Golden Burn (Songs of Crime #1)

24. Etta

24

Etta

‘Born To Die’ - Lana Del Rey

“ Y ou’re shivering, darling,” Martise says as we head to the car. She’s wearing a stunning ruby dress with a halter neckline that shows off her slim arms and gorgeous black skin. Her earrings are made from twisted gold, shaped into the profile of a face, and her braided hair is styled in a half up, half down fashion, highlighting the planes of her face.

“I know. I just need to let it out now, and hopefully, it will stop when we get there.”

“It will. You’ve been closer to actual, real-life predators and not balked. These prickly men and their spoiled wives are nothing but tiny insects.”

The sentiment makes me chuckle, and also betrays my nerves, but it helps to think of the people I’m meeting as small and insignificant. Which, technically, when it comes to insects is not necessarily true, but I’ll have to put my biology brain aside for the next few hours.

Once inside the car, I smooth my dress with my sweaty hands. “Remember,” Martise announces, tucking my hair behind my ears, “If you don’t know what to say, it is better to say nothing. They take offense quickly and they do not forgive. Despite the tense circumstances, we want to remain calm.”

I gulp, my insides twisting into a knot. The rocking of the car makes me nauseous, but I maintain my composure as we arrive out the front of the restaurant. The fact that it’s a late night reservation, the streets of Rome eerily subdued, makes it all the more scary. But I swallow my fear and lift my chin.

“Ladies,” Ford says as we head over to the front door. Odin and Dom are waiting there, too. All three men are wearing sharp suits that accentuate their serious expressions. My eyes immediately veer to Odin. He’s wearing his gold eyepatch again. The one he wore when I first met him. He doesn’t seem anywhere near as intimidating to me now, but to others, I’m sure he does.

He rakes his gaze up and down my body quickly, at the floral dress he handpicked for me, but his face remains frozen. A sliver of worry worms its way in the spaces between my ribs. After the wedding, is this how we will need to be in public? Constantly acting? Will we ever be safe?

Could I live with that?

Fixing my face into a mask of disgust, I dismiss all of them as I walk beside Martise and head up the stairs to the restaurant. I don’t have time to dwell on questions I have no answers to. I need to concentrate. I have to play the game and I have to play it perfectly.

The restaurant is richly decorated. The carpet is patterned with black and gold and crimson red lines, the tables ebony with dark wood features and carved legs. Candles flicker everywhere, and the waiters move around, dressed finely in suits with white aprons around their waists. Rome is visible beyond the windows, glimmering under the stars.

I wait at the top of the stairs beside Martise as the men come up behind us. Ford and Dom lead the way, while Odin hangs back next to us. It’s so hard not to look at him. To seek out his hand and give it a squeeze. Our night in Africa, our almost entanglement, springs forth in my mind, demanding I remember and remember it well. The way he held me together, protected me from my own thoughts, and shared with me a snippet of his vulnerable grief. Locking my jaw, I shoo it away and focus.

A waiter approaches us and directs us to a section of the restaurant separate from the rest of the public. Garlic, basil and roasted meat waft from the kitchen as we pass. As much as the delicious scents make my stomach rumble, I know there’s no way I’m going to be able to eat properly. Which is a fucking tragedy in and of itself.

We round a corner, and a long table comes into view. People are already sitting around it, sipping wine and chatting quietly. Noise ceases when they notice us. The men are all mostly older, styled in suits—dove gray, navy pinstripe—that fit to perfection. The women wear luxury dresses dotted with gems, hair pristinely styled, makeup dark and sultry. There’s gold and silver and watches and necklaces galore. There’s also an intense weight that hangs above the room. They glare at me like I’ve pissed on all their rose bushes or stolen their favorite car and cut the tires.

Walking through quicksand would have been easier than walking past them all to the head of the table where our host waits. But I continue, keeping my ankles steady despite their refusal not to. The press of everyone’s eyes is like a million tiny needles poking at my skin, hard enough to leave a bloody trace.

Then, their attention shifts to someone else.

Odin.

Part fear, part fury.

It’s clear the people at this table are aware of his reputation, and his future goals for their businesses. It’s also clear that they can do nothing lest they risk losing all of their wealth and standing. And that annoys them.

