Blood Money (Dark Cartel Romance) (Dinero de Sangre Book 1)

by Lana Sky

  My eyes are closing without permission from my brain. For a second, it’s almost too easy to teleport myself somewhere else. But where? Clara would never touch me like this—swiftly but with a subtle, teasing intimacy that feels too hostile to match any prior lover of mine, either. No.

  Those men worshiped me. Used me. Groped.

  Domino…

  He toys with me. Plays me the way my father would his old guitar when he felt the need to show off during a dinner party. Like any good entertainer, he knew how to create hype with every stroke of the strings. How to build anticipation by drawing out every second he spent tuning the instrument, well before he began performing in earnest.

  I hate myself for how easily Domino can turn my own body against me. Conspiratorially, his heat eats through the towel, coaxing my limbs into submission. I’m suddenly aware of every breath expanding my lungs, filling my chest. I can feel each nipple tighten in the next breeze to blow in from the open windows. I can smell him. Taste his scent mingling with the aroma of the body wash he used on me—lavender.

  It’s like I’m drugged on the stench of it all. I forget the source responsible for the creeping pressure inching up my inner thigh. I forget that I should shy away from it.

  I spread my thighs instead…

  “Jesus Christ, Ada-Maria.” The disgust in his voice hits me like a slap.

  I wrench my eyes open as shame floods my cheeks.

  “I knew you were a whore, but damn.” He pushes past me, dropping the towel on the floor. Angry, fierce strides carrying him into the hall before the full weight of my embarrassment has a chance to sink in.

  What the hell is wrong with me? I’ve become accustomed to training my body to react separately from my brain. To endure the touch of greedy, grasping old men, or drooling sycophants of my father. I’ve perfected how to smother every ounce of discomfort. How to turn pain into pleasure. I know how to fake and fake and fake.

  But my heartbeat hammers out a mocking beat as if to taunt me with the truth.

  Thump. You weren’t faking. Thump.

  “I said come.”

  The command lashes at the air, and a sense of foreboding erases all traces of his touch. I don’t think I’ve ever heard that note in his voice before. That cold, detached hiss.

  Run, Ada.

  I stoop for the towel and drape it over my torso as I creep to the doorway and flick my eyes in the direction opposite the way he went. I should run now. Try to escape. A part of me knows deep down that to try at all would be a waste. Still, I can’t shake the sense that I should, if only to prove to him that I can.

  And to myself.

  “Run,” he calls to me as if reading my mind. I stiffen, puzzled by the prospect of him giving me permission to escape. “And you will sorely regret it. My patience is running thin Ada-Maria. Come!”

  Left with no choice, I shuffle toward the voice, swallowing hard the closer I come. I finally find him in that white room, only now—considering the sun has fully set and darkness officially fallen—it’s silvery in appearance, illuminated by a crystalline chandelier above.

  It’s been transformed in my absence—a pointed reminder that we aren’t alone here. There are other servants in addition to Ines. During my bath, they stripped the bed and replaced the sheets with an identical set devoid of blood. A long, rectangular gift box, wrapped in white and topped with a matching bow, rests near the foot of the mattress. A present?

  The floor has been polished to shine and in the center of the space now rests the same white table he offered me “tea” on earlier. Now, it’s laden with a platter of white fish, a bowl of salad, and a basket of steaming rolls.

  Rather than smirk at me from a seated position, Domino stands with his back to me, his gaze on the window.

  “Eat,” he snaps, and my unease grows. He’s angry, but as I replay the incident from the bathroom in my mind, I don’t think he should be. If anything, he should be gloating. I played into his narrative of a dumb, stupid whore.

  The nerves contribute to how my stomach twists at the smell of the food. I can taste the freshness of the fish just from its aroma—but I don’t dare trust it. Or him.

  I quash the gnawing hunger pains, reclaiming my flimsy grasp on control. Meeting his gaze, I lie without an ounce of guilt, “I’m not hungry.”

  “I suggest you draw out your reprieve as long as you possibly can, Ada-Maria,” he warns in a tone that stops my blood cold. “Now sit down and eat!”

