Chapter 4 The Anniversary

[Lorenzo]

The package sat on my desk. It was small. Wrapped in brown paper. No return address.

I knew who sent it.

I cut the tape. I opened the box.

Inside lay a single sheet of paper. It was a photocopy.

Page 42. The Black Ledger.

It listed the bribes my father paid to the judges in 1998. It was evidence. Enough to bury my family.

A note was attached. The handwriting was elegant. It was hers. Vanessa.

"Happy Anniversary, darling. Marco sends his love."

I stared at the date on the calendar. December 16.

Five years ago today. The wedding. The wine. The betrayal.

My blood turned to fire. The rage was a living thing. It clawed at my chest.

"They are laughing," I whispered.

I imagined them. Marco in his silk robe. Vanessa in my bed. They were drinking my wine. They were spending my money.

I grabbed the whiskey bottle. It was half full.

I threw it.

It flew across the room. It hit the fireplace.

CRASH.

Glass exploded. Amber liquid sprayed the stones. The smell of alcohol filled the room.

It was not enough. The rage was still there.

I swept my arm across the desk.

The computer monitor hit the floor. The lamp shattered. The box with the note fell.

I punched the wall.

Pain shot up my arm. My knuckles split. Blood dripped onto the carpet.

I did not feel it. I felt only the hate.

I wanted to burn the city. I wanted to tear Marco’s throat out with my teeth.

I leaned against the wall. I breathed hard. The room spun.

"Lorenzo?"

A voice. Small. Trembling.

I spun around.

A figure stood in the doorway.

[Chloe]

I heard the crash from my room.

It sounded like a bomb.

I sat up in bed. My heart hammered against my ribs.

"Gunshots?" I whispered.

"Explosion? Godzilla?"

I waited. Silence followed.

I should stay in bed. I was safe here. The door locked.

But silence was worse than noise.

"He is alone," I thought. "If he is hurt... I do not get paid."

That was a lie. I was worried. I was stupid.

I grabbed the nearest weapon. A heavy brass candlestick from the nightstand.

"Cluedo style," I muttered. "Chloe in the library with the candlestick."

I crept into the hall. The lights were dim.

I walked toward the West Wing. The air smelled of alcohol.

I reached the study. The door was open.

I looked inside.

It was a war zone. Glass covered the floor. The computer was dead.

Lorenzo stood by the wall.

He looked terrifying.

His hair was wild. His shirt was torn. His chest heaved. Blood dripped from his hand. It pooled on the rug.

He looked at me. His eyes were not human. They were black pits.

"Lorenzo?" I whispered.

He did not answer. He stared at me. He swayed slightly.

I lowered the candlestick.

"You are hurt."

I took a step forward. My bare feet crunched on glass.

"Stop," he growled.

His voice was a low rumble. It was animalistic.

"You are bleeding," I said. "Let me help."

"Get out."

"No. You need a bandage."

I was scared. My knees shook. But the blood was bright red. There was so much of it.

I walked closer. I ignored the glass cutting my feet.

I reached for his hand.

"Do not touch me," he warned.

I touched his wrist. His skin was burning hot.

"It is okay," I said softly. "I am just going to fix it."

That was the wrong thing to say.

He snapped.

He moved fast. Too fast.

He grabbed my arm. He spun me around. He slammed me against the wall.

My head hit the plaster. Stars danced in my vision.

He pinned me. His body was a heavy weight against mine. His forearm pressed against my throat.

I dropped the candlestick. It hit the floor with a clang.

I looked up. He was inches away. I could feel his breath. It smelled of whiskey and violence.

"Who sent you?" he hissed.

"No one!" I choked out. "I am Chloe!"

"Liar."

He pressed harder. My air supply cut off.

"Did Marco send you? Did he send you to finish the job?"

He was delirious. He did not see me. He saw a ghost.

"Sir," I gasped. "It is... the cook. The chubby cook."

He paused.

He looked at my face. He looked at my fear.

He looked down at my body. My curves were pressed against him. I was soft.

Vanessa was sharp. Vanessa was bones and angles.

I was a pillow.

Confusion clouded his eyes.

"Cook," he mumbled.

He did not let go. His grip tightened on my wrists. He pinned them above my head.

He leaned in. His nose brushed my neck. He inhaled.

"Vanilla," he whispered. "You smell like vanilla."

"And onions," I whimpered.

"Please. Let me go."

He pulled back. He looked at my face again. The rage was still there. But it was mixed with something else.

Hunger.

Not for food.

"You should run," he said. His voice was rough. "You should run far away from me."

"I can't," I said. "You are standing on my foot."

He looked down. His heavy shoe was crushing my toes.

He stepped back. He stumbled.

