He sees me looking and relaxes slightly, but I can tell he’s still wound up. I’m nervous again, as I watch his fists, as I try not to panic.
“Jase?” I ask quietly. He shakes his head angrily. I look at his face and my heart sinks. His eyes are red and his jaw grinding soundlessly. He is a tortured man.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he explodes, slamming a hand into the steering wheel. “You should have fucking told me what he did.”
I put a hand to my head, letting it rest there a moment as I close my eyes. I’m so tired. So worn out. So worn down with the burden of it all.
“I was scared,” I whisper.
“Of me?” he demands. He’s yelling, but I don’t shrink away, because I deserve it. I’ve been waiting for this for eleven days, since the moment I realized our baby’s heart had stopped.
I welcome his anger. It’s more fitting than his love.
“Of everything,” I say thickly. “I thought you would leave me.”
He growls in the back of his throat, slamming his hand against the steering wheel over and over again. I start crying again, watching his anguish finally unleash.
“I would never leave you!” he roars. He stops hitting the wheel and squeezes it again. “Don’t you get it? You’re like a miracle! You survived death. I thought you were dead for six fucking years! Do you have any idea what that does to a person? Do you think anything you could ever do would stop me from loving you?”
My mouth is open slightly, in shock. I’m crying and I’m pretty sure under the manly bravado he’s crying, too. We are a mess.
“What will it take, Julz? For you to believe me?”
I blink tears out of my eyes. “It’s just – I saw the way my father hated my mother. How he wanted to take me away from her. And now I’m just like her. I’m just like her. Why are you still here with me?”
“Juliette,” Jase says, reaching over and taking my hand, squeezing it tightly in his own. “You are good. You are a beautiful person and I love you. You are not your mother.”
I lose it. I dissolve into a pile of tears, refusing to let go of his hand as we continue to drive.
You are not your mother.
I think that’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.
***
It’s afternoon by the time we finally make it home. I’m walking into the kitchen when I hear the sound, the vibration of a cellphone against a hard surface. Fuck. Elliot! I rush to the dining table in time to see the phone has just stopped ringing, its screen still lit up in reminder.
Seventeen missed calls. What the hell? Jase stands on the other side of the table and tilts his head to read the screen, raising his eyebrows at me.
It’s my burner phone. Disposable, purchased by Elliot, given to me the day he left just in case. And now it is ringing again, call number eighteen as it rests on the table between Jase and me.
I pick up the phone and hit answer, holding the phone to my ear as my eyes remain locked with Jase’s.
Static erupts from the other end, but no talking.
“Elliot?” I say after a beat.
The voice on the other end makes me wither and die inside. “Hello, Juliette,” Dornan says cheerfully. “How is my baby girl?”
Jase knows who it is by the look on his face. He watches as terrified tears form in my eyes, terror that is punctuated with hate. He’s the reason our baby died. He’s the reason we continue to suffer. He’s the one to blame for everything.
Jase motions for me to give him the phone and I do, thankful to be relieved of the responsibility. Even the sound of his voice is too much for me to bear.
“How’d you get this number, old man?” he asks, his knuckles white as he holds the cell phone in a death grip.
Dornan says something unintelligible over the line and Jase pales.
“I don’t believe you,” he says. “You’re full of shit.”
There’s a high-pitched noise on the other end of the phone. Jase looks like he’s about to have a heart attack and die on the floor in front of me. More deep crackling on the other end. Dornan.
I don’t hear what he says, but I don’t need to. A moment later, the crackling at Jase’s ear stops, and he stares at the screen, more worried than I think I’ve ever seen him. He roars, hurling the phone against the wall.
He’s got Elliot. He’s got Elliot. He must.
“He’s got him, hasn’t he?” I ask, horrified. “He’s got Elliot.”
“No.” He swallows, and the next words to come out of his mouth make me wail.
“He’s got Amy and Kayla,” Jase says thickly, his hands shaking.
No! He’s got Elliot’s little daughter and her mother. No.
This.Cannot.Be.Happening.
