Captured Onyx Page 3

  He freezes, his fingers clenching the doorknob, and he slowly turns his head to look at me over his shoulder. “They?”

  “Liliane and Jayson,” I blurt. “Jayson Bowlan. Did he—"

  He doesn’t wait to hear the end of my question. He yanks the door open at the same time he switches off the light to his left, and then he’s gone. The door slams shut behind him, leaving me alone in the dark.

  Chapter 5

  Nate

  I'm met with Daveed's probing scrutiny and a dubious side eye from Mike when I step into the room that is serving as our temporary communal room. We haven't used this safe house in a while and couldn't even be sure it still had power and running water when we drove up here. The Covey likes to play it safe when it comes to hideouts and regularly switches things up, adopting and abandoning vacant properties as they see fit. This particular shed is on the outskirts of Boston, close enough to one of our main headquarters yet still far enough away to be hidden from the officials as well as the families.

  The families. I'm still doubting the boss's decision to chum up with the local mafia, and so is everyone else. The reasoning behind it appears logical at first, but the risks that come with it trump anything we've done so far. It's in the Covey's nature to play by its own rules, outside the confining rule of law, but the fucking mafia takes it to a whole new level.

  We've been on edge about this from the beginning, but it became so much worse when our deal was threatened by an impending death that no one saw coming just a few years back. It would be a tragedy outside this world, but it's even worse here, in the world of societal outcasts whose job is a dangerous liaison with danger.

  It's a fucking disaster.

  "So, what now?" Daveed probes, raising one of his thick eyebrows as he juts his chin in my direction. "She fine in there?"

  I shrug as I pull out a chair from the table he's sitting at, turning it around so I can take my seat on it backward. I rest my elbows on the top of the backrest and spread my legs, facing him.

  "She's not fine," I say. "Obviously."

  Daveed scoffs, crossing his inked arms across his chest.

  "Yeah, obviously," he groans, mocking me. "I mean, what the fuck did you expect? How do you think this is ever going to work?"

  "It has to work," I insist. "You got a better idea? Because if you do, I would love to hear it!"

  His expression darkens as he regards me, and I can tell that the thoughts are grinding silently in his mind. Mike joins us at the table, taking a seat next to Daveed so he can face me, imitating my way of using a chair to assert dominance. Mike has always been the calmer of the two, more rational and more prone to comply. He's not a leader but a follower, and he not only knows that but is perfectly fine with it. Even his physical appearance—a shorter frame, narrow shoulders, comparatively weak arms, and the way too thin hair—undermines his position as a simple henchman. However, he's a reliable henchman, and what he lacks in muscle and leadership skills, he makes up for with a sharp mind and loyalty that is hard to find. He does what he is told and usually doesn't question the orders I, or anyone else, direct at him.

  The fact that even he is questioning my move to seize that girl only speaks of how fucking insane this idea is—and how desperate we must be to even consider it.

  "I'll admit, she looks just like her," he says, casting Daveed a cautious look from the side before he turns to me. "But seriously, how's this supposed to work? They're not expecting a portrait or... I don't know, a mute statue or something. The girl will have to–"

  "Play a role," I finish his sentence. "Yes. I know that. And she knows that, too."

  "You already told her?" Daveed interjects. "And what? She just went along with it?"

  I shake my head. "I'm sure I can get her there."

  That's a lie. But what the fuck am I supposed to say? If they realize that I don't even trust in this plan myself, how the hell are they supposed to go along with it? I need their support, especially when it's time to inform the boss about our move. We only have a few days to get ready for that meeting with him. Only a few days to get the boys on my side—and to get her to a point that I can work with.

  That's all I'm asking for. That's all I need. For now.

  "How?" Daveed’s thick brows arch in bewilderment. "How the fuck are you going to 'get her there'?"

  "Through fear," I respond. "I threatened to kill her family."

  "Family?" Daveed blurts out. "Fuck, Nate, we don't even know who the hell she is! How are we ever–?"

