Burn 2 (16 page)

The man eyes me up and down. His nose twitches, as if he is allergic to what he sees. Then he nods.

“Come in.” His voice is craggy, as if he had throat surgery.

With trepidation, I step into the lion’s den.

The scarred man says, “I’m Abe, by the way.”

“Hi, Abe.” It doesn’t sound like a name I’d expect in this place. But then, I don’t know what to expect. “I’m Sofia.”

“That’s a lovely name . . . Sofia.” He rolls it on his tongue as if it’s a spot of melting butter.

He leads me down a winding set of corridors, each darker than the next. From the outside, I never would have guessed that this warehouse holds a veritable maze. The tangle of corridors holds closed doors, behind which lurk secrets I doubt I will ever be privy to. The Greco family has a reputation far exceeding their expanse. I’ve heard so many whispered things – things that send chills to my bones.

Sometimes we pass someone, and he is usually a dark-suited man who gives me a curious glance but doesn’t stop to engage me in conversation. This is just not that sort of place. But most other times, the corridors are bare. Watchful, waiting. Always that. The very walls seem to have eyes.

Finally, we come to double oak doors set at the end of one long corridor. The polished finish of the sleek wood juxtaposes strangely with the minimalist surroundings. Butterflies flutter in my stomach, throat and every cavity I have.

Abe respectfully knocks on the door.

“Come in,” says a disembodied voice from inside.

Abe turns one of the doorknobs and bids me to step in. I take a deep breath, lift my ankles, and try not to trip over my pink heels as I teeter in.

The room beyond is luxurious. Leather and chrome cover the top of the gargantuan desk before me, and the walls are done in some sort of damask that glistens with a golden sheen. Tasseled lamps sit on side tables which are decorated with curios. Everything gleams and smells of cherry wood polish.

“Mr. Greco,” Abe says in that hoarse timber. “This is Sofia Moreno. Vic Moreno’s daughter.”

I can’t see anyone else in the room, and then I realize I’m looking at the back of a padded executive chair. It swivels, and a pair of relentless green gold eyes suddenly bore into me.

I am taken aback by the ferocity of that gaze. It’s as though someone has speared me in the forehead.

Nicholas Greco is seated in his black executive chair. I have never seen him before, and nor have many people, from what I have heard. Men like him aren’t usually seen or photographed in the light of day – unless he is caught, of course. And Nicholas Greco has never been arrested by the city watch.

He’s in his early forties. Dark-haired. Extremely and ruggedly handsome. The faint lines on his face only seem to enhance that certain animal quality he possesses. I can feel the power of a caged lion radiating off him in waves. He is certainly someone whose very presence and largesse would fill an entire ballroom.

My knees buckle, and it has nothing to do with my shoes being so high.

“Come in, Sofia,” Nicholas Greco says in a deep voice.

He can be my father, I realize. Our ages are that far apart. Only my father is marginally younger, even though he seems much older than Nicholas Greco. I try to remember what I’ve heard about this man. Papa doesn’t talk much about him to
me
, but I’ve heard enough from his covert conversations with my mother.

“ . . . the son of Donnie Greco. Took over when his father was assassinated by the DeGrassis.”

“ . . . couldn’t help it. I had to take out that loan, Debbie. The bank would have repossessed our house.”

“ . . . they sent an enforcer today. If I didn’t pay by Sunday, he’d break my legs . . . ”

Mama doesn’t tell me out loud either. It’s as though they are trying to shield me and the twins from knowing too much about Papa’s gambling debts. Papa has an addiction. He’s trying to seek help for it, but whatever he did to repay his debts in the near past still haunts us to this day. The fact I’m here is the living proof.

Nicholas Greco – the man who has threatened, through one of his enforcers, to break my father’s legs if he doesn’t pay up – is still staring at me out of those tiger eyes. He has large eyes – so piercing that my stomach flips at their intensity.

He says, “Why have you come to see me, Sofia Moreno?”

I swallow. My heart is banging against the drum of my rib cartilage. I can do this. I know I can.

“It’s a-about my father, Mr. Greco.”

He doesn’t say anything but listens to me patiently. I find myself studying the curvature of his sensuous mouth. He must have been a very pretty boy when he was younger. Very pretty indeed. I wonder how he managed to survive in such a brutal landscape. But then, his father was Donnie Greco. No one would have dared to give him grief.

I continue, the pulse in my throat rapping a staccato beat, “He can’t repay what he owes you. He doesn’t have fifty thousand dollars.”

Nor do I. Nor does anyone I know.

He nods, but still doesn’t say anything. Not that he’s motionless. Nicholas Greco is one of those restless beings. Even when his entire body is not in motion, his irises are constantly roaming in the whites of his orbs.

“So I-I’ve come in his place. To repay you.”

“How?”

This is the way it is to be. I dart a glance at Abe, who does not move. His face is impassive. I suppose that when I decided to begin this, I should have known that my privacy would be taken away. My life is now forfeit to those who would partake of it.

I pull in a deep breath. I straighten my back and stand tall and proud. Well, as tall as I can measure up. I’m five foot four. My heels add another two inches. My pink sundress is something someone would wear to church – demure, chaste and girly. I know I am a very pretty girl. Everyone has told me so. My curly hair is a deep red. My violet eyes are wide and innocent. My complexion is porcelain, like a doll’s.

Before I can lose my nerve, my words tumble out in a rush, “I have come to give you . . . myself in place of my father’s debt. I am a virgin. I have come to offer you my virginity . . . and m-my body . . . to do with as you please.”

There, I have said it. I swallow the multiple lumps which have bolted to my throat. Now that my proposition is out, a flush of embarrassment courses through my cheeks. My face must be as inflamed as my hair. What was I thinking of when I came up with this? What would a man like Nicholas Greco want with me when he probably has dozens of virgins at his beck and call?