No Mercy, Only Love

This is NOT the first time Callie Torres faced a much-too-frequent dilemma — she forgot to pay her electric bill again. Over her small kitchen, a light flickered, engaged in a battle with some dark recesses, holding on, then seeming to relent, then hold again. She wiped a stripe of red paint off her face with her sweatshirt sleeve, her gaze zeroing in on the chaotic canvas ahead. It was a whirlpool of muddled blues and fierce reds, so loud and chaotic there seemed to be no sense at all, it was like the emotions she couldn’t claim but were screaming everything she couldn’t say onto the canvas.

Her tiny studio apartment in Brooklyn was barely big enough to stretch your arms, but it was hers, and that was all that mattered. The scent of paint was something only she appreciated, a far more soothing aroma than the usual noise and chaos of the city outside her window. Okay, her rent was overdue, her commissions irregular and her landlord’s goodwill ebbing. But painting grounded her; it was the one place that felt like home.

Then she breathed in deeply, dipped her brush into black paint, and made fierce, angry strokes across the canvas. Each stroke was a kind of release, a clearing out of feelings her pen couldn’t quite name. A flash of light caught her attention, the sound of her phone buzzing on the windowsill. It was the name of her half-brother flashing on the screen.

Marco.

Her heart sank a little, and her hand flew, brush in midair. It was nearly a year since she had last heard from him. They never quite clicked, even before their mother died. After that he had taken off to chase money and left the family warmth behind for a life with fuel and ambition, and as far she could tell trouble.

A different buzz snapped her back to reality.

Then there was the knock — sharp and loud and demanding — banging on her door like it had no time to waste. Callie pivoted slowly, wrestling to figure out if dread or confusion was the appropriate reaction to this unexpected visit.

“Callie, it’s me,” Marco said from outside.

Her better instincts told her not to, but she opened the door.

Marco stood there, changed — thinner, edgier than she recalled. The hoodie he wore hung awkwardly around him, adding more menace than comfort. But it wasn’t only Marco that brought her heart pounding. It was the two men next to him.

They both were in dark coats and seemed colder than the shadows in her studio.

“Can I come in?” Marco looked nervously at the men beside him.

Callie’s head erupted with a thousand alarms. She had to restrain her impulse to slam the door. But blood’s thicker than water, and family — no matter how messed up — was hard to shake. She moved to the side and let them in.

The two men walked past her, surveying her apartment as though they owned it. Marco shuffled in, intertwining his fingers in a competition of who could look more anxious.

“What’s going on?” she asked, her voice wavering.

Marco wouldn’t meet her gaze. “I need a favor.”

Callie laughed quietly, without humor, disbelief in her voice. “Oh, you can’t just show up with goons and extract favors.”

“They’re not goons,” he said, not exactly doing himself any favors.

One of the men shot his dark, jagged eyes in her direction and her skin crawled. “You said it would be easy,” he told Marco, like Callie were no more than a nuisance. “She doesn’t seem like she knows anything.”

“I don’t know anything!” Callie shot back. “Marco, what is going on?”

He took a shaky breath. “I messed up, Cal. I borrowed money—bad money. I figured I can make it work and pay it back, but —”

“Oh my God,” she gasped, retreating in horror.

“They want collateral,” he said quickly. “Just for a few days. It’s to show I’m serious.”

The taller one took a half-step forward, and her heart raced. “He means you,” he said bluntly.

A cold coil tightened in her stomach. “What are you talking about?”

Marco was looking around nervously, his bravado fading. “You’ll be safe,” he said, but she didn’t trust him for a second.

She looked at him in disbelief. “You want to deal with some loan shark on my behalf?”

“He’s not just a loan shark,” the short man added, a coldness in his tone. “He’s Vincent DeLuca. He’s not a person you would cross.”

The name struck her like a bucket of ice water, freezing her in place. Even she had heard of Vincent DeLuca — leaping from lips in muted whispers on the street and leaping from pen strokes in news articles without ever showing his face. He was the sort of person to avoid, and now he was right on top of you.

“I’m not doing this,” she said, her heart racing. “I’m not going with you guys anywhere.”

But Marco no longer faced her. His gaze was transfixed on the two men, his expression one of defeat that indicated to her he had little choice.

“You already did,” said the man with the dark eyes, producing something small and shiny from his pocket. He hit a button and a sleek black car was soon waiting outside her building.

“No,” Callie said, her voice quivering. “You can't make me—”

No one pulled a weapon or shouted. But the air became dense like fog, so thick it felt as if the threat hovered just below it.

“Don’t fight it,” Marco said urgently. “Please. Just go with them. I’ll handle it.”

She looked at him, hurt replacing fear more powerfully.

“You can’t,” she said softly. “You never do.”

The man grabbed her elbow, and she flinched, jerking her arm away. He met her eyes, daring her to scream or struggle.

But she realized she couldn’t do either.

So, she went with them.

This was not a living nightmare, but the smoothest death, as the car was sleek and quiet and prowled over the asphalt, a black animal that appeared to transport its owner to another planet, which was where Callie did not belong.

