by Belle Aurora
The sands in her hourglass quicken by the minute. Tomorrow is her deadline.
If she doesn’t give me something—anything—by then, she gets sent back home, a lamb to the slaughter.
I’m giving her an opportunity to save herself, but she’s making it difficult.
Lightly grasping the front of her linen shirt, I watch her big brown eyes widen as large as saucers, and I growl in warning, “Time’s almost up, little one. What’s it going to be?”
Her eyes bright, she swallows hard and looks me in the eye, as she states, “You’re just like them.”
My brow furrows. “Like who?”
She takes a step back. “Them.” Then another. “All of them.” Suddenly, a look of pure sadness sweeps her. “You don’t want to help me. You want to help yourself. The only person I can rely on is me.” Her eyes meet mine, and there’s something there. Grief, maybe. “I thought maybe you were different, but you can’t even see what’s right in front of you.”
I take a step toward her, taking both her hands without permission and squeezing them tightly as I implore, “Give me a reason to help you.” I let go of her hand and reach up to cup her cold cheeks. “I’m all ears. Just say the words, baby.”
Her eyes fill with tears, and she shuts them tight before they have a chance to betray her. She sniffs prettily and lets out a hoarse whisper. “I wish I could trust you, Julius.” As she dips her chin, I let go of her, and my hands fall to my sides. She hits me hard with her next softly spoke words. “You seem like the type of guy that a girl would do just about anything to have on her side.” In her voice, I find traces of pensiveness.
And with those words, my chest caves. I want her to stay with me. Permanently.
Shit.
Is this what happened to Twitch with Lexi?
What the fuck was this little sparrow doing to me?
Because I get it now. I get it. And I owe Twitch an apology for all the ribbing I gave him.
As she turns to walk into my bedroom, a feeling of dread passes through me at the realization that I have someone special in my grasp and that I may have to let her go. Knowing this, I panic.
My next offer stuns even me. “What if I said I’d protect you?”
She pauses at the doorway and, without turning back, responds, “I would tell you not to make promises you can’t keep.”
My body rigid with unease, she closes the door behind her, the soft click of the latch echoing in my mind.
“You rang,” Ling utters as she walks into my bathroom.
I don’t exactly feel good about this, but I also don’t have a choice. “You’re up tonight. I have a meeting that I can’t miss.”
Her eyes narrow dangerously. “So you go out and drink with the boys, while I get stuck babysitting the little cunt who likes to backchat?”
Fixing my hair in the mirror, I put no heat into my next comment. “Don’t call her that. And yes, every now and again, you’ll have to do something you don’t want to. It’s called working, Ling.”
“No,” she argues. “This is not working. Working is guns and men in suits and shoot-outs.” She leans her hip against the counter and moves to place her face in my view. “This is bullshit.”
This is the closest to pouting I’ve ever heard Ling get. I glance at her, my brow raised in surprise.
She lowers her face and sneers. “I’m not going to like her just because your cock stands to attention whenever she’s in the room.”
My eyes on her, I lean in, and warn, “I’m getting real tired of this petulant bullshit attitude of yours, Ling. On a five-year-old, it would be cute. On you?” I look her up and down. “Not so much.”
She opens her mouth to fire off another round, but I cut her off with, “I expect I don’t need to tell you that if she’s harmed in any way, there’ll be hell to pay.”
Her mouth set in a grim line, she nods once. “I get it.”
“No, you don’t,” I tell her. “You don’t get it. This shit I’m spouting is serious.” Taking a step closer, I lock her in, me at her front, the vanity to her back. I lower my gruff voice. “If you lay a hand on her, touch a single hair on her head, look at her the wrong way, I swear to you, Ling”—my breath heats the apple of her cheek—“you will be out on your ass without a dime, blacklisted.” My hand comes up to caress her cheek. “Now do you get me?”
A moment’s silence.
“Yeah.” A look of pure hatred shines in her eyes. “I get you.”