  I stagger to a chair and collapse onto it, reaching for a fork, only to fumble and send it—and the rest of the silverware by it—clattering to the floor.

  My eyes cut to him, my lungs paralyzed. Seconds tick by, but he doesn’t react.

  Because he’s dwelling on something, I suspect. Somehow, I offended him, more than just by responding to his touch. But how?

  I bite my lip at the sensation washing through me. It’s painfully familiar. Ironic, in a sense. Papa is supposedly dead, but this man can make me feel the same way only he could.

  On pins and needles, dancing on eggshells around a mood as volatile as a summer storm.

  “I don’t hear you eating.”

  I grab the fork, as well as the knife and spoon. Hastily, I assemble a plate, noisily scraping each platter as I go to prove that I’m obeying.

  Once my plate is full, however, I can no longer play pretend. Impulsively, I resort to my tried-and-true method for making it through one of my family’s mandated dinners.

  I stab at a piece of lettuce and drag it across the porcelain plate to a distant corner. Then I cut the fish into squares. Quarters. Then those chunks into smaller slivers. Flakes. Mush. I spread it across my plate in random sections to make it look like I’ve picked through it. The bread I rip into three pieces and try to crumble them as small as possible.

  It’s a convincing effort when all is said and done—or at least it would be.

  If I didn’t look up a heartbeat later to find him watching me, his arms crossed, gaze unreadable. Gradually, his expression morphs from callous to interested. Then enraged.

  He moves too quickly to muster a defense. All I can do is cringe into my seat as he snatches my plate from the table and hurls it against the wall. Wham! The porcelain shatters as the food speckles the floor in a colorful display.

  “I’ve shown you mercy, Ada-Maria,” he snarls that word as though it’s the most coveted gift in all the world. Mercy from him. “I gave you time to heal from your journey here. I offer you nourishment. I bathe you. Give you clothing. I ask you nicely for what it is I’m after. And this is how you repay me?”

  He’s shouting, his voice booming. Brutally, he snatches the towel from me. A hard shove pushes me from the chair to the ground. I cry out, wincing as my sore thigh aches with the impact. Instinct takes priority, urging me to my knees. Cower. The way I have so many times before, I scurry from the threat, staring only at the floor before me.

  Move, Ada. Move!

  “You play fucking mind games,” Domino snarls. “No more. I’ve decided that it’s time for your punishment.”

  “D-Don’t!” I cover my head as his steps resonate through the floor, but they blow past me. Through trembling fingers, I watch him approach the bed instead.

  He grabs the “present,” ripping off the lid. The box, he throws aside, revealing what it contained, brandished in his fist.

  “N-No…” I’ve never heard my voice sound like this. This weak. Then again, I have—just in those memories I’ve pushed to the back of my mind, never to revisit. “Don’t!”

  I’m on my feet, racing toward the door with a single-minded focus.

  I don’t even see him coming.

  Wham! I hit the floor on my side, unsure of what struck me. Or where. The air wheezes from my lungs as specks of light dot my vision. A shadow moves from the corner of my eye. His hand.

  He grabs my hair, yanking me onto my stomach.

  “I said, on your knees.”

  I rush to comply, toppling over tw
ice in my attempt. When I look up, he’s standing over me, that thing trailing from his hand to graze the floor.

  It’s a whip. Brand-new, made of braided black leather that fans into a tail of three separate points. They’re naked—not tipped with metal, thank God—but I know that the pain is only slightly less. The wounds won’t scar the same way. But God, will it hurt.

  “Please, don’t—”

  “You were twenty-two minutes late the first night,” he growls. With a flick of his wrist, he extends the whip. “You ignored Ines’ request. For that, I will double your tally. And after the stunt you just pulled…”

  His eyes glow, and I know there’s no point in running.

  I go numb, crying silent tears as he moves to stand behind me. His shadow paints the floor, illustrating exactly what he’s doing—not that I need the visual.

  Crack! He tests the whip against the air with a sound that draws a whimper from my chest.

