Vicious Angel (Criminal Sins 2)

This is no gilded cage, this is just a cage. A steel-barred, cement floored, no-windowed, constant-surveillance cage.

Fluorescent lights flicker constantly overhead. My bed is a cot no bigger than I am. The sheets are itchy and the toilet is two feet away from where I rest my head at night.

For my own protection, the police have thrown me into one of their common jail cells. The precinct was surrounded with security when I arrived, and I was tossed inside like some common criminal.

Juan didn’t have any time alone with me to explain, but from the looks he was given me, he had no say in the matter. Word about my attempted abduction must have gotten back to Dante pretty quickly, because these are clearly his orders; they are dripped in his cruelty.

Without a window or clock, I can’t quite tell how long I’ve been locked in here. It somehow feels both like an eternity and a blink of the eye. They don’t ever turn those harsh fluorescent lights off. Have I slept yet? Or do I just close my eyes and daydream?

Guards come and go in regular intervals. I’m never out of someone’s sight for long. It’s so oppressive that I worry my brain might snap. The best I can do to avoid a complete meltdown is to close my eyes and concentrate on the dull ache of my injuries. It’s the only distraction provided to me in a place like this. I swim in the quiet fire of each of my cuts; in the tender pounding of each bruise... even in the lingering tingle of Angel’s big finger.

He was rough with me, like nothing has changed—what has he been doing for the past two years to think that nothing could have changed? Even without Oscar, I’ve been the unwilling prisoner of his evil brother for all this time, does he not think that counts for anything?

A door just out of my sight rattles open and the men standing guard outside of my cage straighten up. I lift my heavy head, expecting to see a change of security—instead, I’m greeted by something much worse.

Dante stands before my enclosure, an incessant anger melting his thin features as his cruel eyes stare daggers into my weary soul. I don’t need his abuse right now; I never have, but I could always take it before. This time, though, my mind is almost as broken as my body. I can’t let him rile me up.

“I hear you’ve been trying to get away from me?” he accuses, coldly.

The climate in my cell isn’t exactly tropical, but it gets a whole lot colder under Dante’s gaze.

I don’t answer. Instead, I look down at the grey floor and inhale deep breaths. My mind tries to latch onto images of Oscar, and even Angel, in an attempt to distract myself from the monster who has me trapped.

Dante doesn’t appear to appreciate my silence. “I’m talking to you,” he hisses, stepping up to the bars of my cage.

“... I didn’t try to escape,” I whisper. “Someone tried to take me.”

“Who!?”

The cuts and bruises on my arms are exposed, but I know that Dante couldn’t care less about my injuries. I’m only a pawn to him, and a pawn is just as useful when it’s whole as it is when it’s cracked. Dante wants to know who cracked me for cold, sterile reasons. A chill skates down my spine as I realize I’m about to be interrogated.

“I don’t know.”

“Bullshit.”

“I don’t!” The fire comes out of nowhere. Suddenly, I have enough strength to look the monster in his eyes. Dante seems just as surprised as I am. He takes a step back before regaining his composure and wrapping his spindly fingers back around the bars of my cage.

Why doesn’t he come in here and talk to me face to face? Is he scared?

“Tell me what you saw,” his words might as well be lashes, but I take them without flinching.

“When?”

“When you were taken.”

“I was almost taken twice,” I sneer. “Thanks to you.”

The accusation in my voice seems to take Dante by surprise again. He glares at me through the metal bars and tightens his grip around them. “Those responsible have been dealt with.”

My heart drops. He couldn’t mean Juan, could he?

“Now, tell me who took you.”

“I told you, I don’t know,” I whisper, trying to regain my composure. Dante can smell weakness, and if he senses even for a second that I may feel sorry for those he’s punished, then he’ll know that I know more than I’m letting on.

“What did they look like?”

“Like you.” I’m just riffing, but I instantly know that those words are a mistake, if only because they’ll remind Dante that Angel exists and is still a threat. There’s only one person in this world who looks anything like Dante, and it’s his much better-looking older brother.