7. Clara

CHAPTER 7

Clara

In the end, I can't bear to sleep under a magnifying glass. I wander the room trying to find cameras and microphones and come up empty. I give up and go into the bathroom to splash cold water on my face and use a damp washcloth on the worst of the soot on my arms and legs. I try to draw some more, but I end up just sketching tally marks into the notepad until the entire page is covered. It's desperate procrastination. I need a shower.

I take another look around the bathroom, trying one last time to see if I can find any cameras. The mirror itself could be one big screen for all I know. I think about smashing it and decide against it just as quickly. If Raleigh is trying to convince Thomas to let me go, I shouldn't make her job more difficult by trashing the room.

Still. The idea of Thomas seeing…

I rummage through the linen closet for towels and do what I can to tuck them into the molded frame of the mirror, covering most of it. I wait, but Thomas doesn't come barging in to stop me. Maybe, mercifully, there aren't cameras in the bathroom .

Or maybe Thomas isn't watching at all right now.

I decide to do a more direct test. I go through every drawer in the bathroom, looking for anything I can use for paint. There are various lotions, which won't be visible enough. I'm about to give up when I spy a tube of lipstick, forgotten by some past ‘guest' in the final drawer. It's a bold shade of maroon.

Perfect.

I go to the window facing Thomas's room and draw a mark with the tip of the lipstick. It almost glows against the glass, backlit by the rising sun. I wait, trying to squint as if I can see through Thomas's window, but there's nothing to see, and no sound in the hallway.

I keep drawing.

When I'm done, and Thomas still hasn't shown up, I feel like I can finally breathe a little. Thomas isn't watching. I hurry to the bathroom, but instead of turning on the shower, I start filling the tub. Peeling off my smoke-stained pajamas feels like tempting fate, but nothing happens. I step into the tub and sink down into the scorching water- and instantly melt.

I really do mean to take a quick bath, but once I start carefully combing through my hair and lathering soap over my body, time loses its grip on me. It's a relief to stop smelling the smoke in my hair, and to scrub away the sweat. It's a relief to sit and soak.

But also, my own hands on my skin remind me of Thomas

I bite the inside of my cheek and focus very hard on the fine crown molding along the ceiling, and not the way Thomas knew exactly how to wake my body up in the most intimate ways.

At least he tried to manipulate me through seduction instead of torture , I tell myself, desperately trying to remember the reality of the situation, and not the fantasy that my body is remembering.

I'm cleaning the last of the conditioner out of my hair when the slam of the door jerks me to attention. I shriek and dunk deeper into the water, curling into a ball that hides as much as I can, but it hardly matters.

Thomas strolls into the bathroom with a pile of clothes in one hand, the other tucked casually in his pocket, and looks down at me.

"Pardon me," he says, sounding completely unapologetic, "there aren't any cameras in here, and it was getting a little too quiet. I had to see for myself that nothing… suspicious was happening."

I can only choke on my shock. He's not even trying to pretend this was an accident. Instead, he seems to be… relishing it.

Thomas's eyes trace up and down my body, curled into a ball as it is, and I can't believe I thought his gaze was authentic a few hours ago. His attention now is so intense I can hardly breathe. I desperately want to cover my face to hide the burning in my cheeks, but I can't bear to move.

He turns toward the counter, giving me blessed relief from the touch of his eyes, and sets the pile of clothes on the end of the counter. "Iris has graciously offered to buy you some new clothes. None of yours survived the fire." He waits a beat for my reaction, but I'm still too horrified to speak, so he continues. "Until she gets back, you can borrow an outfit of hers. Once you're dressed, we're going to brunch."

He turns back to me, and to my horror kneels beside the tub. For a wild moment, I think he'll dip a hand into the water and touch me. But then he stands again, my crumpled pajamas in his hand. With one last graze of his eyes, he turns and leaves me to my bath.

It turns out that, aside from being a formidable enforcer and mafia boss right hand, Iris is incredibly fashion-savvy. She chose a cream-colored silk button-up and burgundy wide-leg dress pants for me that fit well despite her more generous curves and longer legs. She's also loaned me some slip-on sandals that can pass for dressy. I'm self-conscious about how obvious it is that I'm not wearing a bra through the fine fabric of my shirt, but hopefully I'll only have to deal with that for a few more hours.

Hopefully, this brunch is a sign that Raleigh's intervention is working.

I find my door unlocked when I try to leave the room, but Thomas is waiting right on the other side of it. He looks me up and down, and I feel my whole body blush red, but his eyes are more clinical than they were in the bathroom. He gives a single nod of his head in approval, and gestures for me to follow.

I don't dare try to start the conversation until we're in the car. But as soon as the doors close around us, I'm too aware of Thomas's presence and the fact that we're alone in a small space to get a word out. I stare fixedly out the windshield, my cheeks perpetually flushed, as we leave the estate and descend the winding road into the city.

I'm not surprised when we head toward an affluent shopping district. We're in the heart of Warwick territory, and most of the shops- and all of the land- belong directly to the family. Thomas parallel parks in a narrow side-street, and I let him open my door for me. I wonder how we're going to have a private conversation in a place that seems to be teeming with weekend shoppers, but I don't ask. Better to wait, to try to gauge how much Raleigh's been able to convince Thomas I'm not worth the trouble .

"Oh, I almost forgot," Thomas says, as he takes my hand and tucks it deliberately into the crook of his elbow, "there'll be a third guest at the table."

My heart immediately sinks. He didn't forget anything. My mind flashes to the worst possible scenario- that he's already set up a meeting with my uncle, and has skipped straight to a hostage negotiation that will probably end in a shootout and a brand new war.

