Five Miles (Gypsy Brothers, #3)

by Lili Saint Germain

  Truth is, I’d been holding those tears in for a very, very long time. Six years, to be exact.

  I wash my face and pat it dry with a paper towel, reapplying my makeup afterward.

  We don’t say anything else on the way to our destination. After a short while, Jase slows the car and turns into a large, circular driveway that sits in front of an impressive mansion, dotted with Gypsy Brothers motorcycles. We’re only a few miles at most from the Mexican border crossing, and I have to wonder if this house has a secret tunnel or something to the other side. I soon dismiss that suspicion when I see the elderly man standing on the balcony of the second floor, talking to Dornan.

  Emilio.

  “Where are we?” I ask Jase, peering up at the two men as they smoke cigars and talk with animated hands.

  “This is Dornan’s father’s house,” Jase says, looking up at the men with an unreadable expression.

  “So, he’s your grandfather?” I ask, even though I know. I’ve met the man. He’s the man in the shadows who guarded the doors and watched silently from the edge of the stage at Va Va Voom, as Dornan and his sons took everything from me six years ago.

  “I suppose he is,” Jase says, clearly not excited by that piece of information.

  Jase doesn’t make a move to get out of the car, so I don’t, either. I mentally catalog my surroundings, in case I need to draw on the information later. There are tall towers on each corner of the square parcel of land, each one housing a guard dressed in full black garb, sporting a machine gun each.

  Delightful.

  Jase raises his hand to open his door and I shoot out my own hand, stopping him.

  “Wait,” I say weakly. He turns to me, his face blank, his features controlled.

  I take the hand closest to me and squeeze it affectionately.

  “Just…I wish things were different, you know?”

  He looks down at my hand before placing his other palm on top and patting me gently.

  “Yeah,” he says, a look of resignation in his eyes.

  He gets out of the car and I follow slowly, clutching my handbag to my side protectively.

  It’s hot down here in Tijuana, hot and smoggy. And I thought L.A. had a smog problem. It’s got nothing on the thick, stale air that sticks to my skin and makes me feel dirty the moment I’m out of the car. The reality of having thousands of cars pass through a narrow border crossing every hour, I suppose.

  Dornan spots us and acknowledges us with a thrust of his chin, taking a puff on his cigar as he listens to his father speak. I glance at Emilio quickly, taking in his expensive designer suit and gray hair, and wonder how the son of an Italian drug lord managed to become the leader of the Gypsy Brothers MC.

  But I know, of course. I know exactly how he did it. He just killed and killed until he had all the power. It’s the simplest way to rise to the top.

  Eliminate the competition.

  Jase makes his way up a long set of smooth stone stairs that lead to double front doors, waiting for me to catch up before he knocks. A young girl, dressed in a maid’s uniform of black and white opens the door before his hand is even back at his side. I guess that they have been waiting for us.

  “They’re upstairs,” the girl says, pointing to the ornate staircase in front of us that curves up to a second level.

  We walk through a fancy-looking foyer before climbing the stairs, and I wonder if I’ve ever been in a house dripping with as much money as this one. It’s dirty money, though—you can tell by the flecks of plaster gouged out of the walls that are so obviously bullet holes, and the way the maid scurries around like her very life depends on her standard of work. It probably does. My heart sinks when I realize she’s probably a slave of some kind. Trapped in this house and owned by Emilio. He’s a sick bastard like that. I was always terrified to go near him as a child.

  When we get to the top of the stairs, I spot Dornan through an open door. He’s standing out on the balcony still, talking with his father, but he stops long enough to wink at me. Something thrills through me and I beam back at him, feeling adrenalin course through my veins anew.

  He breaks away from his father and ventures inside, his cigar still in his mouth. He puffs on it a few times before removing it, snapping the fingers on his other hand to get the attention of the other brothers, who are standing and lounging around the large formal lounge room, looking angry and bored.

  Always with the looking bored, these brothers.

  Jase charges into the room beside me. “Sorry, pop,” he says. “Traffic was shit.”

  Dornan nods, shrugging his shoulders. “Can’t drive a car through the middle of everyone like you can with a bike,” he says, placating Jase, who relaxes visibly.

