Page 37 of The Wicked

“Do you have—”

“No,” he answered.

“Then pour the fucking wine, and let’s talk business.”

He steadied both glasses in one hand while he used the other to wipe the counter slowly and delicately before placing both glasses on it; then neatly, he folded the cloth and tucked it away.

Fucking weirdo.

He poured wine into both glasses, pushing one towards me.

Reaching behind him, he pulled out a gun, and my eyes followed as he carefully placed it on the counter. He picked up his drink and swirled it softly as he walked around to stand right next to me.

“We apparently don’t like each other,” he stated, “so I’ll skip the necessary pleasantries I offer to people I have business with.”

“Oh, it wasn’t the wine?”

He leveled me with his stern stare, which quickly flickered to my messy hair before coming back to my face again. Ignoring my statement, he said, “I’ll consider renegotiating your case only when I know whom I’m negotiating with.”

“That wasn’t our deal.”

He took a sip from his glass. “Did we make one? I don’t remember signing any document or agreeing to anything legally with you. I think you must be confused; you did have a lot to drink tonight.”

I took a step closer to him. “You fucking bastard, I should have known your word meant nothing.”

“I never said it did.”

“Then what am I fucking doing here?” I hissed, turning to leave, but he grabbed my wrist, pulling me back. I tried to wrench my hand free, but his grip was firm.

“I didn’t dismiss you.”

“Oh, sorry, Principal Marino, I didn’t know I had to ask for your permission before getting the fuck out of your face.”

He let me go instantly. “I told you I would reconsider your case.”

“Yeah, I heard that part, but it came with a little clause I don’t think I want to fulfill.”

“So, you’d rather subject yourself and your friends to me for the rest of your lives than tell me who you are?”

“You already know who I am. I’m Zahra, a very rude and expensive thief who fucks your brother. What else do you wanna know?”

He placed the glass on the table and shoved one hand into his pants pocket; the other rested on the table as he drummed with his fingers. “What happened after you were sold?”

I flinched. He noticed, but didn’t say anything.

“Look who did his research,” I said. “Didn’t know I wassoimportant. Honestly, I’m flattered. No one has ever cared that much about me.”

His stare remained blank, pointed, patient.

I sighed. “I can’t remember.”

“Liar.”

“It’s not alie,” I snapped.

“From one liar to another, it’s best not to evade my question with a lie. I’ll spot it.”

I reached for my glass of wine, brought it to my lips, and downed it to the last drop before setting it back on the counter.