Chapter 20

TWENTY

I’d love to say this is the first time I’ve seen a severed finger, or even any other dismembered body part for that matter. But it’s not. I’ve seen many fingers, hands, even heads torn off, bloody, lifeless–more than I can keep track of. It’s nothing new. However, I can only assume by the colorless expression that has marred Colson’s chiseled face, this is his first time. Unsure of what to say or if I should even comfort him at all, my decision is stolen from me as he reaches for the finger, immediately inspecting the ring.

“Deep breaths,” I breathe, but my words don’t make it to his ears.

I watch in mild horror—and unexpected arousal—as the color returns to his handsome face just as his lips purse, allowing him to expel a stream of saliva down on the severed finger before he tosses it to the ground, wasting not even a second before his boot smashes the torn flesh into pieces. Bones crunch beneath his steps and I swear to god, seeing the ever-conflicted Colson Cromwell show a little rage has me feeling things.

“Umm okay, then. I take it you weren’t a fan?” I half joke, trying to lighten the mood.

His chest heaves, and with each expanse of his lungs, his shirt pulls taught against him, accentuating his muscular build and causing my arousal to deepen. Throbbing intrigue riddles my needy center.

Jesus Christ Raiden, focus, bitch.

“Of my father?” he replies with an unexpected air of indifference. “No, I was not a fucking fan.”

But the way his fists are wound into tight balls, I can tell he’s not over his father and whatever pain he caused him. Indifference doesn’t cause fists to clench or jaws to lock…hurt does.

“How do you know it was his finger?” I ask.

He kneels, reaching for the ring amongst the crushed, lifeless flesh. “Aside from the scar above his knuckle that he got when he drunkenly punched me in the face for talking back to him? He never took this off. Even when he was arrested and in jail, they fucking let him wear it. Everywhere that fucker went, people feared him because of his money and the power that came with it. But he was a coward. A drunk, abusive, good-for-nothing coward. Fuck him.” He tosses the ring again, its gaudy metal clashing against the steel door.

“Nice try fucker!” he shouts to the speaker, who has been surprisingly quiet. “I don’t give a fuck if you chopped off his finger or if he’s dead. What else you got?!” he challenges, and I swear to god, the anger that’s pouring out of him right now is traveling right to my throbbing pussy. I like him like this, all flustered, and for once it’s not by my own doing.

Colson moves back to me, ripping open the second box, but it’s empty. I move closer to him, about to offer to open the next box, but he beats me to it. Again, he swings it open and it’s empty.

“C’mon, that can’t be all you fucking got. What’s next, you sick fuck?!” he shouts, all raspy and angry-sounding. Yum.

“You’re so close,” the speaker states, breaking the silence. “Two minutes left, make them count.”

“I’ll do it,” I offer once more, but Colson’s eager hands are already wrapped around the edge of the last box, opening it.

Red hits both our vision. The lights shift to a deep crimson as they strobe and flash as if we’re in a fun house.

“Ninety seconds,” the voice announces.

The lights change once more, and neon streaks appear beneath the now black light that surrounds us, highlighting the remnants of arousal on both of our bodies as well as the smears of blood on the floor. Everything is lit up, except the box. It’s dark. Unlit. Blackened. But even in its lightless state, the silhouette of something peeks through.

Colson reaches inside, his palm exiting the box with a red mask that appears immune to the cast of black light that has taken the room hostage.

“What the fuck is it with this fucking mask?!” Colson shouts, immediately throwing the mask that looks identical to the one he’s been wearing, down to the floor. His hand returns to the box, feverishly searching for whatever else could be inside.

Closing the space between us, I slip my hand into the box. My palm brushes against Colson’s, igniting a flicker of heat that rushes down every inch of my skin. We exchange a quick look, both realizing that there is something in between our hands. Removing my hand, I find my palm is empty…but his is not. Curled in his fist is a rolled piece of yellowed paper as well as a gold chain with some sort of pendant dangling on it.

“Sixty seconds,” the voice announces, reminding us time is running out.

“Give it to me,” I urge him, reaching my empty palm his way, but his stubborn ass clenches the paper and chain harder. “Jesus Christ,” I mumble under my breath. Wasting no time, I snatch the paper from Colson’s hands, quickly slipping the ribbon off and unraveling it. My jaw drops as my heart flutters so fast it’s as if I’m on speed.

“Raiden, what the fuck is it?” Colson bellows, almost sounding insulted that I want to know what the fuck he is holding, as if we aren’t pawns in a game that we win by playing.

Ignoring him, I stare at the paper. A letter swims before my vision, as I’m captivated by familiar names and equally familiar handwriting. My mouth moves, but words don’t come out. How is this possible? It’s my father’s handwriting, signed and dated next to another name I don’t recognize. The cursive is too messy. I squint to inspect it further, but I still can’t decipher a fucking thing.

“Raiden,” Colson repeats.

The pressure of the clock sinks in as I look past Colson’s angry and concerned expression to the flashing timer.

My palms feel clammy as panic sets in. “Fuck, we only have forty seconds.”

