“I know you hate them. Believe me, they hate each other. There is no love in this room, only alliance. You are free to loathe them as much as you like, but you must pledge your loyalty,” Darko murmurs in my ear.
He looks incredible tonight. Suits suit him. There’s something about his big frame contained in the formal attire that makes me melt. It’s a juxtaposition of brutality and refinement, and it makes me squeeze my legs together a little more tightly every time I see him. At his warning, I grit my teeth. There is absolutely zero chance of me pledging loyalty to those who murdered my father. But I am going to get in the room. I want to see their faces. I want to look them in the eyes and tell them exactly what I think.
“Don’t get any ideas,” Darko says, taking me by the arm. “You put one toe out of line and I will make you regret it. This is your one chance to leave this island and return to the world.”
I keep from talking, just barely. A thousand angry words are clogging my throat. I end up silent because no one of them can find its way out above the others. If I were to part my lips, I would scream with rage.
He mistakes my quiet for obedience, and he guides me toward the doors that lead to the room where I can already hear their voices. They get to speak. To breathe. To exist. They took that away from my father.
We enter the room together. There are twelve men in there, ranging from late twenties to early nineties, I guess. A den of evil.
Darko makes the introductions. I can’t take the names in. There are too many of them and my mind is not processing anything as petty as names. Even their faces blur to me, every one of them contorted through my hatred into a beast.
It is hard to breathe in here. I want to leave. I can’t contain my anger, and I can’t give Darko what he needs. This little display of submission and acquiescence to their crimes is not going to work. I can’t hide the loathing in my eyes, the disdain that curls my lips, the sheer hatred that makes my voice shake with every one of the introductions.
I see no guilt on any of their faces. I see no remorse or sadness. If anything, they are triumphant, congratulating Darko on his efforts at keeping me, complimenting my beauty, but in the way a hunter might congratulate another hunter on his trophy. If my head was mounted on the wall, they would say the same things.
Darko guides me to a chair. I sit stiffly, blood rushing in my ears. Of all the things he has done to me, this is the cruelest. To make me sit here in the company of those who engineered my father’s passing and say not one word about it.
“It’s nice to meet you, Ms. Parker-Baskerville.” The man to my left speaks to me. He is about sixty years old, has dishwater brown eyes and skin spotted with sun and age.
I look at him coldly.
“Is it?”
“Of course,” he says. “You’re a beautiful young woman, and you have a long life ahead of you if you know how to play the game.”
The implication is that my father did not know how to play the game. But his death was no damn game, and my life won’t be either.
“Are you enjoying your drink?” I gesture toward the tumbler he has in his hand.
“It’s the good stuff,” he nods.
“Same blend my father liked.” I smile coldly.
He splutters and spits the alcohol out a second after he catches my threat. For them to eat and drink in front of me after having my father poisoned is arrogance of the highest order. I haven’t poisoned the food and drink, but I wish I had.
“What? Something wrong? Worried about the catering?” I speak harshly, unable to hide my hatred.
“That’s enough,” Darko says, his eyes glinting at me with a sharp look of warning. “The drink is fine and so is the food.”
All around the room, drinks are surreptitiously put down.
Nobody touches the sandwiches either. Or the cakes. A dozen hands return what was snatched up from the trays, a few with bites already taken. I enjoy the sick looks on their faces, the nervousness written in their eyes.
I smirk to myself as Darko shoots me displeased glares. What did he expect? For me to sit and make polite conversation with these people?
“Oh, I’m sorry, is the murder not as tasty when you’re the one on the receiving end?” I lift my voice and the moment becomes… awkward.
One of them clears his throat. He’s a tall man with a mustache and a beard and an ‘I don’t give a fuck’ attitude. I can barely look at these men. Each and every one of them is less than human in my eyes.