Scarlett 'Arranged Marriage'

Chapter30

Scarlett {an arranged marriage} Part 30: Irony

Christian’s P.O.V.

I didn’t realize that Sira was gone until Punk’d had gone off. I felt bad that I had ignored her, so I went to look for her. I found her sitting on the floor of the living room, surrounded by open phone books, arguing with a woman in Spanish over the phone. My Spanish was horrible, so I just listened to the smooth, rhythmic words in hopes of catching a few that I knew.

**“No entiendo por qué esta orden debería ser un problema para usted. Quiero veinte órdenes de los discos de taco, cuarenta órdenes de nachos, y doce botellas de Pepsi. ¿Usted me dice que no puede ser hecho?”** Sira asked in Spanish.

**“Señorita, aquella orden es imposible completar en el período de tiempo corto que usted nos dio. Quizás si teníamos más tiempo, o más de un incentivo...”** The woman trailed to a stop and let the sentence hang. It did not need an ending though; it was well understood.

Sira puffed out her cheeks and let the air out slowly. **“ Fino entonces, y este: añadiré en cincuenta dólares suplementarios si mi orden es hecha a tiempo para mi partido. ¿Es bastante justo?”** she asked.

The woman complied and gave Sira the total. Quickly, she ended the call, and hung her head limply. I refused to stand by and watch her energy drain out slowly. I sat on the couch and pulled her up into my lap. Immediately, she started tracing the buttons on my shirt, making little circles on my chest with her finger. I loved it.

“I never realized how tiring it is to spend money,” she said, jokingly. “Don’t get too tired, my mom scheduled you for another training session in about a half an hour,” I said, grudgingly. “Are you kidding? What am I learning this time?” she asked. “Weapons training,” I replied.

“Fine, well I’ve got to get ready. I’ll meet you down there?”she asked, climbing up from our spot on the couch. “Sure,” I said, and watched her leave. Man she was fine.

Sira’s P.O.V.

Lehrer Kankorovich. That was my instructor’s name. It sounded mean and angry when Christian told me, and it fit him perfectly: he was both of those things. Not to mention cruel and cold blooded, but what can you expect when his job is to teach you how to kill people with various weapons?

“Vhen you first valk into a room, you count,” he said to me. “You vant to get an exact number, and vhen you unleash holy hell, you vant to match zat number. If you kill less zan zat number, zer are people out zer zat vill be eyevitnesses. You don’t vant zat. If you kill more zan zat number, vell, let’s just call it a bonus for now, no?” he asked, and he let out a disturbing laugh. I grimaced.

“First off, you aim to kill, always. My advice is to ditch ze conscious. It vill only hold you back from doing ze tings you need to do, you see. Never get cold feet. My motto is shoot first, and give a damn later, no?” he asked. I nodded.

“Pick up ze first gun on ze table,” he said to me, indicating the massive line of weapons consisting of machine guns, semi automatics, automatics, hand guns, rifles, swords, daggers, and grenades, pretty much everything that was on display the first time Christian brought me in here. It hadn’t changed much.

The lights were still UV and the walls were still lined with all sorts of dangerous weapons, but the boxing ring was missing, and was replaced with the table and many targets. In the corner were all sorts of odds and ends. In his chair across the room, Christian sulked.