“Good.” Dropping my hand, I move to the mirror, looking at myself one last time, and mutter clinically, “That’s real good.”
Julius walks out of the bathroom and back into the bedroom as I continue to clean the healing wound on my heel. He approaches the bed and kneels when he reaches my side. “Still sore?”
I don’t look up at him because I’m afraid he’ll see too much in my eyes, see inside of me, see the anxiousness of knowing he’s leaving me alone with Ling. It’s now with the apprehension I feel that I comprehend how ridiculous I had been to have once felt safer with Ling as a buffer between Julius and me. I realize he wouldn’t leave me with her unless he had to, so I don’t embarrass myself by begging, mainly because I’m sure if I did, he would stay. And that would just confuse things between us even more. “It’s getting better.”
He watches me in quiet as I put my all into my task, doing my best to ignore him.
“I’ll be back late.”
I keep my voice even. “Okay.”
“Look at me.”
I really don’t want to, but his tone is firm and unyielding, and after years of having submission beaten into you, it becomes little more than a reflex. My eyes meet his, stormy and full of concern, and my mouth parts, my breath leaving me in a whoosh. It’s like being run over by a bus, then the bus reversing, and being run down again. My breath hitches and I don’t realize I’m crying until I feel the wetness trail my cheeks.
“Hey,” he starts, reaching out to wipe away a tear with his thumb, running his fingers down my jawline.
And I can’t stop the whispered words from escaping. “Please come back.”
He frowns. “I will.”
“Good,” I mutter, blinking through the torrent of streaming tears, then speak just above a hush. “Because right now, you’re all I have.”
Before I can assess the impact of those words, I am swooped off the bed and lifted into a strong pair of arms. They hold me tight. They are unwavering, and for the first time in a long while, I feel safe.
“Get out,” he barks, and I hear the notorious sound of heels clicking from the doorway of the bathroom, toward the bedroom door, and then out into the hall.
My face buried into his shoulder, he cradles me as if I were the most precious thing in his life, and it leaves a chaotic mess of thoughts in its trail. His large hand slides up my back to the base of my neck, where his warm fingers hold me to him, and I wonder if Julius needs the contact as much as I do.
“Look at me,” he speaks gently. This is not a demand, but a beseeching request.
With a light sniff, I pull back, clutching the material at his sides with everything I have. He searches my face a long moment before leaning in and pressing his warm, full lips to my forehead, softly, with tender regret. I press myself into him and take all that he gives me. When, finally, he pulls away, he lets out a long, weary sigh before glaring at me, but there is no heat behind it. It’s all for show. And to back up my claim, he speaks softly, taking care. “Tomorrow, we’re going to talk, yeah? And we’re not leaving a single stone unturned. ‘Cause things…” He eyes me cautiously, as though I’m a frightened animal set to bolt at any given moment. He finishes his statement. “Things have changed.”
His startling admission has me blinking up at him. How have the tables turned so? And why did his declaration secretly thrill me? Realizing he expected some form of response, I gave him a short nod of agreement.
His soft face turns inflexible when he avows, “You best not play me, Alejandra. I
t wouldn’t end well for you.”
Without a thought, my mouth opens, and I return, “I already tried.”
With that, his face softens once more, and a small smile plays on his lips. “Oh, yeah? How’d that go?”
“Not very well,” I admit quietly, without an ounce of shame.
And the giddiness that whooshes through me as he dips his head, his shoulders bouncing in silent laughter, is priceless. For a short moment, I feel as normal as I possibly can.
Even more so when he lifts his smiling face and shocks me with the brightness of his million-dollar smile. Thrice as much when he leans toward me and presses his full, soft lips to mine in what would essentially be the shortest, most precious kiss of my brief life.
Soft-mouthed. Closed-lipped. And perfect in every possible way. So much that the shock of it makes me want to cry all over again.