  “Please don’t—”

  “You try to run, and I’ll add fifty more lashes for every attempt. You brought this upon yourself.”

  Fire. It’s like being severed in two, this kind of pain. My brain disconnects from my body, and I’m just a bystander watching a pathetic, sniveling creature at the mercy of someone else.

  One.

  “Your father coddled you like a fucking child your entire life, and you obeyed him, didn’t you? His perfect little girl?”

  Two.

  I groan as three individual lines catch the flesh clinging to my spine. It hurts. So badly…

  I was wrong before. He is nothing like my father.

  Roy drew out my punishments sadistically with an enviable sense of control. He rarely gave in to rage from the outset. It was a game with him. How long could he maintain restraint? Always right until I’d least expect it.

  “You helped him!”

  Three.

  Seven.

  Eleven.

  “You helped him kill her, didn’t you? Didn’t you?”

  On the one hand, I know that Domino’s voice is in my ear, booming and gruff with rage. At the same time, another voice overlays him.

  “You’ve made me do this, you understand? You aren’t held to the same standard as those other little bastards. You are a Pavalos!”

  “P-Please.”

  Another blow drowns out the plea.

  Fifteen…

  Or is it seventeen?

  “Not a day goes by when I don’t fucking regret letting your mother carry you to term. You are a disappointment, Ada. A fucking disgrace! Say that you deserve this. Say it!”

  “I’m sorry.” I go prone, pressing my forehead to the floor. I’m sobbing openly, snot mingling with the tears. It’s what he wants, so I cry and rock back and forth with the pain. I put on a show; I give in to the fear. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry! I deserve it; I’m sorry. Please, Papa—”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  I blink, confused. That voice isn’t like Roy’s. Never before would he relent this early. No. I’d need to repent for longer, and far more earnestly than that. I’d need to prove without a doubt that I deserved his forgiveness.

  No matter how much blood he drew.

  Thud!

  I flinch, gritting my teeth against the next searing pain.

  But it doesn’t come. The only sound to follow is the slap of footsteps retreating from the room, into the hall.

  When I finally contort myself to peek around my arm, I realize he’s gone. Domino—because my father was never here. Nearby, the whip rests discarded on the floor, and I crawl in my rush to scurry as far from it as I can. My hip strikes the wall, and I finally take stock of the agony radiating up and down my back.

  He lacked the cruel precision of Papa. He was ruthless. Reckless. My back feels sticky, my flesh so raw that it hurts to even attempt to stand or sit upright.

  So, I curl into a ball and breathe through the agony.

  He’ll return soon enough.

  He never finished counting.

  Chapter Eight

  “Good morning, Miss.”

  I peel my eyes open, alarmed when all I see is white. This iteration is a beautiful color, reflecting snippets of gold like rays of the sun. I must be dead. Only heaven could be this peaceful and this blindingly clean.

  But then I feel the pain. It’s dulled—which confuses me even more. Fiery, stinging lines throb all across my back, but it’s as if an invisible hand is holding the worst at bay, allowing just a fraction of the discomfort to bother me. I recognize this dreamy, dazed mental state, where my brain feels like mush, and everything sparkles.

  He drugged me again.

  He drugged me good.

  As a result, any fear I might feel is reduced to three tiny butterflies fluttering around in my belly, but I can still feel it, nonetheless; a prickling bit of instinct warning that I should be worried. I should question what he drugged me with and why. I should run.

  “Mr. Domino requested that I treat your back again, Miss. Apologies.”

  Again?

  I test my muscles experimentally and groan. My back is ablaze, but the rest of me isn’t too far off. I hurt all over. The kind of pulsing discomfort I’d need an entire bottle of wine to dull completely.

  The more I move, however, the more of my surroundings I’m able to take in. Heaven turns out to be the same white room I’ve been relegated to since arriving here. Beyond the bed, the picturesque illusion shatters.

  My entire body goes cold the second I spot the white table a few feet away. It’s in the same position as last night, though devoid of the food and only one chair remains. Someone took pains to clear the broken plate from the floor at least, though the wall still holds the multi-colored traces of where my meal shattered against it.