“I know that, Raiden. What is it?” Colson repeats, but I don’t answer. I just keep staring at my father’s name. I need to lift my gaze and read what’s typed on the rest of the paper, but I can’t. The grief of his loss. The reality that this sick fuck is in possession of something that was obviously stolen is overwhelming me, turning my brain to mush. I clamp my eyes shut trying to center myself and snap out of it, but it’s Colson’s voice, smooth and deep, followed by his hand rubbing my lower back that pulls me from my spiraling. “What’s on that paper?” he asks, this time with less urgency in his voice, even though I know he wants to know, but now his focus is on brushing his fingers back and forth down on the small of my back. As if he knows it’s melting my angst so I can function without fear overtaking me.

“It’s my father’s signature. It looks like some agreement,” I mumble. The words of the agreement are typed out. His touch soothing my anxiety, I feel like my senses are sharpening. Dragging my eyes to the typed portion of the letter, I see a name next to my fathers.

“Demonio,” I mutter out loud. “Demonio,” I repeat, trying to jog my memory. Why do I know that name? Mind racing, I exhale, trying to think. Suddenly the meeting I had with Carmine back at the Sandy Claws months ago trickles into my mind. He mentioned the name Demonio and that our assignment at the Cromwell’s was for him. But that name…it also means Devil. And then it hits me–the masks. The one they gave Colson, the one that he just threw on the ground.

Unease warps my stomach, as I shout to Colson, “Pick up the mask!”

Confused, he does as I say, snatching the mask in his hand.

“Does that mask mean anything to you?” I ask him as he inspects it, and I can’t help but notice the hesitancy in his gaze. He swallows thickly, his Adam’s apple bobbing against the inked column of his throat.

“Colson,” I repeat his name, urging him to push through whatever is running through his head and answer me.

“It was there that night,” he mumbles.

“What night?” I ask, motioning him, practically begging him at this point to hurry up.

“The last night that my mom was alive,” he chokes out, trying to stifle the emotion threatening to break his steady rasp. “I saw somebody wearing a mask like this outside the window,” he says, motioning to both the mask on his face and in his grip.

I look at the mask, taking in its devilish features, realizing it looks more aged than the one disguising half his face. And then the anxiety that has been crippling my ability to think subsides, and in its place: clarity. I’ve seen that mask before, a long time ago. My father’s friend, Gregor Demonio had it, tucked in his jacket pocket, and it fell onto the floor when he went to leave. I remember picking it up and handing it to him. He took it, staring at me with his cold, steel gray eyes and said thank you, but the effect his stare had on me lingered. He spoke calmly but his eyes…they were so sharp, yet so sad, and they looked through me, as if trying to signal to something within my soul.

I feel like I’m having an out-of-body experience. I look at the chain in my hand, the oval pendent with diamonds surrounding the etching of a cross in the middle of a field of hibiscus flowers, and the etching spelling Demonio on it. I stare back at the signature next to my father’s, G. Demonio. My gaze slides up, as the words–merger, families, deal–all send signals to my jumbled mind.

Suddenly the cryptic saying the voice said before rings in my memory. “The Devil is in the details.”

“Colson, does the mask say anything?” I shout, feeling the pressure accelerate my heart rate.

“Twenty Seconds,” the voice interrupts.

“Ugh,” Colson mumbles, searching the mask frantically.

“On the inside, is there anything? An engraving? Anything at all?” I urge as the mask fumbles in his hand.

I sigh. “Gimme,” I mutter, snatching it from his hands, quickly inspecting the front before flipping it over to see the inside. Lifting it so the black light highlights the inside embroidery. It’s faint, but it’s definitely there. I squint, bringing it closer to my eyes.

“What is it?” he asks, but all I can focus on is the stitching hidden on the inside brow line of the mask.

“Raiden,” he repeats, competing with the timer’s ten second warning flare. “What is it?”

“C. Demonio,” I mumble.

“What?” he shouts, the timer on its final countdown.

I look up at him. His chiseled features, both rugged and refined disguised by the devil’s mask. Slowly I scan from his cupid’s bow, up his nose until my gaze lands on his eyes.

Steel.

Cold.

Sad.

Gray.

It’s like I’m not even staring at Colson, but the man who once had this exact mask in his possession before he left my house that day and never returned. A million questions race through my mind, but one thing becomes blatantly clear to me.

The man in front of me is not a Cromwell.

I turn my attention to the missing pieces of this puzzle. The chain etching, the paper in my hands that is now so clearly a marriage contract between two families that hated the Cromwells. It’s all coming together, but I still have so many questions.

“Raiden,” my name is a plea on his lips.

“Time,” the voice announces.

I look back to Colson, whose gaze has not faltered.

“Raiden,” he murmurs, bringing his hand to my chin, swiping his thumb against my skin. “What is it?” he asks, voice rich with concern.

Keeping my gaze fixed on those hauntingly beautiful gray eyes, I speak.

“C. Demonio,” I answer. “The key is C. Demonio.”

“Congratulations,” the cryptic voice praises and, as promised, the door opens. “This way.”

This is what we wanted. An out. We played the game. We are so close, but neither of us can move. Colson’s hand does not falter from my chin; neither does his stare. If anything, it’s studying me with deeper intent than he ever has.

“How did you know that was the key?” he asks.

I offer him the mask with the etching on the inside, pointing to it.

“Because it’s you.”