My chest aches and a spark flares through me, warming my cold heart. Hope reignites.
Would it truly hurt to confide in Julius, just a little?
It’s not like things can get worse for me.
I’m so sick of being hurt by men, and although fear plagues me, somewhere deep inside of me calls out to give him a chance.
The male, woodsy scent of his cologne fills my lungs, and I wish to drown in the smell of him, never wanting to come up for air, willingly forfeiting my life for this single moment.
Not meaning to in the slightest, I release the material at his sides and run my hands up his firm, muscled chest, gripping his large shoulders with my small hands as tightly as I can. Julius releases my lips and breaks my heart when he shows me true, unselfish affection, keeping his face close to mine then running his nose up the length of mine before returning to peck my lax lips once more.
“It’s all about us now,” he coaxes, running his firm hands down my back, resting them on my hips then squeezing lightly.
And with a short, stifling breath, I learn to trust again. “Yeah.” Because quite frankly, if I would ever want an us, I would want an us with Julius.
He stands then, placing me on my feet and giving me a look that tells me he no longer wants to leave. With a huff, he shakes his head and steps away from me. “Tomorrow, we talk.”
“Okay,” is all I say, because I can’t think with him so close.
Another step toward the door. “And you’ll tell me everything.”
“I will,” I promise, masking my surprised relief of having someone to confide in. I haven’t been able to openly talk to anyone in years. Having that now, after all this time, makes me feel equal parts nervous and thrilled.
He pauses at the doorway, dressed in all black, looking like heaven on earth. He takes his time, looking his fill, and without a single spoken word, he turns and leaves. And I let him.
“It’s all about us now.”
What does that mean exactly?
I definitely know what I want it to mean, but my hopes have been dashed so many times before, I don’t want to overthink Julius’s cryptic statement.
My mind a mess, I climb back into bed, curl up into a ball, holding myself tightly, and cover myself completely.
Not ten minutes pass before I hear the tedious sound of clicking heels in the distance. The covers are thrown off me and I stiffen, not sure what to expect. Maybe a beating, just to shake things up.
Instead, Ling glances down at me in repulsion. Looking down her nose at me, she says, “Get up.”
But I’m confused, and the words don’t sink in.
After a short minute, she repeats herself, “I said get up.”
Using my elbow to lift myself into a half-sitting position, I question her, “Why?”
With a sly smile, she reveals, “Because we’re going out.”
What?
I sit up fully, eyes wide. “Where?”
But she retreats, her signature heels clicking right out of the room.
I collapse back onto the bed and wonder whether this is such a good idea.
From down the hall, Ling yells, “Get up!”
And because it sounds more of a demand than an invite, I get my ass up.
When Ethan Black hands me the long, black baton, I blink down at it a moment before turning my glare up to him and asking, “What the fuck? You think this is band practice, Black? Jesus, give me something deadly.”
After the silence I gave as a peace offering during the eight-hour flight to the state of our target, you’d think he’d be more appreciative.
Black grins darkly and leans in to sneer, “Not on your life.”
Cocksucking jack-off.
Surrounded by men in black SWAT gear, I blend in with the crowd, dressed extraordinarily similar, but the only thing missing could save my life.
A gun.
As the truck slows to a crawl then stops completely, I shake my head. “Not feeling good about this, Black.”
Ignoring my concerns, he probes, “Is that the place?”
My eyes turn up to meet his and I let my defiance be known through the cold expression on my face.
He stares me down before asking again, “That the place or not, Twitch?” And I breathe deeply, calming the urge to break his fucking jaw.
I don’t bother looking out the window. I’ve been here before. I remember it well. “It’s the place.”
The quaint townhouse in the suburbs is modest and appears to be like any other townhouse on the block. It draws very little attention to it in the way of looks. If a person were to pass it on the street, they wouldn’t look twice at it. It’s unassuming, inconspicuous, designed for that very purpose.
