No way out.
MIAN
I spent two days watching the door. Even in my sleep, I dreamed of him walking through that door. It wasn’t desire that made me anxious for his presence. It was the growing sense of doom that kept me awake at night. When the door finally opened, and he sauntered through, I knew instantly the bad feeling deep in my stomach wasn’t unfounded.
He shut the door and helped himself to a seat on the bare mattress. He was dressed in a burgundy waistcoat and tailored black slacks. “How are you, Mian?”
“Sick to my stomach and having this feeling that you have something to do with that.”
“Ah.”
“So?”
“So…”
“Why are you here?”
He rubbed the trimmed scruff adorning his lower jaw and looked at me with something akin to compassion in his eyes. “I wanted to show you one last mercy. Tell me where the book is.”
“I don’t—” I started to deny when he held up his hand, effectively silencing me.
“Before you answer, know, this time, your lies will cost you more than you’re willing to pay.”
“What does that mean?”
“Pray you won’t have to find out. Now, tell me where the book is.”
“I told you before. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Instead of threatening or crowding me to intimidate me into giving up answers I didn’t have, he hung his head, exhaled, and then spoke into his phone. “Do it.”
Tears poured from my eyes and my heart stopped and plummeted from my chest to my feet. What did I do? I heard faint words that sounded something like, “My baby,” and realized it was me who spoke the words brokenly.
“No, not your son.” He held out his hand to me. “Come and see.”
I went. I didn’t take his hand, and he didn’t seem to care. He simply curled it around my waist and tugged me down onto his lap. He held the phone away from me and as soon as I was settled, he locked his arm around me so I couldn’t move and held up his phone. There was a live video feed and the story it told had me drawing back in horror. There was no sound, and I was grateful for small favors as I watched a man be savagely kicked and punched into an unrecognizable pulp.
“What is this?” I looked away, but he grabbed my chin and forced my gaze back.
“This is the price you pay.” I squinted when the camera stopped jostling enough to bring it to focus, and I studied the broken man leaning against the dull gray wall. Blood covered almost every inch of his face, and as I studied him, closer recognition dawned.
“Daddy?” My heart raced, and the funny feeling in my stomach must have been fear. They continued to beat him even when he stopped fighting back. “Stop them!”
“You haven’t paid in full.”
“Angel, please! They’ll kill him.”
“If that’s what it takes,” he coldly answered.
I struggled to free myself and then to look away, but he held my face steady. “I don’t have your book! Just please stop! Please!”
“Do you know what happens after your father dies? You’ll be next. My grandfather wants your head, and he’ll take it, book or no book. Do you want to leave your son an orphan?”
“Don’t touch my son.” My voice was a lot calmer than the rage that stormed free inside of me.
“I won’t kill him. I’ll leave him to a far worse fate. My family will expect nothing less.”
“Then I’ll destroy your entire line.”
“Time’s ticking, Sprite. You’ll be dead in a week.”
I turned my body enough to bring him into view. I wanted him to see just how much I meant my next words.
“And I’ll haunt you from the moment I take my last breath to the moment you take yours.”
I glimpsed in his eyes and saw something more telling than fear.
Emptiness.