheek.

Marlow leans close, blowing smoke out of the corners of his mouth, letting his eyes burn into me.

"Here's the thing. Someone like you's got everything to lose. And you will if you don't play by the rules. My rules."

My eyes fall to the floor, a numbness creeping through me.

"Aren't you going to ask me?"

I blink, still half numb. "Ask you what."

"What I'm going to do to your little boyfriend."

My eyes fly to his, and his face splits into a wicked grin as he chuckles.

"Nah, I'm just kidding. Don't worry, I'm not gonna do shit to him. Actually, I'm done with Connor Roarke."

I swallow the lump in my throat, my shoulders slowly unclenching.

"Oh, but Anton?" Marlow whistles.

"Yeah see, Anton's got plans for that boy, and I'm pretty sure they involve a blowtorch and that pretty face of his."

I scream, lurching towards him despite the fact that I'm tied to the chair. I go crashing to the floor, the ancient wooden chair splintering behind me as my head slams off the floor. I groan, stars floating in front of my eyes as the room spins.

Marlow cackles a laugh. "Jesus Christ, kid! Watch that head! Remember, I own that noggin, along with the rest of you now. Got it?"

He stands from the desk and steps towards me lying tied and sprawled on the ground. He leans down, cigarette smoke blowing over my cheek.

"Sit pretty, Ms. Hammond." He chuckles into my ear. "Maybe you and I get to know each other a little better later on, huh?" he says, his voice sending revulsion through my body.

I spit at his shoes, screaming and flailing again. Marlow just laughs as he stands.

"Sit tight, kid. I'll be back for you."

The door slams shut behind him, and I scream.

The room spins, and the emotions come roaring up inside, making me shake.

And something snaps.

I'm done rolling over. I'm done being frozen by indecision. And I am done pretending everything going wrong with my life is somehow outside my control.

Here in this room, lying on the ground and tied to this half-broken chair, I realize I'm in control.

I jerk my arms, feeling the cracked chair creak behind me. I strain harder, putting my everything into it and feeling my arm muscles burn. Rope cuts into my wrists, and I grit my teeth, pulling with every single thing I have when suddenly, the whole thing gives way.

I gasp as my arms snap free, the back of the chair splintering apart. I claw at the now loose ropes, yanking them and the remains of the arms of the chair off of me as I scramble up from the floor. I'm panting, whirling as I look wildly around the room. I creep to the door, and slowly, I try the knob.

You've gotta be kidding me.

It opens a crack, and I glance out to see an empty hallway, with shadows moving and talking further down around a corner.

Quickly, I step back inside and close it again, my eyes darting around the room again, looking for something.

I need a plan, or a phone - neither of which I have. Or maybe I need a weapon, or some other way out of this place, or-

My eyes drop to the desk Marlow was sitting on. Specifically, to the silver Zippo lighter sitting on the corner of it that he used to light his cigarette earlier.

My mouth goes tight.

The lighter is cool in my hand, heavier than I expected. It's old, probably an antique by the look of the worn engravings down the side of it.

Slowly I turn, and my eyes land on the huge stacks of newspaper lying against the rusted file cabinets on the far wall, Richard Nixon's disgraced face scowling back at me.

Keep lighting fires, princess.

My face goes grim as I open up the Zippo and flick the flame on, watching it spark and engulf the wick.

A grim smile spreads over my face.

No more indecision.

No more hiding from it all.

No more pretending I'm helpless against what the world throws my way.

Because this time, it's time to fight back.

It's time to light some fucking fires.





Chapter Thirty-Three





Connor




After the pain, after the throbbing in my head, and even after I try the door - twice, there's just the regret.

I blink, groaning in the semi-darkness of the room. I grit my teeth, my head swimming and pounding like a goddamn drum as I slam my palm against the door one final time.

The shittiest part about all of this is that I walked right into this. The old me would have seen this coming a fucking mile away. But I was blinded, my senses dulled.

By her.

Of course by her.

And damned if I wasn't totally okay with that. Damned if I wouldn't trade the "old me" again in a fucking second for the last week with her. A week of her knocking down the walls one by one - deconstructing the man I've been telling myself I am for years.   





 

And I walked right into this and let her down. And this I'm not sure I can fix at all.

The room is some old storage room of some kind - stone walls, a crumbling beam and timber ceiling with rusty, dripping pipes running the length of it. Locked, solid wood door. No windows.