Dom walks ahead of me, guiding me toward the man sitting at the head of the table.

Compared to all the older, gray-headed men, he is the youngest by far, though still older than us. His hair holds some darkness, with only a few silver streaks. His aquiline nose is stark against the rest of his features, though from where I stand, I can make out a deep scar on his neck, almost like a bullet wound. His upper half is well defined, full of muscle, which only makes him more to fear because he isn’t a weak little mouse that likes to watch his enemies through TV screens. He’s as sharp and as strong as a wolf, who likes to hunt his prey and make them panic, before he rips them to shreds.

In his hands, he carves an apple with a very large, very sharp knife. He does not peer at us, does not even seem the slightest bit interested in our presence. He carves and cuts away at the skin until he’s satisfied with a piece of the apple. He sticks the tip of his knife into the flesh and plops it in his mouth.

Only then does he look at us.

Mouth full with fruit, he beckons us with his weapon. “Sit.”

“Harriet. This is Cerbera Lombardo,” Dom introduces.

Cerbera twists his neck and focuses his harsh gaze on Dom. His eyes are so black, so cold, they remind me of a crow. “We can do introductions once we are all comfortable.” He re-focuses his gaze on me. He huffs, a droplet of apple juice slipping out of his lips and down his chin. He slurps it quickly with his tongue. I swallow back a gag.

Dom nods. “Of course.”

I sit to the right of Cerbera, who pours himself a glass of wine so dark it could be blood. Martise is on my other side and Dom is opposite us. Ford stands near the wall, watching, focused.

The room, the people, the oppressive scenario, cave in around me, and I sense my nerves chewing away at my composure, tears pricking my eyeline. It’s not until Odin sits across from me, his presence a comforting blanket over my nerves, that I inhale properly, realizing suddenly what he does to me. He grounds me, yanks me up from the pit I feel myself falling into and keeps his hand wrapped tight around my wrist.

A waiter appears by my side and opens a fresh bottle of red wine. I hold up my glass so he can pour one. I wait for someone to start speaking, for Cerbera to ask me a question, or for Dom to talk about the wedding, but Cerbera chews his apple and stares unabashedly at me.

“You are quite a stunning creature. The cameras, it seems, don’t do you justice.” My face pales at the mention of cameras. It sickens me to remember he sent people to spy on me. Now I want to vomit thinking about him watching me through security cameras we didn’t know about.

He waves his knife in Odin’s direction. “You are a lucky boy, Mr. Bolt.” The only evidence Odin is pissed is the twitch in his jaw right before he takes a sip of his wine.

“Shame about your inventory,” Odin says. “I’d hate to have a repeat, with your supply chain already struggling.”

There’s a slight rush of whispers from the end of the table. I glance downward and notice two men sneering at Odin like snakes. I don’t know what he means about the inventory, but I sense it’s not good.

“It’s a bit early to be speaking business at the dinner table.” Cerbera raises his brows. “And in front of your fiancée.” He tsks like a disappointed mother, then falls into silence, as do the people around us. Although they have not moved an inch, it seems like everyone is leaning in our direction, desperate to gobble down even a scrap of information.

A waiter places the first course in front of me, while another takes the linen napkin from my hands and places it on my lap. I want to say thank you, but my jaw locks tight, the words stuck behind my tongue.

Dom draws attention to himself by clearing his throat. “Despite the small hiccup, my team has finalized the contract, and would like to know your thoughts on it. As soon as—”

“Not now,” Cerbera gives Dom a tiny displeased smirk and begins to cut his raw kingfish.

Dom adjusts his glasses. “We understand there is a—”

“I said not now!” He shouts and slams his knife into the table. It’s like an electric shock, the way his voice snaps across the room. My entire body jolts as I watch the handle of the knife wobble, the tip completely embedded in the table. My stomach shrivels when I see how close it was to my fingers. Not even an inch.

I quickly glance at Odin. His chest rises with deep, steady inhales, though his eye is ablaze. He lifts the fingers of his right hand, trying to remind me to be calm, like a trainer steadying a terrified horse about to bolt.

I swallow a shaky breath and try to focus on eating.