He released my wrists. I slid down the wall. I rubbed my throat.

"Get out," he said. He turned away. He held his bleeding hand.

"If you stay, I will hurt you."

"You already did," I whispered.

"Then leave!" he roared. He kicked the desk. "Leave me alone!"

I scrambled up. I grabbed the candlestick.

I ran.

I did not look back.

I reached my room. I locked the door. I pushed a chair under the handle.

I sat on the bed. I shook. I could not stop shaking.

He was a monster. He was broken.

I touched my throat. It was sore.

I looked at my foot. It was bruised.

I hated him.

But I remembered his eyes. For one second, before the rage returned.

He had looked at me like I was water in a desert.

"He is dangerous," I told myself.

"He is not a project. He is a bomb."

I lay down. I pulled the covers over my head.

I did not sleep.

I listened to the silence.

And I waited for the monster to come back.

My chest heaved. I was safe. I should keep running. I should go to my room and lock the door.

I looked back at the study.

Silence.

"He is a monster," I whispered.

"He choked you."

My throat throbbed. He was dangerous. He told me to leave.

But I remembered the blood. It was a lot of blood.

"It will stain the rug," I muttered. "Oxidized blood is impossible to clean. Cold water. Club soda. A nightmare."

I bit my lip.

If he passed out... if he bled too much...

"He pays the bills," I argued with myself. "No Lorenzo. No paycheck. No insulin."

I groaned. I hated my conscience. It was a stupid, soft thing.

"Fine. I will check. Just a peek. To make sure he isn't... dead."

I ran to the linen closet. I grabbed a first aid kit. I grabbed a bottle of rubbing alcohol.

"This will sting," I said grimly. "Good."

I crept back to the study.

I looked inside.

Lorenzo was on the floor. He was slumped against the wall. His eyes were closed. His hand lay in a pool of red.

He looked broken. Like a fallen statue.

I tiptoed in. I avoided the glass.

I knelt beside him.

"Don't wake up," I whispered.

"Just let me patch the leak."

I poured alcohol on a cloth. I pressed it to his knuckles.

He flinched. He groaned. But he did not wake.

I worked fast. I wrapped the bandage. I secured it with tape.

Then I saw it.

A piece of paper lay next to his hand. It was crumpled.

I knew I shouldn't look. Curiosity killed the cat.

I picked it up.

It was a photocopy of a ledger. And a handwritten note.

"Happy Anniversary, darling. Marco sends his love."

I froze.

Anniversary?

I looked at the calendar on the desk. December 16.

Today was his anniversary. And his wife... was with Marco.

The pieces clicked. The rage. The drinking. The hatred of women.

He wasn't just a jerk. He was a man whose heart had been ripped out.

"Oh, Sir," I breathed.

"What do you have?"

The voice was ice.

I dropped the paper.

Lorenzo’s eyes were open. They were black. They were focused.

He was not unconscious. He was watching me.

"I... I was just..."

He sat up. He moved fast. He ignored the injury.

He grabbed my wrist. His grip was iron.

"You read it."

"I didn't mean to! It was on the floor!"

He looked at the paper. Then he looked at me.

Panic flared in his eyes. Not fear. Paranoia.

"You know," he whispered. "You know about the Ledger."

"I don't know anything! I just saw a note!"

"Liar."

He stood up. He pulled me up with him. I stumbled. I stepped on a piece of glass.

"Ouch!"

He did not care. He dragged me to the door.

I thought he was going to throw me out.

He didn't.

He slammed the door shut. He punched a code into the keypad on the wall.

Click. Clack.

Deadbolts slid into place. Steel shutters descended over the windows.

I stared at him.

"What are you doing?"

He turned to me. He leaned against the door. He was pale. He was swaying. But he looked lethal.

"You saw my weakness," he rasped. "You saw the evidence."

"So?"

"Witnesses are liabilities."

He slid down the door until he hit the floor. He sat there, blocking the only exit.

"You do not leave," he said. His eyes drooped. The blood loss was winning. "You stay here. Where I can see you."

"Sir, let me out!"

I tried to reach the keypad. He swatted my hand away.

"No," he mumbled. "You are locked in. With me."

His head fell back. His breathing slowed. He was passing out.

"Sir!"

I shook him. He was heavy. Dead weight.

I looked at the keypad. I didn't know the code.

I looked at the windows. Steel shutters.

I looked at the man passed out on the floor.

I was trapped.

I was locked in a soundproof room with a bleeding, unstable Mafia King who thought I was a liability.

And when he woke up... he might decide to silence the witness.

I slid down the wall opposite him.

I pulled my knees to my chest.

"Well," I whispered to the empty room. "This is a hell of a first date."