“Hey, boss. What are you doing all the way out here?” Kyle, an enforcer asks.
“Private matter. What have you got going on?”
“I’m looking for information on the Popov’s. I found a guy from Brighton Beach on our turf. I thought I’d see what he knows.”
“In this cell here?” I ask, pointing to the one right next to the one I put Lorielle in.
“Yep.”
“Wait about an hour and then start extracting the info from him.”
“You got it, boss.”
She should be awake by then and for some reason, I want her to hear the cries of pain from the Russian. I want her to think that is what she’s in for if she doesn’t bend to my will. I’m so fucked up and I don’t even care. She’s managed to bring something out in me that I didn’t think was real. I pick her purse up off of the floor, doing what I should have done before taking her. She doesn’t have a cell phone. I already checked her pockets. She can’t be traced here, but at the same time, I don’t like the idea of walking around without being able to call for help. Her wallet is empty, not even a dollar in it. She has no bank cards or credit cards. Just her ID. She’s eighteen and doesn’t drive.
Lorielle Alana Benefiel. 565 Elizabeth Ave Apt 2C, Newark. Rough neighborhood. Organ donor. Brown hair, brown eyes, thick, juicy curves. That part is from memory.
I grab my phone, dialing Dante, our IT guy.
“Yo, boss. What’s shaking?”
“I need you to run a check on someone. I am sending you a picture of her ID. Be quick about it.”
“On it,” he says before hanging up.
I roll a chair away from the center of the room and sit down outside the door. Twenty minutes later, he calls back.
“Alright boss. She lives with her parents, Louis and Juliette Benefiel. Belgian immigrants. Came here in 2000. Lorielle was born in 2003 and another girl, Lacey was born in 2005. Both parents make less than 20,000 a year. Louis did some odd jobs for your father in early 2006. They parted amicably. The Benefiel’s struggle but keep a roof over their heads and food on the table. What’s this about?”
“Get me his number and forget you looked this up. If anyone asks, and they will, you don’t know a damn thing.”
“Sure thing.”
An hour later, the screams of Kyle’s Russian fills the space. I hear Lorielle pounding on the door, trying to get out. I feel terrible but I want to break her. Five hours later, when Kyle leaves, taking care of the body, I open the door to the cell. The fluorescent light shines in. She’s still huddled on the floor, crying. I clear my throat causing her to turn and look at me. Her faces
“My giant?” she whispers, and I frown. I’ve been called many things over the years; giant isn’t one of them.
“Do you know why you’re here, Lorielle?” I ask, coming into the small space. She sits up and I have to applaud her for not flinching. I’ve got a better handle on my stuttering. I should be okay now.
“No, but I do know Elisia Popov. They might not be from the same family, but Elisia is in my sister’s class at NHS.”
“What?” I ask, shocked that she would give up that information.
“I could hear that man screaming through the walls. He didn’t know where they were. I don’t want to die like that.”
“You won’t be dying, Lorielle. Not today.”
“What was your name again?” she asks, my ego taking a hit. I watched her for days before I took her.
“Sean. Sean O’Brien.”
“O’Brien?” Her eyes widen as it all comes together. Everyone in Newark knows who we are and what we do. “You are in the mafia?” Her unnecessary question makes me laugh.
“I am the mafia.”
“I read about your family in the paper. It said they didn’t know who did it.”
“It was the Popov’s.”
“I see. Why did you take me?” she demands, but it lacks intensity.
“Isn’t it obvious?”
“No, not really.”
“It will be, in time.”
“How long are you keeping me?”
“Forever.”
“Here? In this room? It smells like salt and blood.” She crinkles her nose in disgust.
“No. Not here.”
“Then where?”
“You seem awfully accepting of your fate.”
“I heard what happened in that room. I told you I didn’t want to die, and I’ll do anything to stay alive.”
“Anything?” I ask, raising an eyebrow at her. I don’t like the defeated look on her face or the sound of her voice. She sounds weak and she’s anything but.
“Anything,” she repeats, crawling toward me, then resting on her knees in front of me. The determined look on her face is one that I’ll never forget. It will haunt me forever.
“You might come to regret that, álainn.” I reach out to touch her soft cheek but stop myself. Her hand reaches out to touch me, but I step back. If she touches me, it’ll all be over, and I’ll cave to my baser instincts. Instincts I didn’t know I had.