Cerbera’s voice—and it’s complete change in tone—stuns me so much I nearly drop my cutlery. “Ms. Lewis, tell me, what do you think of your soon-to-be husband?”

My teeth grind in my mouth as my mind whirls.

Remember. You hate him. You hate him. You hate him.

“He’s a monster,” I say finally.

Cerbera speaks around a mouth full of food. “Ah, it’s the eye, isn’t it? Horrible to look at. Beauty and the Beast.” He chuckles, and a few men at the table join in, like they're his own traveling chorus. It speaks volumes about the man who conducts them.

“It’s not his disfigurement,” I reply, a nuanced anger sprouting in my chest. “It’s his actions. His soul. I’ll never forgive him for what he’s done to me.”

I don’t dare look at Odin, mostly because if I do, I’ll want to take the words back.

“She’s going to slit your throat in the middle of the night,” Cerbera says to Odin. My future husband looks bored, as if that threat has been hurled his way too many times.

“She’s more than welcome to try,” Odin replies, his voice as sharp as the knife sitting next to my hand.

Idle conversation ensues. My eyes roam around the table, taking in those seated. The men ignore their wives to speak in low murmurs. The wives, clearly used to this, start to dust cocaine onto the table, sectioning it up into thin lines with credit cards and sniffing them up with paper bills. I try to keep a straight face, but I’m afraid it’s twisted into a permanent grimace.

I’d hate to be married to those sacks of flesh. The thought alone has my foot reaching across to touch Odin’s. When it does, he lifts his eye to me and I’m struck by the intensity of his deep gaze. The clash of worry and anger. The evident desperation to maintain my safety.

The homely sensation spreads through my chest as we communicate without words. I’ve never had a real life partner—besides my mother—someone that has my back as much as I have there’s. It dawns on me in an instant that Odin is beginning to fit that mold.

The gold eyepatch consumes him in this light, but I see beyond it. I hope he sees beyond my mask, too.

Martise and Dom make stiff conversation with those next to them. But for the most part, it’s silent. Neither side of the table wants anything to do with each other. I have never sat through a more burdensome and awkward dinner.

“I hear you are good with a scalpel,” Cerbera says to me as the first course is taken away, and the second is placed in front of us. Steak so fresh and undercooked it’s practically still beating.

“I am,” I admit. There’s no point in lying.

Cerbera finishes his mouthful and yanks the knife he stabbed into the table out of its resting place. “You know this game.” He turns the knife, so it’s tip down, places his palm on the table, and spreads his fingers wide. He pokes the knife between the gaps in his fingers, one after the other, after the other. Gradually, the knife moves faster, but he never knicks his own skin. I hate to admit it’s impressive. He stops suddenly and passes me the knife’s handle. “You try.” I gingerly lift my fingers, unsure what to do, what to say.

“Harriet,” Odin warns me, shifting.

“Do you not trust her skills, Mr. Bolt?”

His grip on the wine glass tightens. “She doesn’t need to prove anything to you.”

“I disagree,” Cerbera drawls. “If she is to be your ruin, I want to see how well she does it.” He lifts the knife in the air and brings the tip so close to my face I don’t realize it’s touching me until I feel the sharp kiss of cold metal on my skin.

Odin moves to stand.

“Ah ah.” Cerbera wags a finger in his direction. I watch, silent and horrified, as one of Cerbera’s henchmen points a gun to the back of Odin’s head. I frantically find Ford’s gaze, hoping he’ll step in and save him. His face is harsh, fists clenched. He wants to fight—I know he does—but Odin lifts a hand in his direction, stopping him.

“You cut my bride and I’ll destroy you,” Odin growls.

“Be a good boy and sit,” Cerbera mocks.

My hand shakes, my body tense with the force of everyone’s attention. I fight for every breath I take. He offers me the knife again. I take it with my right hand, my heart galloping painfully, and place down my left like Cerbera did, spreading my fingers. I beg my body and my mind to focus, to shut everything out and concentrate.

You have done much harder things. You can play this silly game for a madman’s entertainment.

I curl my fingers loosely around the wooden handle and map the route in my mind, squaring my shoulders.

