Indebted to the Mafia King

Eleni

I roll over in the thin cot, my whole body aching, and stare blearily at the dull gray ceiling.

The crack in one corner looks like it might've grown another millimeter since I last checked. Not that I know how long it's been.

There are no windows in here and just one heavy, metal door without even one of those little, barred windows you always see in movies to give me a clue what time it is. Camila dropped me off days or hours or months ago, and I haven't seen her since. I push myself up to sit, intending to do whatever kind of exercise I can in here to pass the time or keep in shape for whatever empty opportunity I get.

So far, all opportunities have been met with beatings. Bruises collect on my body between bright incisions where the edge of a nightstick or gun caught me.

My stomach twists. I lurch to my feet, stumble a few steps, and fall to my knees in front of the flat approximation of a toilet they allow me in here, the only furniture other than my cot. My breakfast or lunch, or dinner-splatters noisily against the plastic. I've grown used to the burn of bile. They feed me the same food for every meal, and whatever it is, it doesn't seem to agree with me. I wipe my mouth on the increasingly stained sleeve of my shirt and slump against the floor. In my mind's eye, I picture the diner upstate Dante took me to that one day. The food I ordered was good, but I'm craving something Dante pointed out to me on the menu called disco fries. Thick, brown gravy drenches the potatoes, dripping off the half-melted mozzarella cheese curds. I wasn't brave enough to order them last time. Now, they make my mouth water with want.

Fuck, I might actually be losing it.

With effort-more every day, though I'm trying not to think about that-I imagine Dante's face. The hard planes of his cheeks and jaw. The darkness of his eyes that rivals the night sky. His matching hair, and the soft curls in it he tries to hide like they betray a secret softness to him. Tired worry and anger floods my veins. I don't know how long I've been here, I don't know how I'm getting out, but I know that I am. Between Dante and I, no one in the world could keep me forever. The door creaks open, and I lean up on my elbow slowly in fear of pissing off my stomach again. It grumbles but doesn't formally revolt. A broad, clean-cut guard I haven't seen before steps in with the usual plastic lunch tray of food. He takes in my position on the floor, then the reeking mess in the "toilet."

"I can come back, if you're too sick now," he says.

I blink. That's...not how this usually goes. More often than not, a heavily tattooed, Russian-accented man tosses the tray on the floor, sending the bread sliding away and spilling some of the water on the pale chicken in the middle, regardless of how pathetic I've looked. They never offered to come back. This guy doesn't even really sound like he has an accent.

"Uh, no," I say, more to keep him in the room than anything else. Despite the fact my trays have no more cutlery than a thin paper cup, every single guard has watched me eat, like I could craft a weapon from rotisserie chicken and white bread. I already would have, if I could.

He sets the tray down and backs up a few feet. I scuttle over to it. I don't even want to picture myself anymore. The well-dressed, recently groomed version of myself Gianna and I invented is long dead. I must look feral as I tear into the chicken with my hands and wash it down with sips of the glass of water they provide with every meal and no other time. The food might be what's making me sick, but with all my throwing up, I'm nearly constantly ravenous. I can't miss the opportunity to gain any strength I can.

"How are you?" the guard asks.

I laugh, my mouth full. Mama would be horrified. The guard just nods.

"I guess that's fair enough."

A heavy curtain of silence falls between us. I glance up at him from time to time, both waiting for him to pull a weapon and yank away the slim veneer of comfort he offers, and try to figure out what the hell he is.

He wears the same clothes as the Russians, mostly. But his wife beater bears fewer stains, and his track pants don't scrape against each other with the same plastic shriek.

His sneakers...God, I could really be losing my mind, but they look like they're made of two different shoes. From my angle below him on the floor, I can see thick, unworn soles that contrast the wear of the tops and laces.

A gun juts casually out of his waistband, and a heavy club I've seen cops use dangles out of his pocket, but he doesn't reach for either of them. I have no clue what's happening, but I can't really make things worse. The bruises from my last few attempts to learn anything keep gathering friends no matter what I do.

"What day is it?" My voice is a rasp that almost scares me.

He wets his lips. "I can't tell you."

"What's your name?" I try instead.

"Yagdash." He smiles. The word sounds strange in his mouth, like the corners and angles of it don't quite fit.

"I don't believe you," I mutter before cramming the last of my slice of bread into my mouth.

Either he didn't hear me, or he doesn't want to respond. Both are fine with me. My frantic mind spins out on the possibility he's some capo I haven't met, an agent of Dante's sent to save me. I can't blow his cover. Or I glance up at "Yagdash"-someone from the Irish Kings, or the triads. Another organization trying to swoop in while I'm vulnerable. The way he clips his words could be hiding another accent, but he looks too white for the triads to allow him membership. If I keep my mind sharp, even as my body dissolves around me, I might survive this. And I have to survive long enough for the escape I know is coming.

"You didn't finish your chicken," Yagdash says evenly.

I glance at the completely empty tray. Not even a drop of water remains. With a scowl, I grab the plastic and flip it upside down to prove him wrong. My heart leaps. There, scratched on the back of weak plastic, sit two words. Hang on.

"Ah, can't be doing that." Yagdash grabs the tray, the cup that fell off it, and the full "toilet," then leaves the room without another word.

When the metal door slams shut behind him, I lean against the side of my cot and dig my nails into my palms. Hang on. Just a little longer.