  “Right,” Dornan says, and every son is hanging off his word. “Nonno has some things he wants to say to you all.”

  Emilio steps into the room from the balcony, his cigar by his side. He brushes past Dornan and comes to a stop in front of me, his gaze raking over me like I’m a piece of road kill that’s stinking the place up.

  “Who the fuck is she?” he asks with a heavy Italian accent, breathing dirty cigar smoke in my face. His gold tooth glints in the dappled sunlight that filters into the dim room, and I have to fight not to shudder. I remember that tooth, that evil smirk, so damn well.

  “Sammi,” Dornan supplies.

  “Well? What the fuck is she doing in my house?”

  “Padre, please,” Dornan says, herding him away. “Sammi, go downstairs. Emanuela will show you where to wait for us.”

  I turn on my heel and leave the room, closing the door behind me, the ghost of a smile at my lips.

  An hour later, I’m standing on the balcony that juts out from a large guest bedroom that feels cold and clinical, all white walls and high ceilings. The sun is starting to fade on the horizon, and I can only assume that Dornan and his sons are either planning to strike tonight once it is dark, or wait until morning. If they strike the Colombians’ warehouse tonight, I’ll miss my chance to get alone with their motorcycles and insert my bombs, and this will all be wasted time.

  God, I hope I can get alone with those bikes for five goddamn minutes.

  Waiting. Watching the door. Elliot’s homemade bombs burning a hole in my handbag, or at least that’s what it feels like.

  It’s still so risky. I know that no matter what, I can’t join them on the ride. Even if there’s a fake passport for me, which is entirely possible, if I have to go anywhere near that border crossing, I’ll be found out. I might be able to fool Dornan and his sons, but I can’t fool sniffer dogs, X-ray machines, and armed policemen.

  I hear footsteps approach the door, and I know it’s Dornan before he even appears in the doorway. Something about his walk, the way his boots hit the floor, the cocky arrogance that says he owns wherever he is, all vibrates through every step he takes.

  Well, those steps are numbered. He’s going to die tonight. And my nightmare is finally going to be over.

  He closes the door behind him and drops his pack onto the bed with a thud. Without speaking, he walks up behind me, pressing his hard body into the back of mine.

  He slides one hand under my shirt, playing with my nipple, and squeezes my chin with the thumb and forefinger of his other hand. Pulling me, he guides me to face him, his charcoal eyes ablaze with a vendetta of his own.

  “Looks like someone stole your bikes,” I say, gesturing to the empty driveway. Of course they haven’t been stolen; I saw Donny and Jase wheeling them all around the corner and out of sight a few minutes ago.

  “They’re locked away in the garage for the night,” Dornan says. “We don’t need anyone seeing us here and getting ahead of us.”

  In the garage. Thank you, sir, for that crucial piece of information.

  “I’ve been waiting for you,” I say, before he crashes his lips to mine. He tastes like beer and cigar, not entirely unpleasant tastes themselves, but of course, it is unpleasant, because it’s him.

&nbs
p; “Oh yeah?” he rumbles, all honey and gravel in his throat. I can’t quite believe that this will be the last time I hear his voice. The last time he puts his hands on me. The last time he gets to openly fondle me on a balcony where anyone could see us.

  “Mmm-hmm,” I answer, swirling my tongue around his, feeling a little screwed up at how much his imminent death is getting me off. Jesus Christ, I am so messed up in the head.

  He unbuttons the top of my jeans and tugs the zipper down slowly, pressing his hand into my jeans and pulling my panties to the side. I’m wet already, thrilled and turned on by the prospect that his life is in my hands, instead of the other way around.

  “Ohh,” I gasp as he pushes his fingers inside me.

  “So fucking tight,” he groans, working his fingers fast. My cheeks blaze as I steal a glance around, noting that anyone could see us.

  He withdraws his fingers and grabs the top of my arm, dragging me inside.

  “Strip,” he commands, unzipping his jeans and palming his erection. I do as he says, throwing my shirt and jeans in the corner so that I am wearing only my bra.

  “Lay on your stomach,” he orders. “Ass in the air.” I do as he says, obeying, always obeying.