“I’ve changed my mind,” Cerbera announces. My insides pop like a balloon. “You cannot hurt yourself with the wedding so soon.” He sticks his hand out in front of me. “You do it to me instead.” He’s got to be fucking joking. “But, if you nick my skin, even the tiniest bit, I shoot your lawyer.”

The bodyguard with the gun to Odin’s head shifts it to Dom’s.

My eyesight swims.

No.

I can’t think, I can’t speak. I only blink, my mouth so dry and so numb.

Martise grabs my thigh from underneath the table. Her fingers hold me steady when the room starts to spin.

I sense Ford’s horrified vibrations from across the table. He wants to protect his husband, but if he betrays any sort of affection, Cerbera will use it. I’m almost positive. Although since he seems to know so much about us, I’m going to assume he already knows. And he’s delighted.

Despite this, Ford remains still, but manages to mouth the words, “You can do it.” I almost burst into tears right then and there.

Odin’s gaze opposite me is an exact copy of Fords—Full of more trust than I deserve.

I exhale.

I shake my working hand, rid myself of the jitters that want to seize control. My shoulders shrug, making me look stupid in front of these strangers. But I don’t care. It’s just like surgery. I had an even steadier hand than my mother. This is a piece of cake.

I can’t wait another second, so I dive in. Starting slow, and then gaining speed. Cerbera’s hands, like the rest of him, are thick and powerful, covered in light hairs and protruding veins. For such a small part of him, they become staggeringly intimidating.

Shutting out any thought, I focus on rhythm, on steadiness. The sweat on my palms makes for an uncomfortable grip, but I keep my movements light, my breaths even.

“Faster,” Cerbera demands.

I do as he asks and speed up. It almost becomes meditative the way my hand and the knife move as one. Up and down and up and down. I come precariously close to cutting his thumb at the end of a loop, but I manage to right my flow and finish without any damage.

He jerks his fingers suddenly, curling them like a corpse-turned zombie seeking purchase on soggy earth. I gasp and flinch away, lifting the knife in the air so as not to hurt him.

Cerbera retreats his hand, a small, impressed smile curving across his crude face. I hate him so much at this moment. He nods at his bodyguard, and they drop the gun from Dom’s skull.

We all wilt with relief. None more so than Ford. When I glance at him, he sends me a quick, grateful wink. I take my first deep breath in minutes and hand Cerbera back his knife, trying not to fidget when I feel Odin’s eye bore into my skin. I take my glass of wine and throw it down in two gulps.

“You must be a popular doctor.”

“Veterinarian,” I clarify. “I care for animals.”

“Ah yes. I heard about the clinic. Such terrible news.”

It’s like being sucker punched, how quickly I’m made hollow after a tiny high. I flick my head between Odin and Dom. Dom’s brows are furrowed in confusion, his brow dotted with nervous sweat from his near death experience, while Odin appears like he wants to set the room on fire.

“You didn’t hear?” Cerbera says. My mouth is so dry I can’t swallow.

“Hear what?”

“Your clinic was burnt to the ground. Arson, the news said.”

It takes several seconds for my brain to absorb and make sense of his words. “My clinic?”

“Yes. Very sad—” He doesn’t look sad at all.

I shake my head. “No, there must be some mistake.”

Cerbera sips his wine and glares at me for interrupting him. “No mistake. Off the highway, yellow walls, obscene amounts of tramadol stacked high in the supply room. That’s where the fire started, they said.” He looks right at me when he says that, his eyes as scorching as the fire he described.

I’m vaguely aware of the final course being placed on the table, the smell of gelato and berries wafting into my nose. But there’s a buzz coming from somewhere. A white noise I can’t place.

It’s hazy like a dream, what Cerbera tells me. It has to be, otherwise if it’s real, I might very well shatter into a thousand pieces right here at this table.

“Firefighters got there too late, unfortunately. All the animals perished.” He places a spoonful of gelato into his mouth, sucking the metal clean. “Can you imagine that? Being burnt alive? Must have smelt delicious, though, all that meat frying.” He laughs and all of his choir boys join him. I watch it all in slow motion, my brain too tired to process.

But when Cerbera starts to bark, pretending to be a dog howling in pain. My mind cracks in half. Reality swamps in.

I rise from my seat, vomit pulsing at the bottom of my throat.

