Indebted to the Mafia King
Cracks

Eleni

Another millimeter on that crack in the ceiling. Or maybe the same millimeter as last time. If the cot were a little higher, I could trace it with my fingers. Yagdash hasn't been back in three meals, and I don't know whether I dreamed his message

anymore.

"the fuck do you mean, no?" a woman shrieks.

I lever myself up on an elbow. I haven't heard a woman's voice since Camila last left.

"I need more protection here!" The voice grows louder, as if approaching, and I realize it is Camila. "Are you fucking listening to me? At least half a dozen men."

Someone murmurs a response, but their voice is too low for me to hear. Their statement ends in a thud I can't make sense of from inside my concrete cell.

"Last night, those fucking redheaded gnats hit the White Winter. We lost people. And I put my ass on the line, promising the White Winter was fucking untouchable," she yells. "That means they're closing in."

"No," the other voice rumbles. "It means your ass is on the line. He's not going to be happy with this request."

Camila shrieks, a wordless, animal rage. I cling to the details. White Winter doesn't mean anything to me, but the red-headed gnats have to be the Irish Kings. They probably found a Russian site. I lean forward, hoping to hear anything about Dante and the Saints.

"Tell him whatever the fuck you want," she shouts. "I know what I fucking need to run this operation, and he knows I know. Just get it done!"

The door to my cell slams open, and I drop back against the bed as fast as I can.

"Don't waste my fucking time," Camila spits.

She slams the door shut behind her, and I twist my head to look at her without getting up. She's wearing wide, barely blue pants and a matching blouse, but the blouse hangs slightly out of her waistband and her hair is loose. She looks wild, her eyes burning. I shouldn't test her right now. So I sit up slowly, willing my stomach to remain calm.

"Why are you "

Mistake. Camila whips one of those heavy batons out of a pale holster I didn't notice, hers nearly clear compared to the black sticks of the other guards, and charges me with a scream. I throw my hands up, and her first blow lands on my forearms. The bones jar, but she doesn't hit nearly as hard as the massive Russian men I've been holding up against.

"You're not worth it!" She reels back and swings at my side.

Praying my stomach holds up, I roll under her blow and off the cot. Nausea claws at my throat, but I resist it to barrel into her legs. She topples to the floor with a string of curses. I should climb on top of her and take control, but I have to breathe in and out through my nose a few times or vomit.

Camila takes advantage of my hesitation and slams her baton into my shoulders. "You don't even know what you have! You're wasting it!"

The perfect picture of Dante I keep inscribing in my mind, planning for however long she keeps me, burns in my mind's eye. A smile softens his severe face, and I remember his admission that he had a whole plan for his proposal but couldn't resist asking me.

Who gives a fuck if I throw up on Camila Donato?

As she looms over me for another blow, I channel all my training, with and without Dante. I slam my foot into her stomach, making her crumple, and then crunch her nose under my fist. She goes down with a shriek, and I roll on top of her. My stomach riots. I ignore it to bruise her perfect cheekbone, to try to knock one of her glistening teeth out. She loses her hold on the baton and claws at my arms. The bright lines of pain only spur my indolent anger to a fiery rage. I knock her head to the side one more time, then realize I'm wasting my time. Her slim, golden throat is right there.

I lock my hands around her windpipe. Her eyes go wide.

"I used to be just like you!" she wheezes.

I roll my eyes and try to replace the part of her throat that crushes her vocal cords.

"I got pulled into this life." She sinks her stiletto-sharp nails into the backs of my hands. "I know what it's like to go from innocent to unable to get out without dying."

"I don't want to get out." I squeeze harder. Her eyes bulge.

"You don't have to!" Her voice is a thin whisper of air. "I can show you how to-to be more. To reach the top of whoever has the power."

"I thought you wanted Dante."

She squirms underneath me like a worm. Hot, vibrant power courses through me. Her fragile life is in my hands.

"I want to survive," she wheezes, "just like you do. Work with me. I can protect you, and we can share his body in the aftermath."

I adjust my hands one last time, and that seems to be the right position. Camila falls silent, fighting weakly. Her nails barely break my skin. Her punches don't even bruise. She falls limp in my grasp. A few seconds more, and she'll be dead. I'll have killed her with my bare hands, nothing like shooting Luca or calling for all those deaths in the aftermath.

My stomach wrenches. I lurch off Camila and vomit. When it's done, I feel hollow, shaky. She remains motionless behind me. Bright-red handprints, my handprints, mar her skin. Even like this, it would be easy to climb on top of her and finish the job.

I slump to the concrete floor and stare up at the ceiling. The one crack in the corner seems to have shrunk from this angle. Long minutes dribble away.

Camila coughs. I twist my head to look at her.

"If I were you," she says, "I'd care a lot more about my survival now."

I raise an eyebrow.

She gets to her feet. Dirt mars her perfect outfit, but she straightens it anyway. "Your life is tied to the baby's. So I guess that's the question the two of you, or Dante?"