  Not for long.

  I lay there anticipating his next move, my pussy pounding at the thought of what’s about to happen.

  He doesn’t disappoint. He leans in close and pushes himself inside of me, and I cry out, full to bursting with the devil himself inside me.

  A few hard strokes and he suddenly pulls out, wrenching on my arm so that I flip onto my back.

  “Wider,” he says, pushing my knees apart until my hips scream in pain. He sinks his dick into me, hard and fast, and it isn’t long before he shudders and goes still, his eyes rolling back in his head as he shoots his load into me.

  For the last time. God, I hope so.

  We doze off, limbs entangled, or at least he does while I pretend to. I lay there for hours, the hazy aftermath of sex wearing off and leaving in its wake, sadness and despair. All of a sudden, I feel like I’m going to have a fucking breakdown, and I suck in lungfuls of air to try and stop my tears from coming.

  But come they do, streaming down my face in giant waterfalls. I’ve become so accustomed to fucking the man who raped me and destroyed everything, in my quest to destroy him, that I’ve forgotten what normal feels like.

  It’s at that exact moment that I realize how much I fucking hate myself. It’s no wonder both Elliot and Jase can’t stand me, or the things I’ve done. The way I’ve been living. The way I’ve never let myself think past the next dead body, but I do think about it now, and it looks just as bleak, cold and unforgiving as Dornan’s eyes when he looks at me.

  And it’s also when I realize that even when Dornan and his sons die, I won’t be rid of this horrid feeling that permeates every cell in my body. This filth. If I was one of those stereotypical rape victims in a TV show, I’d scrub myself raw and cry myself stupid in a scalding hot shower, but I’ve done that a million times over the past six years, and it’s never, ever worked.

  So I do what will make me feel better instead. I untangle myself ever so gently, making sure I don’t rouse Dornan from his sleep, and tiptoe into the bathroom. After I splash water on my face, I feel a little better. I study my naked form in the large mirror behind the sink, still seeing ribs and hipbones jutting out painfully. The bite mark on my breast has turned purple and bruised, looking garish in comparison to the rest of my skin. I’ve lost that suntanned glow that I had when I arrived in L.A., and my skin just looks pasty and unhealthy.

  I dress silently, pulling a black nightgown over my head and using my ninja stealth skills to soundlessly pick up my handbag. The heavy explosives shift against each other in the bottom of the bag, and I glance at Dornan to make sure he is still fast asleep. He doesn’t move, and I step slowly and silently toward the door, my gaze never leaving his face.

  I make my way down the staircase and up the long, curved hallway that runs the length of the lower floor, my eyes everywhere, listening for any noise that could signal someone approaching. I know that several of the brothers are likely keeping guard in shifts, but it makes sense that they’d focus on the perimeter of the property rather than the inside.

  I creep toward the other end of the house, trying to guess in my head where the garage would be. If I saw correctly, the brothers had wheeled the bikes around the far side of the house, away from the bedrooms. It had to be fairly close or else they would have ridden the bikes, so I take a guess and head in that general direction.

  I’m in luck. After a few false starts into the scullery and then a storage room, I happen upon the garage, which is housed off the hallway, the doorway nothing different to the rest of the doors that dot the long corridor. I test the door, and my heart leaps with joy when the knob turns easily. Of course, it’s locked from the outside. I’m so grateful nobody has locked it from the inside, too.

  I close the door behind me, twisting the lock so that if someone tries to come in, I might have time to hide, the moment of truth and action suddenly upon me. I’m terrified now, my heart feeling like its about to beat right out of my chest.

  The bikes are parked at the far end of the garage, and I press forward, determined and sick-to-my-stomach nervous. It takes me a few moments to pull the bags and phones out of the lining of my handbag and line them up in front of me with shaking hands. I turn each phone on, relieved that Elliot had the foresight to fully charge them and keep them turned off before giving them to me.

  Next, I tiptoe over to the first bike in the line and unscrew the fuel cap, maneuvering one of the slimline phones and packages of nails and metal ball bearings inside. I’m sweating in the humid, airless garage, sweating and fucking panting. I must look a sight right now, stuffing explosives into motorbikes in my goddamn nightgown while I hyperventilate from fear, and lack of fresh air.