The goings-on inside however… that’s something else completely.
Drugs are being packed and sold as we wait. Also being sold are the bodies of girls between the ages of sixteen and twenty. Because, as Egon Baris, owner of this house and the leader of the Albanian Shiptare, had once told me, no one wants to pay for saggy tits and a loose cunt, but men will pay surprisingly well for a playmate without an identity, a playmate that no one will miss should that playtime escalate to something darker.
Majority of these girls are brought in by the container-load from Eastern Europe, mainly from Poland, Ukraine, and Romania. The prettier ones are led by the promise of becoming dancing girls at popular US nightspots, while the plain girls are told they will be serving at some of the finest eating establishments this country has to offer.
Egon doesn’t like to drug his girls, because, A: he gets off on seeing the girls cower in fear, knowing what’s coming when a man steps into her room, and B: he doesn’t believe in wasting his product.
There are concealed, illegally obtained, military grade weapons in the basement, including those of police officers, former and present. Some of the artillery belongs to the Russian armed forces, but it was stolen by some ballsy prick without a name, a man who didn’t expect to survive the heist, and when the price of those weapons tripled, Egon paid the man without complaint, into the hundreds of millions.
Pocket change for a man like him.
Egon Baris is a known psychopath. To make matters worse, he’s a paranoid psychopath. Which likely means that from the moment this very military-looking truck is visible from the house, he’s going to panic, and he’s going to do this in an extreme way.
How do I know this?
Because it’s what I would do.
A block away, parked at the side of the road, I warn Ethan, “He’s going to come out guns blazing. You get that, right?” I pause to let that sink in then speak loud enough so the eight others in the truck can hear me. “You get the men first, but don’t take the women for face value. They might look meek and pretty, but they’re Albanian. These bitches are taught to wield a gun from the time they’re old enough to carry one and, believe me, they don’t think nothing of popping all your asses. If anyone pulls a gun, and you better believe they fucking will, you take ‘em down.” I look around at the stern-faced men who don’t bother to look back at me. Disrespectful fucks. “You take ‘em all down.”
But Black rushes to add, “All except Baris. We want Egon Baris alive. If you need to take him down, use non-lethal force.” I throw him a look that says he’s crazy if he thinks Egon will be an easy target. With a roll of his eyes, he barks out, “Listen, I don’t care if you shoot out this dickhead’s knee-caps or if he loses a hand. You just make sure the motherfucker is whole enough to stand trial and serve in prison, is that clear?”
A chorus of “Yes, sir” rings out, and a minute later, over the radio, Black confirms that the second truck is in position, rounding the back of the house and they’re ready to move at Black’s word.
The clothes I’m wearing feel restrictive, although they are anything but. It’s all in my head. The black fatigues fit well, but the thick material of the long-sleeved black shirt is heavy on my skin. Shit, I’m used to wearing silk, not heavy thread cotton. The bulletproof vest over the top of it is stifling. With a black helmet to match, I do as the others do and pull the goggles over my eyes, lifting the half-face mask up and over my nose at Black’s demand. The black steel-toed boots however… I’m keeping those.
Black’s men have three weapons within arm’s reach, an MP5 sub-machine gun in hand, and two .45-caliber pistols strapped to each thigh.
And me?
I look down at the baton with blind rage. It’s like Black’s setting me up to take a bullet.
Fuck him.
It happens fast, too fast to truly comprehend.
The truck starts and jolts forward, building up speed then screeching to a halt in front of the house Egon Baris built on sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll. The men file out in beautiful uniformity, up the front steps and I follow behind, way behind. If anyone’s getting shot, you mark my words, it’s going to be a dude with a motherfucking gun, not me. Although they don’t announce their presence, as soon as the door is smashed in—thanks to the heavy breacher used as a battering ram—shouts and cries in Albanian sound throughout the entire building, along with the sounds of thudding footfalls as Egon’s men work to hold the keep.