Thomas guides me down the sidewalk, strolling like we're a couple enjoying the fine day, until we arrive at a modest bistro that isn't actually open. Thomas texts someone on his phone, and a moment later the door is unlocked from inside, and we're let in by a suited man who nods to Thomas deferentially. I see the otherwise empty restaurant, and the table set up in the middle of the floor that is the only one set with plates, and try to send my mind far, far away.

From the kitchen, another suit leads a trembling older man by the shoulder. I don't recognize him, and for a horrible second, I feel relief that he isn't my uncle. The bistro's owner, probably, who's crossed Thomas in one way or another. The suit sets the man down firmly in one of three chairs around the table. Thomas seats himself comfortably across from him, then gestures for me to take the third seat. I've been placed between them, a spectator to the scene that Thomas has crafted just for me.

I keep my breathing shallow, keep my eyes on my plate, and wait for the horror to be over.

"Good morning, Russo," Thomas says, and there's warmth in his voice that I don't buy for a moment. "I appreciate you taking the time to meet me. You've been busy lately, after all."

The older man tries to smile, but he's shaking too hard to succeed at it. "I-It's always a pleasure, Mr. Warwick. Always a pleasure. "

"Oh, I wish that were true. Because if it were such a pleasure, you wouldn't be skimming me, would you?"

Goosebumps rise on my arms. My face is perfectly blank, but in my lap, my fingers twist into painful knots.

Mr. Russo makes a few aborted attempts to speak before he manages to choke out, "N-No, Mr. Warwick, of course not- I-I mean I would never dream of it! It's just- business hasn't been so good lately. I hired some new hands in the kitchen, but they're trash- I'll fire them today, and get the place back up to snuff- Next month we'll be back to the regular payment, I swear-"

"Will I get regular payments because your business will be better, or because you've realized it's not worth it to two-time me?" Thomas asks, his voice perfectly pleasant.

"I-I-I don't- I wouldn't-"

I want to hide under the table. I've seen men bluster and sweet talk, but the ones who are too afraid to be able to speak at all are the worst. They're the ones who cry before they scream when the negotiation ends and the torture begins.

"Let's try this another way," Thomas says, bored now. He reaches beneath the table and pulls an oiled black handgun out of god knows where. Mr. Russo and I both press back into our seats at the sight of it. Thomas places it beside the fork and knife next to his plate, lining it up neatly as if it's a natural part of the place setting.

"Now, Russo. I know you're shorting me. You know you're shorting me. What I want to know is whether you're keeping the money for yourself or sending it to someone else."

Russo's watery brown eyes are fixed on the gun. His body is shaking so hard I can hear his chair rattling. His mouth opens and closes, helpless, as he gives up on his pathetic lies and realizes that, no matter what he says, he's not surviving this.

"I-I-I haven't been keeping it," he finally croaks out .

"Where is the money going, Russo? A cop? A side-hustle? A family member?"

Mr. Russo stammers something I can't make out. It sounds like he's hissing. He's definitely crying. When he finally manages to speak, he says, "It's a cousin- it's my cousin."

" A cousin, or your cousin?"

"M-My cousin. My cousin."

"What's this cousin's name?"

Mr. Russo makes a strange clicking noise in the back of his throat, like there's no spit left in him to help him speak. My own mouth is bone dry too, my whole body still as a statue, waiting for the gun at the table to go off.

"... Larry," Mr. Russo finally gasps out. It's such an obvious lie, I almost groan.

Thomas hums thoughtfully, then says frostily, "You don't have a cousin, Russo."

A cry of terror and rage explodes out of Mr. Russo, and he flings himself across the table toward Thomas. His hands scrabble for the gun. Points it, point blank, at Thomas's forehead. Pulls the trigger.

Dead silence fills the restaurant.

Thomas blinks slowly, perfectly unimpressed.

"Wh-What-" Russo stammers, looking down at the very real, unloaded gun in his hands.

Then Thomas stands up, raises a second gun equipped with a silencer, and shoots Russo through the shoulder. The old man topples off the table, screaming and clutching at his collarbone. The suited men, who hadn't flinched before, step forward to haul him up.

"Take him back to the estate," Thomas says calmly, replacing the second gun in a hidden holster under his suit jacket. The first gun, the bait, lies harmlessly on the floor. He bends to retrieve it, then looks down at me, still sitting stock-still in my place at the table. He comes around toward me, and slowly holds the gun out, grip first.

"What do you think, Clara?" he asks, his voice low with warning. "A good trick?"

Despite how hard I've been trying to keep still, there's a tremble starting in my core that I can't suppress. It travels outward, overtaking each one of my limbs, until I'm sure I'll shake apart. I don't answer. I can't answer. I can't even breathe.

I've watched my uncle intimidate and torture men in every way imaginable to get what he wants. But he's not a clever man. He can't trick people into betraying themselves, so he bullies them instead.

Thomas, though. Thomas tried to seduce me into a confession last night. He gave a terrified man a tool to hurt him with, except the tool was a bluff. I can't fathom the cold calculation it takes to interact with people this way, and I never want to.

I want to be far, far away from here.

Thomas waits, the bait gun still held out to me. He wants me to take it with my eyes open, to understand that, like Russo, I am entirely at the mercy of his schemes in this scenario. I don't care how true that is. I'm not touching a gun, loaded or not. Finally, he accepts this and replaces it in a second holster, a hard little smile on his face.

"Tell me the truth now," he says, placing a hand beside my plate and looming over me. I expect him to tell me again to confess to arson, but he doesn't. "Tell me," he says instead, not a question but an order, "when you believed it was loaded, that you thought about grabbing the gun yourself."