The Mafia's Mercy

⊰ 8 ⊱ The Illusion of Choice

I stand at the window, my arms crossed tightly, as if holding myself together, while my gaze drifts across the vast, open fields that stretch for acres around the estate.

I've been counting down the minutes until Levi's time is up, and without having heard from Marcel since the last time he was here—almost a week ago—I'm left to assume that Levi, with only a few hours left until his deadline, will probably show up short-handed—just as Marcel insinuated.

I kept hoping that Levi would come to my rescue, the way that he somehow always did when we were growing up—with and without parents.

But he never did. Each minute of silence chips away at the little hope that I have left in me, and as guilty as it makes me feel, I mentally prepare myself for the moment that Marcel decides to walk in here to give me the inevitable news.

It's not that I don't have faith in Levi. It's that I know my brother, and if he did have the money to buy my freedom back, he would've done it the very day I was taken from the hospital.

Still, there's a part of me, despite knowing what lies in my inevitable involvement with Marcel and the Saldívar Mafia, that refuses to give Marcel's request any more thought.

I won't.

Not until Levi actually shows up empty-handed. Then, and only then, will I try to figure out how to get myself out of this mess or choose to take the easier way out: play by his hand.

Playing by his hand is not the easy way out.

...

But it might be my only choice.

I exhale sharply, furrowing my eyebrows as I turn my head to the side, my sight falling to my shoulder. A faint throbbing pulsates across my chest, the gunshot wound being the source of my discomfort. Between cleaning and rebandaging it, I've tried moving it as often and as much as I can these past few days in hopes that I won't permanently lose some mobility in my arm.

"He's ready for you."

Startled, I nearly jump out of my skin at the deep voice that suddenly resonates through the bedroom.

Good God.

I snap my head to the side, turning to look at the familiar dark-skinned man—the Thing 2 that helped Thing 1 destroy my apartment.

Know how to fucking knock, Frank?

...

Is this one Frank? Or is it Rick?

In the brief moment that my mind wanders to superficial questions, it strips me of the confidence I thought I'd engraved in myself about this moment. My heart sinks to the pit of my stomach, and with evident reluctance, I swallow my cowardice and begin my movements out of the bedroom. Past the oversized black man, I wait patiently as he shuts the door and leads me down the hall.

My gaze flickers from the white patterned marble floor to the beige walls. With chandeliers and large windows at every few feet, the hall is illuminated without a shadow of darkness.

I hold my arms in front of me, hugging myself as we approach the double staircase that leads down to the main entrance hall. From the dark brown rails that trails down stairs, my eyes follow them in awe at the luxurious home.

After looking through my bedroom and observing my view of the estate from the window, I didn't think that I could be any more surprised by Marcel's fortune. Yet I am again reminded of how ignorant I may be to just how fortunate he is.

So why not pay someone who actually knows what they're doing..?

The more I try to make sense of it, the less it does.