These Violent Delights (These Violent Delights 1)

Roma turned around, he saw that the warehouse was close to empty. Where the hell was his father?

“Let’s go,” Roma snapped, pushing the thought away for a later time. “We have to find the nearest hospital before she wakes up.”

* * *

“Let me through!”

Roma slammed his fists on the door, shaking the frame so hard that the floor beneath his feet shuddered in fear. It didn’t matter; the hinges stood strong, and on the other side, through the thin pane of glass, the doctor shook his head, telling Roma to turn around and go back to the waiting room, where the rest of the White Flowers had been told to remain.

“Let us take it from here,” the doctor had said when they brought Alisa in. This hospital was smaller than some of the mansions on Bubbling Well Road, barely the size of a house that a British merchant might buy for his mistress. It was pitiful, but their best option. There was no telling how long Alisa could hold out, so they couldn’t risk venturing out of Nanshi and into the city central. Even if this hospital was built to treat the frequent accidents of the nearby cotton mill workers. Even if Roma was convinced the weary-eyed doctors here did not look any more competent than the average street vendor.

“Keep her under,” Roma had demanded as he handed Alisa over. “She needs oxygen, a feeding tube—”

“We must wake her up to know what is wrong,” the doctor insisted. “We know what we are doing—”

“This is not a common sickness,” Roma thundered. “This is madness.”

The doctor had waved for his nurses, waved for them to push Roma out.

“Don’t you dare,” Roma warned. He was forced back a step, then two. “No—stop. Don’t you dare lock me out—”

They had locked him out.

Now Roma slammed his fist on the door one last time, then pivoted on his feet, swearing viciously under his breath. He tugged on his hair, then tugged on his sleeves, pulling at everything in his immediate vicinity just to keep his hands moving, just to keep the sweats at bay and his anger concentrated in a tightly regulated radius. That was the problem with places like this—establishments far removed from the city central and run by people making pitiful wages. They did not fear the gangsters as much as they should.

“Roma!”

Roma squeezed his eyes shut. He let out a long, excruciating breath, then turned to face his father.

“What is the meaning of this?” Lord Montagov demanded. He had arrived with five men behind him, and now they all piled into this thin section of the hospital until the room felt airtight, until the off-white walls were almost slick with sweat. “How did this happen?”

Roma turned his gaze to the ceiling, counting backward from ten. He noted all the various cracks in the chipping paint, the way that decay seemed to lurk in every corner. This hospital seemed so industrial from the outside, so different from the Scarlet-funded facility in the French Concession that Juliette had taken him to, but they were each falling apart in their own way.

“What are you doing merely standing there?” Lord Montagov went on. He reached out to scuff Roma over the head.

That was the final thing to send Roma veering off the rails.

“What took you so damn long to get here?”

Lord Montagov narrowed his eyes. “Watch yourself—”

“Alisa was dying, and you merely stood by to watch how the Scarlet Gang would react? What’s wrong with you?”

One of Lord Montagov’s men shoved Roma back the moment Roma leaned in too close. Perhaps it was something in his eyes, or something about the way fury set his words on fire. Whatever it was, it must have been threatening, because with a nod from Lord Montagov, the White Flower pulled a knife on Roma in threat for him to step back.

Roma remained where he was. “Go ahead,” he said.

“You are making a fool of yourself,” his father hissed. Lord Montagov thrived off the love of other people. He preened when surrounded and raged when stared at. Roma’s dramatics were embarrassing him, and that gave Roma a perverse sort of pleasure.

“If I am a fool, then be rid of me.” Roma splayed his arms. “Have Dimitri investigate this madness instead. Or better yet, why don’t you yourself take it on?”

Lord Montagov made no move to answer him. If they were alone, his father would be yelling, hands slapping whatever flat surface was closest to make a loud noise—any loud noise, for as long as it could make Roma flinch, his father would be satisfied.

It wasn’t obedience that Lord Montagov sought. It was the reassurance of his power.

At this moment Roma was reckless enough to take that away.

“I suppose you are too busy. I suppose Dimitri has more important tasks to uphold, more important people to sweet-talk. Or perhaps”—Roma’s voice grew quiet, speaking like he was reciting a poem—“it is because neither you nor Dimitri is brave enough to get close to the madness. You fear for yourself more than you fear for our people.”