CHAPTER TWO
We pass through the main room to get to the stairs. All the women look nervous. They know something’s wrong. There’s an energy in the air—of expectation, of fear. They can all see the strange clothes I’m wearing. And even worse, the shoes. As if I’m going somewhere.
Tia catches my eye, a question on her face. What’s happening?
I give a short shake of my head. I don’t know.
And that much is the truth. Why do they need me to pretend to be a secretary? Whatever angle they’re playing, it means that one of the women will be hurt. I only hope that it’s me.
I protect all the women, but it’s Tia I love the most. She was here when I showed up, a heartbroken little girl who’d watched her father get gunned down. I didn’t know that he was in the mafia. I didn’t know about his enemies. All I knew was that he smelled like pine needles and sang to me when I got sick.
Tia let me cry for five days. Then she told me I was done crying. I was a lucky one, she said. Other twelve-year-old girls got sent to brothels. That’s what had happened to her. That’s where most of the women go first, until they’re too old to be wanted by the men there.
For some reason the man who killed my father, my father’s second-in-command, sent me here instead. Maybe it was a form of respect for my father’s position in the family—that Viktor would kill him and sentence his daughter to servitude, but keep me out of the whorehouse.
For seven years, I’ve tried to be grateful.
“Sit down,” Mercedes says at the top of the stairs. There’s a desk that’s little more than a folding table, the wrinkled army green surface filled in with something black over the years. A small black chair waits for me behind it, its leather padding cut open, spilling beige foam from its edges.
Every muscle clenches. I’ve never been this close to the front door.
Not since I came in, and I don’t even remember that. I don’t remember how the sun feels on my face without a dirty window between us. I don’t remember what it feels like to be free.
My whole body cants toward the door, aching for the touch of fresh air.
But I know better than to run.
I still remember the pop of the gun and the thud of Angelica’s body. Jorge stands guard at the door, most of the time, but that day it was Margo who took his gun and shot her. And I remember how she beat Tia afterward, as a warning to the rest of us who might run.
The lumpy office chair might be made of needles for how it hurts. I can almost feel the breeze in my face. Instead I’m here, a few yards away from a glass door that’s been painted black.
“Remember what Margo told you,” Mercedes says, brown eyes narrowing. “Not a word except for what we told you. Don’t even make eye contact.”
Margo gives me a cold smile. “Say it.”
My throat feels dry. “Welcome to MM Textiles. How may I help you?”
Mercedes puts a laptop on the table, clicking on the screen until a blank white page sits in front of me, a curser blinking mildly. Her hands are shaking as she stands, smoothing her black skirt. I’ve never seen her nervous like this. Who is this man? What does he want?
Then Mercedes disappears into the back room with Margo, and I’m left staring at the white page, a blinking cursor. I only have vague memories of computers, of phones. The only technology I’ve touched in the past few years are the old sewing machines. This doesn’t feel real. I expect to wake up on my mat and start work like every other day.
The letters on the keyboard are all out of order.
I find the L and press it. Then the U. C. I. A.
Lucia. My name is Lucia. Then I press the backspace button until it’s gone.
The door opens, bringing in a faint breeze, the softest hint of pine. I breathe deep, the earthy scent making my heart pound. I could run now, while Margo and Mercedes are in the back room. I’d have a couple minutes’ head start on Jorge.
The man who steps inside ruins that hope. He’s bigger than I’d thought from looking out the basement window. But it’s his face that makes me still inside. Devoid of emotion. Severe. I can imagine that expression on his face when he shoots someone in the knee as punishment. When he shoots them while they try to escape.
His gaze meets mine, and I shiver at the flat blue of them, as cold and unfeeling as the concrete walls. For a second I’m unable to speak, unable to breathe.
The stockier man follows him inside, and the spell is broken.
The two men fill the small space more than the desk and chairs could. Their shrewd eyes miss nothing—not the cracks in the walls, not my ill-fitting suit. They exchange a glance that I can’t quite read, except to know they aren’t happy.
The second man’s phone rings, and he turns away, speaking in low tones.
The first man turns back to me. He rocks forward on his heels, a glint of cruel humor in his blue eyes. “Conti. Sebastian Conti. I believe they’re expecting me.”
Margo’s words ring in my ears. The report of her gun blasts through my memories. Welcome to MM Textiles. How may I help you? That’s all I’m allowed to say.
“Welcome to MM Textiles.”
One dark eyebrow rises. “Thanks. And you are?”
I swallow hard. “How may I help you?”
His expression turns hard. “I have a few questions for you, actually.”
I can only stare at him, helpless. Afraid.
Margo’s high-pitched laugh breaks the silence. Her heels click on the concrete as she comes inside, no doubt waiting to make her entrance from the other room. “Oh, I’m sure anything you need to know, I can tell you, Mr. Conti. You’ll find I’m very helpful when I want to be.”
A flash of something dark—dislike? Anger?—flashes through Mr. Conti’s eyes before they crystallize once more. “And you are?”
“Margo Rizzoli,” she says, voice brimming with pride. “I spoke to your assistant on the phone. And this is my sister, Mercedes.”
Mercedes appears behind her, pale beside her vibrant sister. She smiles, more placating than predatory. “So pleased to meet you, Mr. Conti. We were thrilled to hear you’d be visiting us.”
Mr. Conti nods curtly. “Ms. Rizzoli—”
“Please, call me Margo.”
In the pause that follows, Sebastian Conti makes it clear he isn’t to be interrupted. Margo seems to shrink two inches under his electric blue gaze. When he speaks, his voice is mild. “Part of the reason I’m here is to speak with the employees. To get a sense for the place beyond the balance sheets.”
Margo’s smile falters. She and her sister exchange worried looks. “Oh…well, you understand, many of our workers don’t speak English. Most of them, actually.”
Mr. Conti meets my gaze. “I think she does. Am I right?”
The question is clearly directed at me, which means I’m supposed to answer. Except I can’t. My throat seizes up. If you say even one more word, Tia will have a very bad day. Anything I do now would be wrong. I can’t ignore a man as powerful as this. Someone will definitely be punished for his ire. Neither can I disobey one of the sisters.
I manage a short nod, my whole body trembling.
Sebastian Conti studies me with the clinical detachment of a scientist, as if observing a butterfly trying to fly without its wings. Margo and Mercedes remain silent, leaving me to struggle on my own. Even the second man has ended his call and watches me with amused curiosity.