My hand is at my mouth, stifling a scream. I let it fall, feeling utterly hopeless. He has Elliot’s daughter. She’s not even three years old yet, and she’s in the grip of a monster. This is my fault. This is my fault, dammit! I lower myself into a chair, my insides filling up with dread.
“What does he want?” I ask. Because with Dornan Ross, there’s always a reason behind everything he does. “Is it the money?” He can have the money. He can have every last cent. He can have anything if he just lets those poor girls go. Amy’s my age, and Kayla is three. She’s fucking three, and Dornan has snatched her up with her mother in a bid to get to us.
And it’s worked.
Jase looks down at the table, lacing his hands behind his head, every muscle in his arms poised for a smack down with a person he cannot reach.
“He wants us,” he says flatly. “He wants to do a trade. He’ll let them go if we give ourselves to him.” His eyes flash with rage. “He said he wants his baby back,” he seethes, fixing his eyes on my midsection.
My hands go to my empty stomach as my eyes settle upon the box of ashes that sit on the table. She was never his baby. The sick bastard will never get his hands on my precious baby.
And now, because of him, neither will I.
TWENTY-ONE
I hear what sounds like a metallic click, and feel my eyes go wide. Jase whips his head to look at the front door, and before I can even draw a breath, that door is bursting open, wrenched from its hinges.
I stand so fast my chair crashes to the ground, my jaw still open.
What the hell?
And then, before I know what’s going on, there’s a fucking gun in my face and an endless stream of what looks like identical cops, filing through the front door, their weapons aimed at us. The room was always small, but now, teeming with trigger-happy dudes all dressed in variants of the same navy blue shirts and jeans, it’s tiny.
I look at Jase across the table as he’s hoisted to his feet by two burly dudes. As one of them turns, I see CIA written in bright yellow block letters on the back of his dark blue polo shirt.
I try to back up but there’s really nowhere to go. I struggle as hands clamp around my arms, yanking them behind my back. The cuffs are around my wrists before I can utter a single fucking word.
“Juliette Portland,” a voice says at my right, and I turn to see the sea of CIA officers part to reveal a woman clad in the same attire: black cargo pants, a dark blue T-shirt. Her blue eyes pin me to the spot with their ferocious expression.
Yes. She is definitely in charge here.
“You’ve been busy, boys and girls,” she says, making her way to me. “Kicking ass and toppling empires? Really? You thought we wouldn’t find you?”
I snort. “I don’t even know who the fuck you are, lady.”
She smiles; her thin lips make the expression, but it comes off as more of a grimace.
“I’m reality catching up with you, Miss Portland.”
“What the fuck is going on?” Jase demands, still struggling with the four guys who have a grip on him. They can’t get the cuffs on him, and I suppress a snicker when I see his elbow catch one of the dudes square in the face.
The bitch in front of me throws a look of derision at Jase befor
e turning back to me.
“Juliette Portland. You are under arrest for the murders of Chad Ross, Maximilian Ross, Anthony Ross, Michael Ross and Jared Ross.”
As she continues to Mirandize me the room starts to spin.
This can’t be real. It’s got to be a fucking joke.
“…to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used in a court of law.”
“This is bullshit,” Jase yells, but I’m frozen. Holy fuck. After everything that’s happened, is this the way it all ends? With us rotting in matching prison cells?
The bitch continues, “You have the right to consult an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you.”
Jase roars, some superhuman strength apparently overtaking him, suddenly free and throwing punches. He doesn’t seem to care that there are at least a dozen high-powered assault rifles leveled at the both of us, or that we are grossly outnumbered.
The bitch doesn’t stop talking, though. She just raises her voice over the muffled groans as Jase is tackled to the ground with the help of a Taser.
“Knowing and understanding your rights as I have explained them to you,” she finishes with a smirk, “are you willing to answer my questions without an attorney present?”
“Go fuck yourself,” I spit.
She laughs. “Thought so.”
“Wait,” I protest. “What’s he under arrest for?” I nod my head towards Jase.
The woman laughs. “Collateral damage.”