  After fumbling for what seems like hours on the first two bikes, I manage to get the rest of the explosives into the remaining fuel tanks pretty smoothly. I look around for a rag to wipe across each of the bikes. Little drips of gasoline having gotten onto each bike, but of course there is nothing out of place in the pristinely clean and neat room, so I improvise. I use the edge of my nightgown, thankful that I have chosen to wear black, and mop up any little spills.

  Satisfied, I step back and survey the bikes, each one now stuffed with explosives. I’ve chosen to stuff an extra bomb in the fuel tank of Dornan’s bike, so that no matter what else happens, that fucker is blown to smithereens when I press the detonate button.

  I fish out my own iPhone from my bag and activate the app Elliot has loaded onto my phone, the one that tracks the GPS of all five mobiles now floating inside the gas tanks of each motorcycle. I breathe a sigh of relief as six green dots appear on the screen in front of me. They all work, so they should all explode.

  That’s a big should.

  I’m not an idiot; I know things could go wrong. If I don’t time it correctly, they could ride too far away, rendering the detonator useless. I need to be within a five-mile range of the phones inside the bikes for the detonator to work. I don’t know why, I’m just following Elliot’s instructions.

  And then there’s the matter of them leaving at the same time. If they leave in a staggered sequence, I’m screwed, because it will mean some of them may blow up closer to the house, or even inside the garage.

  I check that my own phone has a full battery and then exit the GPS app, shoving it back into my bag. Satisfied, I sling my bag over my shoulder and tiptoe out of the garage, shutting it soundlessly behind me.

  Relief courses through me, and I feel like weeping all of a sudden. Again. I walk along the hallway, back to the room where Dornan is still presumably sleeping, and now that I’m home free, I’m much more casual.

  Which is kind of stupid, because when I reach the top of the curved staircase and round the bend to the cluster of bedrooms, my knight in shining armor is standing i
n my path, wearing nothing but a pair of tight black boxer shorts, his hair mussed up and arms folded tensely across his chest.

  “Oh,” I say, raking my gaze over him. “Hello.”

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Jase asks, his voice full of anger.

  “I’m trying to find a bathroom,” I spit back at him. Thank fuck he found me after I laid the bombs, or I’d be royally screwed, and probably end up with a bullet in my head.

  “You have a bathroom in your room,” he replies, like I’m a moron.

  “Yeah, and if I wake your father, I’ll never hear the end of it,” I hiss.

  He leans closer and sniffs my shirt. “What are you doing?” I say, pushing him out of my personal space.

  “Why do you stink like gasoline?” Jase asks, suspicion alive and well on his face.

  I narrow my eyes. “Because your father just draped himself all over me. Do you really have to ask? Do you want me to draw you a picture?”

  He eyes my bag, and I can practically see the cogs turning in his pretty head. “Why are you carrying a bag around to go to the bathroom?” he asks, snatching the bag from my shoulder.

  He unzips the bag, which now holds nothing except a change of clothes and a big ol’ maxi-sized pack of tampons.

  “Because I have my period, dickhead,” I say. “Would you prefer I carry around this massive box of Tampax for your brothers to see?” I reach over and rip the box out of the bag, waving it in his face. “I can only imagine the tasteful jokes they’d make about that.”

  Seemingly satisfied with my story—but still not happy—he thrusts the bag back at me, and I grab hold of it before it falls to the ground. He turns on his heel and stalks off, his ass looking mighty fine in those tight boxers he’s wearing.

  I slip back into the room I’m sharing with Dornan without waking him up, and sit on a wicker chair on the balcony, the muggy night air warm but bearable outside.

  I sit, and I wait for the sun to come up, and for my day of reckoning to begin.

  ***

  Dornan wakes the moment the sun begins to rise, the world bathed in an eerie orange glow, half darkness, half light. I watch from my spot on the balcony as he dresses, quickly and efficiently. He even has a proper gun holster that he wears across his chest over a plain black T-shirt, with a gun strapped under each arm. A leather jacket over the top—plain, I’m assuming because they’re going for the element of surprise—and he’s dressed to kill.