  "She doesn't know that!" I cut him off, raising my voice enough to make Mike flinch. "She doesn't know that my threats are empty. And she obviously has parents she cares about. I can always go with that."

  Neither Mike nor Daveed look convinced. They exchange a telling look, but neither say a word. I can't blame them. The Covey doesn't operate on empty threats. We always know what we're doing and are the ones in control, used to having the upper hand.

  "Do you even know her real name?" Mike asks the question as if he is afraid to hear the answer.

  I nod. "I didn't even have to ask. She told me voluntarily, thinking it would make me realize that somehow I made a mistake and kidnapped the wrong person."

  Daveed is about to interrupt me, but I stop him with a wave of my hand.

  "She'll come around, I'll make sure of it," I assert, hoping they believe my words even if I don’t. "And if she doesn't, we'll get rid of her and return to our original plan B."

  Sullen silence envelops us like a heavy blanket as my words echo through the empty room. There's nothing here but an old table, four crappy chairs, and a leftover kitchen counter with a solitary kettle on its top. The wallpaper is coming off at several places, revealing the first signs of mold that is slowly eating its way through the entire house. I resent being here, and I can't wait to get back to the city. Everything about this place speaks of the hopeless desperation we find ourselves in, and it’s not the kind of environment I’m used to. Even in my darkest days, I’ve lived better than this.

  Daveed and Mike lower their heads, their shoulders tensing as they seem to remember how fucking inescapable our situation is—and how much worse it was before we found this girl. Taking her may have been the most stupid thing we ever did, but having her may also be the only blink of hope at our disposal.

  And they both recall that the moment I mention our original plan B. Because there's really no viable plan B. The only plan we had was to try the impossible: to disappear. That's why we went to Atlantic City in the first place. We went to blow off some steam, imbibe in liquid courage that would manifest our decision to try something that almost no one ever dared before: to leave The Covey without dying.

  It seemed to be our only choice.

  Until we saw her.

  Until we sensed a chance to save our asses.

  Our plan with this girl may be substandard, but it tops the one we had before by far.

  Even Daveed agrees to that, albeit reluctantly.

  "Fine," he mutters. "I guess we'll have to try."

  "We do," I agree. "Just give me three days with her. If I haven't made any progress before our meeting with George, we'll get rid of her."

  "What do you want us to do?" Mike questions.

  I hesitate for a moment, contemplating what most pressing errand I want to send them on. A lot of ideas come to mind, most of them mundane business such as acquiring food and ammunition. Our lack of preparation is unsettling, to say the least.

  But as I go down the list that's been piling up ever since we left Atlantic City, I remember another detail that needs our attention.

  "I need to you to do some research for me," I say, facing Mike, as I know he's the savviest one of us in that area.

  "Find out who the fuck Jayson Bowlan is."

  Chapter 6

  Malia

  I don't know how long he's gone, but I'm sure it must be hours rather than minutes. I doze off in between, losing my sense of time even more. The sleep that overcomes me is
not restorative in any way, leaving me even more exhausted. I turn in agony, grimacing and squinting as if he’s still here, and it puzzles me how he can equally haunt and soothe me with his presence.

  The spinning inside my head is now accompanied by searing pain, a hammering so violent that I almost feel like I can hear it. A dull and hollow noise, nagging against my skull that has my eyes watering in agony.

  I know what this is. I'm hungover. Dehydration is doing this to me, and it comes with a hunger that's just as excruciating.

  Is this part of the plan? Is he doing this to weaken me? Did he leave me like this to wear me down?

  If so, he's making great progress, because I'm in a pathetic state by the time he returns. I can see his shadow moving behind the door even before I hear the lock being turned. Despite the knocking pain inside my head, I yank myself up to a seated position when he steps inside. I may feel like shit, but I don't want to give him the satisfaction of seeing me at my weakest.