“Whaa—” I begin, for once genuinely lost for words. “You can’t do that! It’s—it’s against the law.”
She shrugs, her eyes narrowing dangerously. She flicks a glance toward the officer sporting a bloody nose thanks to Jase’s well-timed elbow to the face. “Fine. Jason Ross, you’re under arrest for assaulting a police officer.”
It’s a complete fucking farce.
“You’re arresting the wrong people,” I scream, struggling now.
She’s completely unfazed by me. “Let’s go,” she says to her team, and we begin to move with a pace that suggests someone is waiting for us.
Oh, god. Why are they arresting us? Who told them we were here?
“You’re probably not even a real fucking CIA agent,” I spit. “Who are you?”
As they drag us outside and shove us both into separate black Escalade’s with tinting so dark it’s almost as black as the paint, I am screaming inside.
Because if they charge me with those murders and they stick?
I am never going to see the light of day again.
I’m stuffed into Boss Bitch’s car, a token meathead cop in the back seat with me. Not that I even need guarding. I’m cuffed and trapped. Fucking fabulous.
But as Boss Bitch slides into the front passenger seat and fastens her safety belt, her shirtsleeve hitches up to reveal something. A small tattoo, two words that make my heart pound painfully fast. Il Sangue.
“You’re working for the fucking Cartel?” I scream.
She turns and flashes me a dazzling smile, all white teeth and full cheeks, and my heart sinks.
“Of course not,” she says, all shiny teeth and fuck you grin. “We’re the Central Intelligence Agency, darling. They work for us.”
The saddest thing about betrayal is that it never comes from your enemies.
ONE
“I want my lawyer,” I repeat for the hundredth time.
There are two CIA agents in front of me, and they’re playing a very bad rendition of good cop / bad cop.
We’ve been at this for hours. Boss Bitch — Agent Dunn, as she’s since told me — on one side, and her completely dumb but cute male partner, Agent Brennan, on the other. In my head, to pass the hours, I’ve nicknamed them Agent Bitch and Agent Dumbass. I sit across from them, my hands in my lap, heavy metal cuffs weighing them down.
My throat is dry, my tongue parched. Agent Dumbass has a fresh can of Coke in front of him, and I can see the tiny beads of condensation running down the sides. I want it. I want to reach over and grab the can. I don’t even need to drink what’s inside. I’ll settle for the moisture making its lazy descent down the side of the bright red can and onto the dusty Formica table that separates me from them.
“Let’s try this again,” the female cop says, tucking a loose blonde hair behind her ear. The rest is up in a severe bun that reminds me of a matronly grandmother, even though this woman only looks about thirty. She’s got a slight southern inflection that reminds me of Elliot’s grandma.
I don’t reply, waiting for whatever it is she plans on doing next. Her next big thought, her latest overdone gesture, to try and convince me that I should spill all of my dirty secrets onto this table between us. So far she’s used threats against Jase, a plea deal that would grant me immunity, and long stretches of silence.
None of that will break me. I’ve been tortured by Dornan fucking Ross. This woman’s going to have to try a lot harder, or maybe get out some pliers and start yanking my teeth out of my mouth, before I’ll give her a single damned thing.
She snatches up a manila folder and opens it, handing a stack of photographs to Agent Brennan. “Stick these up,” she barks at him, and he moves slowly, ripping a section of sticky tack from a large ball of the stuff that must live permanently on the wall to my left. I watch, slightly interested at what he’s going to put up.
He doesn’t disappoint. As I watch him pin several 5x7 photographs to the wall, I can’t help but feel some sense of satisfaction for the lives that ended at my hands. I have to remain impassive though, so I tamp down the gloating grin that wants to spread across my face and settle for resting bitch face instead.
Dunn peeks at me from the corner of her eye, and I return her gaze impassively. She might think she can get under my skin, but I grew up in the Gypsy Brothers MC, for shit’s sake. I know how to hold out in front of a cop.
