𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐥 𝐦𝐞 | ✔

intercom ᥫ᭡

I raise a brow at his manners. His voice has a rough edge which contrasts with his soft words.

"Oh no you haven't, don't worry," I say with a shrug, "If it was an accident, does that mean you're going to hang up?"

Please say no, a hidden voice in my head says. I immediately recoil at the voice. Or a fucking stupid voice. I don't even know why I thought that. He can hang up whenever he wants for all I care.

"Do you want me to?"

No– can this voice in my head disrespectfully fuck off?

"I don't care," I say, with an unintentional bite in my voice, "Your name. What is it?" I demand, like I care.

"Tell me yours first," he says.

I roll my eyes. Can't he answer a simple question for god sake? Why is he making this harder? I don't even know why I'm even bothering with this.

"I don't tell strangers my name," I reply.

If he's Russian and I intercepted his communications by accident this is no coincidence. If these people are who I think they are, my name is the last thing I'm saying in case they ever are able to trace the call to the Italians. Then boom. Identity blown.

"You sound really posh, you know that? Are you some sort of princess I should know about?"

I try to control the smile that nearly breaks free on my face. Why did that almost just happen?

"Who, me? No, I'm not a princess, I've just got a British accent and it's barely posh."

"No, but you say your t's. I thought British people just miss them out."

"Well, I guess I'm well-spoken." I trace my kneecap with my nail.

"Like a princess," he teases, "who's the English one? Kate, right?"

I frown. "Bold of you to assume I'm white."

I hear someone in the background bark a laugh.

"I wasn't saying you looked like her," he states a valid argument.

"Good because she's way fucking older than me," I reply, a bit more aggressive than I'd like but I don't care. If he gets pissed off at that then he clearly has a short fuse like everyone around here.

"How old are you?" he questions, ignoring my tone.

I hesitate. "Seventeen. You?"

"Eighteen."

"Does that mean you're going to university or in it right now?" I ask, not knowing why I'm continuing this conversation longer than I have to since I know the answer.

Men in the mafia don't do university degrees when they have a multi-million– almost billion–dollar business involving weapons and drugs.

The momentary silence gives me all the confirmation I need, making my blood chill slightly. Fuck. I shouldn't be doing this right now. If they find out... my mind blocks out the possible consequences before I can panic, a numbness falling over me.

"Maybe, " he replies, "what about you?"

What about you?

It's such a simple question, but I feel so taken aback by it. I don't even know if I want to last long enough for that. Not when life is like this. Not when I have to close my eyes every time I feel trapped and believe everything is my fault. I should've just stayed at home like a regular person and not been an attention-seeking whiny whore.

Once you're in, it's almost impossible to escape.

"I don't know," I answer, cursing myself at the lost tone in my voice.