Chapter 3 - The Mirror and the Mask
The ride back to Sadi’s apartment was conducted in total, unbroken silence.
The black town car cut through the rain-slicked streets of the city, the windshield wipers slapping a steady, hypnotic rhythm against the glass. Sadi sat pressed against the far door, staring at her own reflection in the window.
The emerald dress caught the faint neon glow of passing streetlamps, making her look like a jewel encased in coal.
When the car finally pulled up to the crumbling brick facade of her apartment building, Paulie was out in a flash, holding an umbrella over the wet pavement.
Vincent didn't move to get out. He sat in the shadows of the backseat, watching her with those unreadable, predatory eyes.
“You can stay up here,” Sadi said, her hand resting on the door handle. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a strange mixture of adrenaline, exhaustion, and an inexplicable, hollow ache. “The debt... is it really gone?”
“Jimmy O’Connor won't come within a mile of your brother again,” Vincent said quietly. “Your brother is still an idiot, and he still has to pay his own way out of whatever stupid card game he walked into next week, but the $40,000 balance? It’s cleared.”
“How?” she asked, turning to face him in the dim cabin light. “What did you trade for it?”
“Nothing you need to worry about, Sadi.”
“Everything has a price, Vincent. That’s the only rule in this city.”
Vincent leaned forward, the faint smell of spearmint and bourbon washing over her as he closed the distance between them. His dark gaze dropped to her lips for a fraction of a second before rising back to her eyes.
“Some things aren't bought,” he murmured, his voice dropping into that low, dangerous register that made her skin tingle. “Some things are just taken. Now get inside. It’s late.”
Sadi hesitated, her hand lingering on the latch. She wanted to ask him to stay. She wanted to ask him what any of this meant—if the possessive hand on her waist, the burning heat of his palm, the way he had looked at her when Jimmy O’Connor threatened her—if any of it was real, or if she was just another piece of inventory he had claimed for the night.
Instead, she pushed the door open, stepped out into the cold rain, and hurried inside without looking back.
Upstairs in her cramped apartment, Sadi stripped off the emerald dress, letting it pool around her ankles like a puddle of oil. She stood in front of her bathroom mirror in her slip, her chest heaving as she stared at her own reflection.
The makeup was slightly smeared. Her hair was coming undone.
And right there, imprinted against the pale skin of her hip, was a faint, dark bruise in the exact shape of Vincent Costa’s thumb.
She pressed her own fingers against the mark, shivering as a jolt of heat raced straight down her spine.
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“I don’t pretend,” his voice echoed in her memory.
Sadi closed her eyes, terrified to admit that she wasn't pretending either.