“Chad Ross,” Dunn says, smoothing her pants as she stands up and circles the table, coming to stand next to the photographs her partner is sticking up in a haphazard fashion. I wait for her to reach out and straighten them. Boom. Three seconds later, she does just that, making sure all of the photos line up.
“Chad Ross was poisoned,” she continues, tapping one manicured fingernail against the photo of his bloated death face.
“Looks nasty,” I reply.
“It’s a nasty way to die,” Dunn says, peering at me. “The killer added pure methamphetamine to an energy drink he later consumed. He was probably dead before he hit the ground.”
He wasn’t. He suffered. Thankfully.
“And you’re showing me this why?” I ask, studying my own nails, bitten down to the quick. I never was a girly girl. It’s not easy to keep your nails long when you’re constantly trying to claw your way back from death.
Dunn looks at me pointedly before jabbing her fingernail towards the second photo. Ahhh, yes. Maxi in all his naked, bloody glory. His face is a mess from the coke I shoved underneath his nose, the coke laced with strychnine that made blood gush from his nose like warm water from a faucet. I still remember the way his blood felt on my hands. How surreal everything was, bright and garish, as my skull burned with a small amount of the poisoned coke I’d snorted myself.
How I’d nearly died in my quest to kill him.
How it was so worth the risk to see the look on his smarmy fucking face, when I whispered in his ear who I really was and sat back on his lap to see the fury rise in his cheeks.
As he realized a black widow was the one who’d just fed him his last meal of poison and cocaine.
I glance at Agent Dunn, clearing my throat and attempting to look bored. It’s not hard. I am bored.
“Strychnine-laced cocaine,” she says. “In fact, the same thing you were admitted to hospital for that very night. Jason Ross brought you into emergency. They said you almost died.”
“It was a hell of a night,” I reply curtly. “My nose still bleeds just thinking about that coke.”
She raises
her eyebrows in disbelief, and in that moment I have no doubt that she’s cataloguing me as a sociopath or similar.
“Can I ask you a question?” I say.
“Shoot,” Dunn responds.
I reach my hand out slowly, methodically, and take hers, a bold move. She could pepper spray me, shoot me. You’re not supposed to touch the interrogators. But she’s ballsy enough that she doesn’t want to take her hand away, even as I watch her flinch.
“How do you keep your nails so pretty?” I ask sweetly, the saccharine in my voice not reaching the cold death stare I give her. I hold up my other hand. “Mine are hopeless. You spend much time in the field, Agent Dunn?”
She takes her hand away, and I let my own cuffed hands fall back into my lap. I know her skin must be crawling from my touch.
I hope the feeling stays there for a long time. She should not have fucked with me.
“I take good care of myself, Miss Portland,” she says briskly. “Which is more than I can say for you.”
“My child died,” I say blankly. “Physical appearance isn’t on the top of my priority list right now.”
She bristles momentarily. “I am sorry for your loss,” she says finally.
I sit back, crossing my legs. “No, you’re not,” I reply.
She points to the third photograph, which is … hell, I’ve got no idea what that is. I tilt my head, trying to figure out what that is.
“It’s a leg,” Dunn supplies.
“Ohhh,” I say, nodding. “Thanks.”
It is indeed a leg, or at least part of one. Charred and black, with spots of unmarred flesh and blood still peeking through in sections. Huh. I wonder who it belonged to.
“Two Ross brothers were killed in an explosion. Somebody put homemade bombs in their fuel tanks, can you believe that?”
I shrug. “Sounds like they must have had it coming.”
Dunn points to the final photos, and a cloying heat bleeds up my chest and neck as I remember those three months of horror and torture I endured at Dornan’s hands before I was broken out. The way Dornan’s father Emilio flew backwards with a meaty thump as the top of his head was blown clean off, blood and brains flying everywhere. Mickey’s look of horror that didn’t fade after the bullet entered his face; such a satisfying end for men whose only fault in death was that their ends were much too swift. I imagine how much more satisfying it would have been to hang them by their feet and burn their eyes out with cigarettes and blowtorches, or pull their teeth out with rusty pliers, one by one.
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