“Excuse me,” I pant, my legs wobbling, and run for the bathroom.

Away from view, my dinner pours out of my mouth and into the toilet. I cough and gag, my throat stinging from acid. My eyes drip with tears, my entire body trembles, spittle hangs from my lips.

It can’t be real.

The clinic. Burnt. All those precious animals, nothing but ash.

My mother’s legacy, the last real piece of her— gone.

I can’t breathe.

I can’t breathe.

I can’t breathe.

My knees collapse underneath me, my arms wrapping around the toilet full of vomit. I rest my head on the porcelain and shudder.

Someone grabs my shoulders, hauling me up. “Etta. Etta.”

“No,” I moan. “ No. ”

“Etta, get up right now!”

It’s Martise, and her voice is like steel. Her grip on my arms, equally so. She hauls me up and over to the sink. I stand beside her in a daze, while she dots under my eyes with a wet napkin.

“Is he lying?” I ask, my throat rough.

“I don’t think so,” she answers honestly. “There was… footage. But I couldn’t see. ”

Tears threaten to spill, ruining all her efforts to tidy me up. Martise grabs my cheeks. “No. Not here. Do not give him the satisfaction he craves.”

“I can’t,” I whine. As soon as I go back out there, I will crumble.

She squeezes me, holding me together. “You can. You will. You have no other choice.” I shut my eyes, choke back a whimper of despair. All those animals died horribly because of me. “Dinner is done. All we have to do is walk past them and out the door.”

“Okay,” I moan, because what other option is there?

Martise grabs my hand, intertwining our fingers, and leads me out the bathroom and back into what I now believe is hell.

“Ms. Lewis?” Cerbera calls. “Leaving so soon?”

Thankfully, Martise swoops to my rescue. “Thank you for the pleasure of your company. And props to the chef for such a delectable feast. It has been a long journey. We are going to retire for some much needed rest. We will see you at the wedding.”

I make it all the way out of the restaurant and into the car without crying, only because Martise’s tight grip is borderline painful and keeps me distracted.

Footsteps fast approaching echo in my ears, but I don’t know who it is until he says my name.

“Harriet.”

Almost immediately, my melancholy turns to rage.

Odin.

None of this would be happening if it weren’t for him. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for his twisted vendetta, his morally corrupt ‘good guys’ escapade.

I remove myself from Martise’s hold and spin to face him. “What did you do ?” I shout. He blinks at me like he has no idea what I’m talking about. Like I’m a fucking idiot. My voice rises. “You did this. He destroyed my clinic to get at you!” I jab my finger in the air between us, spewing venom at him.

He grabs my arm, yanking me toward the car where he opens the door and pushes me inside. I fall into the leather seat, my head almost hitting the window behind me. “You want to rage. Fine. Do it now in privacy, not out there where they can see us.”

“Fuck you,” I spit, lifting my leg to kick him in the balls like I should have done a thousand times when we first met. He grabs my ankle, stopping my heel from jabbing into his groin by a mere inch. I jerk my leg back, freeing myself.

“I knew he was ruthless,” Odin admits. “I knew he was psychotic. I just never anticipated he would do so much to harm you.”

“And now my clinic is gone,” I screech and throw my hands against his chest. “My mom is gone! It’s your fault. It’s all your fault .”

“Harriet,” he says my name like it’s an apology. I can’t bear it.

“Get out! Get out !” I shove him harder, my vision completely blurred by tears.

“Etta, stop.”

Martise opens the door to the car. “Give her some space,” she demands. Odin grabs hold of my wrists, watching me intently as I pant and cry and crack. “Now, Odin.”

He doesn’t want to go. In one second, a million emotions pass in his gaze. He releases me. “I’ll make it up to you,” he says quietly and then gets out of the car. There’s a split second, before Martise takes his place, that I almost call him back in. The prospect of his arms around me is so tempting, especially with the memory of him holding me in the shower, standing united in our shared vulnerability. Then Martise is before me, grabbing my shoulders, and I realize that this is better. This is what I need.

As the engine starts, she folds herself around me and whispers atop my head, “Let it out now.”

I do as she asks.

I release myself. And by the time I reach the safety of my room, I am nothing but a husk.