She shoved her body against the door, flushing her arms against her body tightly, somehow twisting and willing herself awake from this nightmare. This wasn’t her life. She painted tranquil gardens, gentle sunsets, peoples’ faces filled with dreams and desires. She was no lady in a backseat of men with different rules.

The cold-eyed man hadn’t spoken a word since leaving her apartment.

“How long do I have to stay?” she ultimately asked, her voice trembling.

His reply was short and far from sympathetic. “I’ve informed Vincent. It’s his choice.” When they ultimately reached their location, it was not a house to which she was taken. It was a fortress. Iron gates and large stone columns concealed it, looming towards Manhattan as a grim preface. In contrast, when she walked in, Callie was greeted by a coolness that penetrated her skin. Marble flooring spanned below her, and the top reached a high point as though it were stashing facets within. The artwork on the panels appeared as if they were borrowed, taken away, or left exactly as new. She was guided down corridors with the scent of previous riches and ancient misdeeds. “Here. Stay still. ” the man murmured as he opened a large gate. Callie skulked forward into a room, her body locking up in fear. It appeared as though it was an evil individual’s collection —encased guns and items interrupted the line of books. One framing displayed a chessboard spilt with red. And then he entered. Vincent DeLuca. He was tall, wearing a snazzy black suit. His appearance was suffocating, much like the air around Callie. His eyes were cold, as though he had perceived far too much, and he was seemingly inspecting Callie on the spot. Callie’s neck dries up. He didn’t talk right away. He just remained there, taking a look at her like he was attempting to view inside her brain. “No …” she croaked, a barely-sound escaping her mouth. “That’s an error. I know absolutely nothing about something. Please let me go.” Vincent walked ahead, and it was frightening in his immobility. “Not anymore,” he retorted, and although his sound was devoid of fervor, it had hold in it. As if she is already trapped in a game she assumed she would prevent.

“What do you want from me?” she asked, her voice quivering a bit.

His eyes fell on her hands, still splotched with paint, and something passed through his face.

“You’re an artist,” he said, though not exactly in a question.

“Yes.”

“Then paint.”

Confusion furrowed her brow. “What? Why?”

In a shadow of a moment, he faced the wall and pressed a hidden panel. The door swung open to an immaculate studio — orderly and sterile and cold.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he said flatly. “You paint what I tell you and do not ask questions.”

“And if I refuse?” She dared to challenge.

He smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Let’s see how deep mercy can bleed.”

Callie wrestled with herself — going head-to-head with the fear and hopelessness — to no avail. The brushes danced through her mind, as they always did.

So she painted.

Not the beautiful, placid things that she loved.

She painted storms. Masks. Eyes that appeared to pull rather than observe.

She painted Vincent.

His form, his shadows.

Eventually, he started to appear, watching her work.

He maintained his distance, never touched her or threatened her. But he didn’t back off from asking questions.

“What do you visualize when you paint me?”

Callie kept her lips sealed.

He moved a little closer. “Do I seem like I’m a monster to you?”

She stared him down, defiant. “Seems to me like you’re a man that forgot how to feel.”

For a second she thought she detected surprise in his face before he turned away.

Days turned into weeks.

It was a home of rules, a labyrinthine mansion. There were places she could go and corners she was not allowed to enter. The staff glided through the air like phantoms, avoiding her gaze, never actually acknowledging she existed.

And Vincent was always there, watching from afar, fading into the ether but never leaving.

Then one night the lights dimmed, then went out.

Callie lay alone in bed listening to the storm battering outside, clangs of thunder like a war cry.

Her door swung open.

Vincent entered, unwelcome but nonetheless familiar.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” he said gently.

She shot up with her heart racing. “Then what do you want?”

He paused, lost in thought, at a standstill.

“I had a dream,” he eventually said. “Somebody burned this place down. And you went along with them.”

Her throat became tight. “Maybe I’d let them.”

His expression hardened. “I wouldn’t allow that.”

They looked at each other, the silence growing thicker.

He offered, moving in, penetrating the space she had fought to maintain.

“I can’t allow you to leave yet,” he said softly. “Not now that I know you’re the first real thing I’ve felt in years.”

I was conflicted whether to distance myself from them or to explain it.

“You don’t own me,” she whisper, the defiance rising.

“No,” he answered, this time more sincerely. “But I want to.”

And, for the first time, instead of anger, she was strangely drawn to his words.

The name fell from the man’s mouth like a dark secret, consumed by the mournful silence that settled over the ambush. Callie.

Vincent DeLuca stood amid the pandemonium, his white shirt dotted with smear-stains, breathing in the residue as if was some weird perfume. The stench of gunpowder, blood and betrayal hung thick in the night. But one of his crew lay groaning at his feet, and the others were little more than lifeless carcass or clinging to their last moments. It wasn’t the sight of the bodies that had made him clench his fists, it was the hearing of a name, in a context it had no right to be in — soft and puerile, a name like one that drew sketches instead of creating a blood trail.

Callie.

At first Vincent didn’t realize it. But then something wretched curled in his chest. Matias Torres had sworn allegiance, and now his sister's name was involved in this je ne sais quoi, and with so much stench.

“She doesn’t know anything,” the man on the ground gasped