  Domino isn’t anywhere in sight—a fact that rips a sigh of relief from me.

  But Ines stands on the opposite side of the bed, her hands folded before her. Within her reach is a white case placed on the edge of the mattress. Medical supplies?

  “Miss?” She prompts. Apparently, she needs my permission this time.

  I nod, jerking around to lie on my stomach again, facing the foot of the bed.

  She moves gently, prodding my back to assess the damage. Only now do I realize that I’m still naked.

  “Mr. Domino is away today,” Ines explains while smoothing a cool liquid across my back. When it makes contact with the sorer areas, I flinch, but it’s soothing, killing what little pain remains damn near instantly. Only when she’s covered half of the affected area, do I fully register what she said.

  And how she said it, phrased carefully as if inviting me to question.

  “Where?” The second I speak, I’m reminded of the collar around my throat—and the chain neatly coiled a few inches from my head. The sight of it sends my heart plummeting, risking the peaceful mind state the drug is trying to set. No high could make this situation tenable.

  “He will be gone until the evening,” Ines adds. “Until then, he said that you are allowed to explore from the limits of the house, the terrace gardens, and the courtyard. You are to not go beyond the inner garden or the courtyard. Understood?”

  I ignore her direct question the way she did mine. “Where are we? Why am I here?”

  “Mr. Domino also requested that you enjoy lunch without him. He will require your presence at dinner. If you need anything, I am to assist you.”

  Her words all contain a monotone, practiced quality. I can’t shake the sense that this is a speech she’s rehearsed to death. Or one she’s given many times before.

  I twist my back as much as I dare and lift my head to face her. If she notices my staring, she goes out of her way to pretend not to. With careful, clinical precision, she dips what looks like a cotton swab into the mouth of a bottle of clear liquid, then applies that liquid to the remaining marks.

  I hiss through my teeth at the sight of them—at least twenty lashes centered along my spine. Despite their angry, red appearance, I can tell that
they aren’t as deep as they look—only a few managed to rip through the deepest layers of skin, enough to bleed.

  Ines doesn’t bat an eyelash at the sight of them, cleaning each one with the same abject boredom I’d assume she scrubs the floor with.

  “Your lunch will be ready in an hour,” she says after swabbing the last open wound. “Until then, I recommend that you enjoy some sun. Though…” Her voice shifts, and something in me perks up to listen. For the first time, she meets my gaze directly, and all I see in her eyes is a desperate warning. “I would suggest you adhere to Mr. Domino’s limits.”

  I swallow hard, blinking rapidly. I’ve already experienced the consequences of testing his “limits” once.

  “Thank you,” I croak.

  Nodding, Ines returns the bottle of liquid to her white case. Then she gathers up the used cotton rounds in a plastic bag. “I will find you when lunch is ready to be served—”

  “Wait!” I roll over to face her, scrambling to cover myself with most of the sheet. “Why am I here? What is he going to do with me? Help me…”

  “Enjoy your day, Miss,” Ines says, her head bowed respectfully. “I will find you when lunch is ready to be served.”

  Dejected, I watch her leave, feeling a sob build in my chest. When the tears fall, I marvel at their searing warmth. This is the most I’ve cried in…

  Well, Pavalos aren’t allowed to cry. Not in my father’s presence, at least. We suffer in silence and endure any pain with bright smiles on our faces. It’s how we’ve survived for so long, he used to say. No one could ever tell when we were wounded.

  These days, wounds can heal into ugly marks easily lasered away or fixed with a simple surgery. Through it all, you just keep smiling.

  “Oh, Mr. Domino requested one last thing.” Ines scuttles back into the room, this time without her case.

  I watch her cross over to the floor-length mirror she brushed my hair in front of the other day. She feels along the edge of it, revealing that the entire surface is really a door. It opens inward, into another room that she hurries inside.

  Confused, I stand and follow her, limping with every step, though I still don’t feel any real pain.