Genevieve

There’s a moment of silence, but it’s very brief, and then Holden is rising to his feet and I am still lying there, my back pressed against the carpet, staring long and hard and uncomprehendingly at the man with the silver hair.

“What did you just say?” I croak, tears dried stiff against my cheeks. He sighs and steps forward, silently extends a hand in my direction, and helps me to my feet before directing me back toward the armchair.

“Sit down,” he says tiredly, his brow furrowed, before settling in Holden’s chair across from mine. I consider making a second go for the doors, but Holden’s watching me like a hawk and I know immediately that I won’t even make it halfway. He smirks as I reluctantly seat myself on the armchair, feeling drained and utterly confused, and tuck my bare feet underneath my skirts.

“My name is Daniel Church,” the man explains, locking his fingers together. “Your sister and, ah, manager,” He coughs once, visibly uncomfortable, “are currently under care at the Coney Island Hospital. Miss Gilles suffered from several internal injuries resulting from a bullet lodged near her abdominal cavity, but after a quick procedure at the hospital she is on her way to recovery.”

“Gina,” I whisper, as the gravity of his words hits me. I collapse into the armchair, utterly and entirely relieved, and almost burst into tears again. Daniel smiles politely, almost sympathetically, and continues.

“Mr. Benucci, however, may not turn out to be as fortunate as your sister.” He says, and his expression darkens. Glancing toward Holden’s father, Daniel unclasps his hands and runs them once, anxiously, through his hair. “He suffered from fourteen bullet wounds and is currently comatose. And if he wakes,” Daniel licks his lips. “there, uh, there is a reasonable chance he will be paralyzed from the chest down.”

Daniel glances upwards and sees my expression, which I assume is enough to convey my reaction because at once he is sprinting for an explanation. “I-I am so sorry we are meeting this way, amidst this, this tragedy, and I assure you that I never in my wildest dreams intended to hurt you when I ordered his removal-”

“What did you do to Ernest Benucci?!” I half-whisper, half-screech from my perch, but I don’t dare to stand. “Who the fuck are you? Why the fuck am I here?” I’m feeling a steady, mounting wave of panic building in my chest, and I realize I need to leave this room right now or I think I’m going to die. “Get me out of here. Get me the fuck out of here,” I beg, but Daniel stammers on, utterly oblivious.

“Y-you see, Mr. B-Benucci works for me. In fact, he’s our head branch in the Brooklyn area, and several months ago he, ah, well, he went rogue and declared he was breaking off from the corporation to begin an-”

“Sir, I’m sorry, she’s having a panic attack,” Holden mutters, stepping forward.

Right now my head is between my legs and my hands are pressed against my ears and I am rocking myself and trembling and mumbling “This isn’t real This isn’t real This isn’t real” but I don’t believe it, I don’t believe myself. I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe at all and it feels as if the walls of the room are caving in and the wall is lowering down onto it all and in the distance I can hear the dogs barking and the sobbing, oh God the sobbing and the streetlights and the glass in the streets, the broken glass-

“Sir, we need to remove her now,” Holden says, urgently this time, and suddenly I can feel his arms around me but gentle and kind and he is carrying me out of the room and whispering to me softly, “Genevieve, concentrate on your breathing, concentrate, please, you can do this,” and I am trying, oh my God I am trying but the halls are spinning around and around and around us, as if we are pennies rolling down the walls of a pipe. Holden takes me into a white, tiled bathroom and sets me onto the floor, then wets a hand towel in the sink with cold water and presses it to my forehead, and although it helps only a little bit it’s enough to stop the spinning.

“Tell me what you need,” he says calmly, crouching in front of me.

I am clinging to him for dear life, my fingers wrapped tightly around his wrists, and with widened, dizzy eyes I whisper, “Water, please.”

Holden looks around the room and mutters, “No cups,” but after glancing at my face he turns the sink on again and cups his hands beneath the faucet. Gingerly, he turns to me with his hands cupped to hold the water and crouches down, offering his hands to my lips and I drink, grateful, the water cold and slightly salted from his fingertips. He tips the last trickles of water into my open mouth, watching me carefully as my breathing begins to slow to a normal pace.

“You okay?” he mumbles as I sink back to the floor.

I shake my head but reply, “Yes, thank you,” as I stare into his eyes, which are kind and warm again, almost like before.

“I get them too, you know,” Holden says, sitting back on his heels. “Not as much now, but I… I know how it feels. I’m sorry.”

He looks at me almost apologetically, his lips pursed, and his face looks so absolutely beautiful in the harsh white light that I almost forget to hate him. I shift my gaze to the tiles on the floor and stare there, grateful for this bubble of silence and serenity after ten minutes of utter hell.

“Where am I?” I ask, glancing up at him.

Holden chuckles, and lifts his hand to tuck a stray hair behind my ear.

“Paris, France.” he replies, as his fingers graze my skin. “Bienvenu, Genevieve.”