  Blazing bright light penetrates the darkness I have become accustomed to, causing me to squint, even as I try to maintain the throbbing ache in my head. I lift my tied hands, holding them before my face to shield myself from the intrusion of light.

  He greets my gesture with a dark chuckle, unwilling to hide his amusement at my predicament.

  "I'm sorry," he says, but I know it's not sincere.

  The door closes behind him, blocking out the painful glow. He flips the switch to his right, and a moment later my dark cell is illuminated in a softer light that's not as harsh on the eyes. I lower my hands slowly, frowning at him as he approaches the bed.

  My frown is soon replaced with yearning, when I realize what he's brought with him.

  Water. A full bottle of fresh water.

  And food. A sandwich, as far as I can tell, wrapped in paper.

  Of course, he notices my craving eyes.

  "Hungry?"

  His question is more mocking than actual concern, and I hate the condescending smile that accompanies it. I wish I had the guts to just tell him to fuck off, but I don't want to risk him running out of the room again, possibly denying me the food and—much worse—the water. I'm so desperately thirsty that I can't stop myself from leaning forward, lifting my tied up hands to reach for the bottle in his hands.

  But instead of giving it to me, he yanks it away, taking a step back from the bed.

  "Not so fast," he says, shaking his head and casting me a look as if he was scolding a young child. He's wearing a different shirt than before, a blue one this time, and it looks as if he's just had a shower. His hair is still glistening with dampness and he emits a fresh and soapy scent. His clean and put-together appearance stands out against the cold, damp room and makes me feel worse than I did before he showed up.

  He's being cruel, parading water and food in front of me as if I'm a circus animal about to be trained.

  "Please...," I utter, sounding as pathetic as I feel. "Just the water."

  But he shakes his head. "I want to hear you say it first."

  "Say what?"

  "That you're ready to comply."

  I sigh, as my bound hands fall into my lap, signaling defeat.

  "Comply with what?" I want to know, my voice barely louder than a whisper. I seek his gaze with pleading eyes. "I don't even understand what this is about."

  The short nod he gives as a response displays an understanding that surprises me.

  "I'll explain everything you need to know," he says. "But first you must–"

  "You already threatened to kill my parents," I cut him off, finally finding it within myself to raise my voice against him. "And now you're torturing me with the promise of water and food, but only if I agree to something that I don't understand. I told you, you have the wrong girl! I feel like you think you're talking to someone else. If you think I'm this Lailah person then I must disappoint you. I am not Lailah! I really am not."

  That condescending smile I hate so much returns to his dangerously handsome face. He slowly shakes his head.

  I jerk back when he takes a sudden step forward. He joins me on the bed, taking a seat on the edge of the mattress. I want to move away from him, but the ropes keep me in place, cutting into my ankles and wrists.

  He throws the packaged sandwich and the bottle of water between my legs, just close enough so I can reach for them. It leaves me stunned in surprise, unsure what to do. For a few moments we freeze in silence, my eyes darting back and forth between the treats in my lap and him, quietly asking for confirmation.

  "I know that your name is not Lailah," he says, not deigning me with an answer to whether I can retrieve the temptation he laid out in front of my eyes. "But I need it to be. For a while at least."

  "Why?" I ask, shyly bending forward, trying to appear nonchalant as I reach for the water bottle. He doesn't say a word but watches as I awkwardly fiddle with the screw cap. Who knew opening a simple bottle of water would be so hard when your hands are bound at the wrists?

  He watches me struggle with the bottle for a while, and then he lets out an exasperated exhale and reaches over to help me open it. For a moment, I fear that he intends to hold the bottle up to my lips and feed me like a baby, but he doesn’t humiliate me in this way. Instead, he hands me the bottle.

  "Thank you."

  Never before has water tasted this divine to me. I close my eyes as the cool liquid coats my throat, soothing an ache that's been tormenting me for too long.

