Indebted to the Mafia King

Eleni

My stomach roils. The surface underneath me bumps and rolls. My head aches, and my hands scream with pain so loud I'm forced to open my eyes just to see what happened to them.

The world around me swims together in pieces. Dark walls, lined with something textured. Sound-proofing? No, it's hard plastic. The carpet under my cheek is equally plasticky. Something smells like gasoline, and for a single horrifying second, I think I'm back in the basement of Frank Lombardi's garage, and this has all been a dream. Then, my hand pulls my attention again, and I shock back to now.

With aching slowness, I drag my hand up until I can see it. A makeshift bandage rings my palm, soaked through with something red. No, I know what that is. Blood. My blood.

The ground bumps again, and something moves in my vision other than me. A vision in white, totally distinct from the black of the walls and the red that is all I can understand about myself. I blink a few times, and the vision resolves. Camila. She's wearing a set of white coveralls, but they're so stylishly cut and fitted that they seem more like a playful concession than anything actually protective. Still, she's braided her hair up into a crown around her head, so maybe she cares a little.

Nausea sinks burning fingers into my throat. Why is Camila here? Where is here? I try to ask, but only manage to moan.

"Lovely to have you in the land of the living once more." She laughs musically. "I was terribly afraid I had my boys go to all the trouble of keeping you alive, and you were so weak you managed to die anyway."

Something hums at the bottom of my hearing. It's constant, steady. Wheels! Like a car on a fairly-we hit another bump-somewhat well-paved road. I'm in a car. With Camila. Where's Ben? "Whuh?" I manage.

She sits on something slightly above me, a bench, and pushes me onto my back with a single stiletto. Falling makes the pain in my head almost loud enough to compete with my hand.

"Don't worry, darling, I'm just taking out the trash." She smiles. "Hand?"

Hand. I have one of those. But a few more memories swim back into place I don't like Camila. Weakly, I try to tuck my hands away. Her light eyes harden.

"I've been very polite," she says. "I played nice with you in public. I waited for him to realize he was wasting his time. I even told the Russians I didn't want to play ball with their whole 'burn down the Saints' scheme." That definitely hits some memory buttons. I have to warn Dante. I struggle to sit up. I have to-

She shoves me back down with her foot. "But I'm done with that. You've had your fun, but Dante is mine."

A weak laugh bubbles from my lips, and I manage to string a few thoughts together through the haze. "We're...engaged."

She snarls. "An impulse decision! Or something you did, with your little coed tits-and-ass routine. Do you think I didn't see right through you? I know what a gold digger looks like."

My retort that it takes one to know one doesn't make it to my mouth. That's fine. Camila is off on a tear now, gesturing wildly.

"All that time as a goddamn socialite, just trying to make him jealous." She huffs. "Spending his money, showing up in the society columns every week I could manage it, just waiting for him to check in. Do you have any idea how much fucking work that was?" She meets my gaze and shakes her head in frustration like I'm a friend she's venting to. "Those people are so goddamn stupid."

I try to focus through the waves of pain that wrack my body. Past Camila, I can just make out the shape of what looks like a front seat, with a driver and passenger. Both broad-shouldered. And if we're in a vehicle, the back here is huge. It must be a van. A few things roll past me as we whip into a turn. A pair of scissors, glistening sharp. A silencer. A half-empty bottle of vodka. Nothing I can think my way into a plan with because I'm not even bound, just held down with the weight of my own immovable body.

"And then you waltz in!" she nearly shrieks. "You bat those doe eyes, and he's putty in your hand. Years of effort for nothing. God, if I'd known he liked virgins, I'd have gotten fucking born again."

No one would believe Camila as a virgin. Certainly not the wild-eyed, ranting woman in front of me now. The van jerks to a stop, and I tumble forward, hitting every ache and bruise as I go. Camila huffs and squats next to me.

"Well, he's about to remember how good he fucking had it." She grabs my tracking necklace and yanks.

I yelp as the thin chain snaps.

"Did that hurt?" She pouts for a second, then drops it for a scowl. "Good. I used to be his. I know all his goddamn tricks."

She grabs my hand and, with a few twists, rips off my engagement ring. Something tears in my chest, alongside the broken rib.

"Maybe he'll search the whole Hudson for you." She smiles, sharp and cruel. "After all, a good man like Dante couldn't abandon your body to the fishes. He always buries his Calimerises, right?"

Before my thick tongue can shape an answer, she flings open the back door of the van, steps out, and slams it shut again. Quiet falls. The engine rumbles softly, idling, but from where I slid to, I can't even see if there are still people in the front seat. I'm just alone in the dark.

My stomach twists. Bile coats my throat. I barely have time to twist onto my side before I vomit on the plastic carpet. The sharp movement sends pain radiating through my body. Darkness reaches into the edges of my vision. In a strangely faraway voice, someone prays Dante knows Camila as well as she knows him. Or maybe I just think that. Everything goes black.