Page 11 of Wicked Mafia Beast
The candles flicker as if in response, their flames dancing shadows across the blood-red walls, and for one wild moment I swear I can feel something watching me from the darkness.
Then the moment passes, and I'm just a girl alone in a candlelit room, hoping strangers will save her from her own blood.
I walk back through the corridor and slip past the black curtain into the chaos of the club. The bass hits me like a physical force after the silence of the wish room, and it takes me a moment to reorient myself.
Sloane is exactly where I left her, sitting in the booth and chewing on her thumbnail like she's trying to gnaw her way through to bone. She looks up when I approach, her eyes searching my face.
"Well?"
"It's done." I slide back into my seat across from her, feeling the leather stick to my sweaty palms. "Now what?"
"Now we wait and pray that someone important reads it before Saturday rolls around." She flags down a passing waitress with a wave. "You need a drink. And a place to crash. My apartment hasa guest room with a lock on the door and a doorman who doesn't ask questions as long as I tip him well enough."
"Sloane, I can't drag you any deeper into this mess?—"
"Too late, babe. Besides, these walls have eyes. They’ve already captured you with me. They’ll know where to find you when it comes time to grant your wish." She gives me a look that says arguing is absolutely pointless.
“I never thought about that.”
"I know. It’s why you have me. You're my friend. Friends don't let friends get sold at creepy underground auctions. We're in this together now, whether you like it or not."
Something warm and terrifying loosens in my chest at her words. I'm not used to people choosing me, not used to anyone putting themselves in danger on my behalf.
"Okay. Your place. But I can't stay long." I force myself to think tactically, to push down the gratitude threatening to crack me open. "If they trace me to you?—"
"We'll deal with that when we deal with it." The waitress appears at our table, and Sloane orders two whiskeys, neat. "For now, drink. Then we plan."
The whiskey burns going down, settling into my empty stomach like liquid fire, and it's exactly the kind of burn I need right now. The kind that reminds you you're still alive when everything else is trying to convince you otherwise.
I'm reaching for my burner phone to check the time when a notification pops up on the cracked screen. News alert from one of the local Chicago stations. I almost swipe it away, butthe headline catches my eye and wraps cold fingers around my throat.
Body Found Near North Shore Estate. Household Staff Member Identified as Victim.
My blood turns to ice in my veins, and the whiskey in my stomach threatens to make a reappearance.
I click the short article with numb fingers, my eyes scan the details so fast the words blur together before snapping into horrifying focus. There’s a picture. The body is that of a Malone’s groundskeeper. I know because my father makes them wear a hideous shade of brown as part of their uniform.
I scroll down to the few lines of description under the picture. Body found near property line of the Malone Estate only a half hour ago. Cause of death is "under investigation," which is cop-speak for "we know exactly what happened but someone powerful told us to keep our mouths shut."
That was too fast.
I scroll back to the photo. I recognize the shoes. Miguel. The groundskeeper's name was Miguel. He'd worked for my father for fifteen years, ever since he immigrated from Guatemala with his wife and two kids. He worked the night shift because it paid better, walking the perimeter of the property with a flashlight and a radio, keeping watch over a family that didn't deserve his loyalty.
He would have been patrolling near the back gate when I made my escape. He would have seen me running through the trees, would have heard my footsteps pounding against the grass, might have even called out to ask if I was okay.
And now he's dead because Seamus most likely thinks he helped me.
My stomach churns. A good man with a family is dead because I ran past him on my way to freedom...
The room spins around me, and I grip the edge of the table to keep from sliding onto the floor.
"Onyx?" Sloane's voice cuts through the roaring in my ears, sharp with concern. "You just went white as a ghost. What's wrong?"
Before I can figure out how to form words around the horror lodged in my throat, her phone buzzes against the table, vibrating loud enough to make us both jump. She glances down at the screen and frowns.
"That's weird."
"What?" My voice comes out as a croak.