  He doesn't speak, despite my question still lingering between us. I throw him a cautious look from the side after finishing half of the water bottle in one big swig, arching an eyebrow in expectation. Still, he remains quiet.

  "Who is Lailah?" I ask again. "And why do you need me to... pretend to be her?"

  His expression hardens, seemingly aging him by years for a second.

  "And what is Onyx?" I add. "You said I'm your Onyx. What does that mean?"

  He finally speaks.

  "Onyx is our mission."

  Holding my breath, I wait for him to expand on his meager statement, but he doesn't make the slightest inclination to follow up with anything. His face looks as strained as it has ever since I first saw him. I'm so intimidated by him, by his undeniable handsomeness, by his overpowering physical strength, and the unyielding way he addresses me.

  But—and that's the twisted part—I'm also troubled by deep empathy for him. Despite what he did to me, despite what he's still doing to me, I don't see evil in him. He needs me, that's the only thing I know for sure. He needs me—and he doesn't enjoy what he has to do to me.

  There's not just simple corruption within him. I don't see it.

  Or maybe I don't want to see it. Maybe I'm merely blinded by his handsome appearance.

  A beast remains a beast, no matter how beautiful it is.

  "Please," I say in a voice so low that it's barely audible. "Please tell me what this is about."

  He looks at me, moving slowly as he nudges the sandwich closer to my hands.

  "Eat," he says. "You'll need your strength."

  I swallow dryly, the thought of food making my heart jump with anticipation, but I don't let it show as I reach for the sandwich. The tone of his voice is unsettling, and soon I realize that my heart is not only racing at the prospect of finally having something to eat. It's because of something else, because of the ominous atmosphere that surrounds him. It's not easy for him to talk, because this tale is not a happy one.

  My pulse speeds up because I'm scared.

  I'm terrified of what he's about to tell me.

  Chapter 7

  Nate

  "We have a mission, and that mission is to–"

  "Who is we?"

  I growl angrily, throwing her an irked look.

  "For fuck sake, stop interrupting me!" I bark at her. "One more time and I'll just whip your sorry ass into submission instead of answering your questions. And stop speaking with your mouth full."

  She stops chewing, her eyes widening in a ble
nd of surprise and terror when our eyes meet. That expression makes her look so much younger, her cheeks round from the greedy bite she tore off the sandwich and her eyes big and round like those of a child.

  She looks so much like Lailah right now that it's borderline creepy.

  A simple nod is all she can muster as a response, but that's fine with me. I want her to listen, not to speak.

  I clear my throat, trying to collect myself and find the right words to tell her what she needs to know. I can't tell her everything, not if she's to come out of this alive. I take no joy in killing pretty girls, and I have no intention of making an exception with her.

  Unless I absolutely have to. Her life is not worth as much as my own.

  "The Onyx mission is a promise," I begin. "A promise for a marriage between two young people to create a bond between us and a family."

  A faint furrow emerges between her eyebrows.

  "Mafia family," I elaborate. "We're working with them, or trying to. This marriage would be the start of a connection that is not established yet."

  "You're mafia," she gasps, biting her lip when she catches herself speaking even after I told her not to.

  I shake my head. "No, I am not. We are not. We just want to work with them, or rather, under their protection. It's becoming harder and harder to navigate in this world without having any ties to them."

  I raise an eyebrow at her. "You can't tell me you've never heard of the New England Mafia and their hold on this area?"

  "Well, I'm... I guess," she stutters, disbelief lacing her features. "It's not like I ever... met anyone who... you know, worked with them or anything."

  Her eyelashes flutter nervously as she looks back and forth between me and a random spot in the dim room. I can't wait to get out of here. And I can't wait to get her out of here. This room is not meant for anyone to sleep in. It's too damp, too moldy and cold.

  "Well, you have now," I continue. "And you are a part of it now, whether you want to be or not. Because you see, Lailah was the one who was supposed to carry out this mission for us. She was the one who was promised to that damn Scivola boy."