dealing with difficult people, Darwin had only ever dealt with his stepmother. But now these people were on their case. Apparently, they had Darwin. Now they had her. What was next? They would kill Darwin and her? No, she wouldn’t believe it, couldn’t believe it.
No way. I will deal with this and I will walk away. Darwin and I will live a long life together and men like this will be the ones who die young.
She watched Rome flash by.
“My name is the Harvester of Sorrow,” the unkempt man said. “I’m the distributor of pain. Do you like that?”
Her disgust rose. They wouldn’t intimidate her that easily. She committed to herself that she wouldn’t show fear. She learned years ago in an after-school rape class that these kind of people relish the control they have over you. They yearn for the fear in your eyes. Don’t fight to get away. Don’t give them the pleasure. It may save your life.
“No, can’t say I like that.”
“Well, the shortest straw has been pulled for you.”
“What are you talking about?” she asked.
“Those are lyrics from the best Metallica album ever, And Justice For All. Harvester of Sorrow is a wicked tune. I took my name from that because I’m the guy that gets to hurt you.”
“Calm down,” the man in the suit beside her said. “We don’t touch her until the boss says we can.”
The two men looked at each other. “I know that. What the fuck you think I’m doing here? You best watch yourself, Gabe. Your time’ll come, and when it does, I’ll do you something special.”
“Fuck you. I’ll be here long after you’ve rotted in an unmarked grave. Watch what the fuck you be saying to me. You’re not bulletproof.”
The Harvester sat back and smiled like he owned the world. Rosina could barely control the fear inside her. But as long as they had her husband and they were taking her to see him, she was sure they’d work things out together.
I feel stupid thinking this way, but these men are completely putting on a show. They don’t torture people and kill them anymore. Only in random cases.
It took ten more minutes of negotiating Rome’s traffic before they pulled into an underground garage. The driver wound down and into an open, empty parking area except for three black vans.
The limousine came to a stop beside the vans. Men approached the vehicle and opened all the doors in the back.
“Get out,” one of the men ordered.
Rosina decided to stay silent and do her best to show zero fear.
She followed the line of six men as they walked her to an elevator. She almost felt like she was in a Quentin Tarantino movie with six mafia men standing around in expensive suits, in Rome, the home of the Italian mafia, escorting a helpless young woman to her final meeting. Then she banished the thought as soon as it entered her head. Quentin’s movies got a little bloody at times and there would be nothing final about her meeting upstairs. Nothing at all.
Ding.
The elevator doors opened. Three men filed in and turned around. Rosina entered and then the other three followed, with the Harvester standing closest to her.
The ride was quick, a relief as the thick air in the confined elevator was beginning to get to her.
The doors opened onto a gorgeous floor. The walls were marble, the carpets plush. Before they got too far, the Harvester stuck a key into the elevator panel and twisted it, locking the elevator out of service.
I guess we aren’t to be interrupted.
The men escorted her through a pair of glass double doors and into an office that would resemble any high-paid lawyer’s domain back in Canada.
They continued down a hallway and walked, one by one, through a smaller door.
The door was small, but the room was large. It would easily seat fifteen men. Couches lined the walls, armchairs and tables sat at random places. It looked like a luncheon room for the
No way. I will deal with this and I will walk away. Darwin and I will live a long life together and men like this will be the ones who die young.
She watched Rome flash by.
“My name is the Harvester of Sorrow,” the unkempt man said. “I’m the distributor of pain. Do you like that?”
Her disgust rose. They wouldn’t intimidate her that easily. She committed to herself that she wouldn’t show fear. She learned years ago in an after-school rape class that these kind of people relish the control they have over you. They yearn for the fear in your eyes. Don’t fight to get away. Don’t give them the pleasure. It may save your life.
“No, can’t say I like that.”
“Well, the shortest straw has been pulled for you.”
“What are you talking about?” she asked.
“Those are lyrics from the best Metallica album ever, And Justice For All. Harvester of Sorrow is a wicked tune. I took my name from that because I’m the guy that gets to hurt you.”
“Calm down,” the man in the suit beside her said. “We don’t touch her until the boss says we can.”
The two men looked at each other. “I know that. What the fuck you think I’m doing here? You best watch yourself, Gabe. Your time’ll come, and when it does, I’ll do you something special.”
“Fuck you. I’ll be here long after you’ve rotted in an unmarked grave. Watch what the fuck you be saying to me. You’re not bulletproof.”
The Harvester sat back and smiled like he owned the world. Rosina could barely control the fear inside her. But as long as they had her husband and they were taking her to see him, she was sure they’d work things out together.
I feel stupid thinking this way, but these men are completely putting on a show. They don’t torture people and kill them anymore. Only in random cases.
It took ten more minutes of negotiating Rome’s traffic before they pulled into an underground garage. The driver wound down and into an open, empty parking area except for three black vans.
The limousine came to a stop beside the vans. Men approached the vehicle and opened all the doors in the back.
“Get out,” one of the men ordered.
Rosina decided to stay silent and do her best to show zero fear.
She followed the line of six men as they walked her to an elevator. She almost felt like she was in a Quentin Tarantino movie with six mafia men standing around in expensive suits, in Rome, the home of the Italian mafia, escorting a helpless young woman to her final meeting. Then she banished the thought as soon as it entered her head. Quentin’s movies got a little bloody at times and there would be nothing final about her meeting upstairs. Nothing at all.
Ding.
The elevator doors opened. Three men filed in and turned around. Rosina entered and then the other three followed, with the Harvester standing closest to her.
The ride was quick, a relief as the thick air in the confined elevator was beginning to get to her.
The doors opened onto a gorgeous floor. The walls were marble, the carpets plush. Before they got too far, the Harvester stuck a key into the elevator panel and twisted it, locking the elevator out of service.
I guess we aren’t to be interrupted.
The men escorted her through a pair of glass double doors and into an office that would resemble any high-paid lawyer’s domain back in Canada.
They continued down a hallway and walked, one by one, through a smaller door.
The door was small, but the room was large. It would easily seat fifteen men. Couches lined the walls, armchairs and tables sat at random places. It looked like a luncheon room for the
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