I’ve never claimed to be a good father, but I am a ferocious one. I always said to Celia that the day Chad came into the world was the day the beast inside me was awakened and cranked to fucking eleven. I would kill for my boys—I would die for my boys.
My boys started dying though, and I didn’t have anyone to kill. I was too fucking stupid to realize their murderer was right beside me—right underneath me—as I pounded into her mercilessly, her blood spilling on my sheets as I drove my desperate grief and anger inside her.
I had no idea she was the one.
But as of an hour ago, I found out that the little harlot in my bed I called Sammi, and John’s dead daughter, Juliette, are the same fucking person.
I’m more than slightly fucking embarrassed that she’s been right under my nose for months … mortified, actually. Shame makes me vengeful. It’s a dirty emotion. I don’t want it inside me, clamouring up my black soul, making me feel like a royal fuck up, but I did. I can only blame myself. I was mesmerized by golden ass and magical pussy.
I didn’t even run a proper background check on Samantha fucking Peyton.
Samantha Peyton is actually dead, turns out. She’s buried in a family plot somewhere in the middle of fucking nowhere. She died in a car accident years ago and my dear little Juliette stole her identity when she decided to come back to L.A. and fuck me, good and proper.
I killed her six years ago. That night I took the girl I’d considered a daughter and turned her into my victim. I haven’t had a night of solid sleep since. She died because of me.
Only she didn’t fucking die.
“Sammi,” I say.
She’s standing in front of me now, pretty little cockroach in a tight t-shirt that shows her tits and jeans that hug her ass, and she doesn’t know I know. For the first time in a very long time, I have the upper hand. How ironic is it that I thought I had it all along, but that’s my fault for letting my dick rule my mind. The uneasiness that spread through my gut the first time I saw her pretty blue eyes should have been the tip-off, but my cock’s a powerful thing. Wouldn’t be the first time it led me astray. I’ve got the pile of bodies to prove it.
“Are you okay?” she asks, standing on the other side of my desk.
I stand, because I can’t sit here under her dead stare for one moment longer. If I don’t get this rage out of my somehow, I’m going to pull out my piece and start tearing a bunch of brand-new, shiny red holes in her skin, and that’d be far too merciful a punishment for the things she’s done to me and mine.
“You can walk,” she says, her surprise genuine, a flicker of fear in her cocky fucking expression. “I can’t believe it. After what happened?”
She’s got that smirk on her glossy lips. How did I not realize she’s got her father’s mouth? The past slams into me like a goddamn freight train as I recall that same expression on John’s face, right before I put a bullet in him. He didn’t know I knew he was fucking my woman. I made him understand that you do not fuck with me and get away with it. Nobody gets away with it. Not John, six and some change years ago, and not his devil fucking spawn, standing before me like a smarmy seductress, six and some change years later.
“Come here, you fucking cunt,” I grind out painfully as her eyes light up. She doesn’t look scared. She looks amused, standing in my office with her tiny shirt showing off her cleavage, looking just like she did when she first waltzed into my office and began her carefully planned destruction of my universe. It’s time to repay the favor. I’m going to wreak vengeance upon her for taking what’s mine. Four of my sons are dead.
Dead.
I can’t even confront the reality of that statement. I’m practically fucking vibrating with rage, and this little slut can’t see that I’m about to attack. She’s got a set of brass balls, I’ll give her that. Sickeningly, she reminds me of myself. She strolled into this joint like she owned it. Well, not anymore.
My cock hardens when I think about all the horrible things I’m going to do to her as soon as I knock her the fuck out and get her out of here.
“Whoa. You kiss your mother with that mouth?” she asks, her voice light and unencumbered by the weight of the world. My heart seizes in my chest. For a split second, I see a little girl standing on Santa Monica Pier, her hand in mine, as we line up to ride the Ferris wheel.
She’s probably only four years old and her hand is sticky with ice cream, but I don’t pull my grip away; I hold her hand tighter. There are crazy people in the world. I won’t let her out of my sight. She’s not my daughter, she’s John’s, but to me there’s no difference. She’s my responsibility. She’s the daughter I never had. As long as I live, I’ll always protect her.
I blink. The laptop screen plays a video on an endless loop as I watch the damning footage of the daughter I never had, dressed in a nightgown and bare feet, unscrew the lid to the fuel tank on my motorcycle and drop two homemade bombs inside. After she’s finished with that one, she moves on to the next bike. Six bombs for five bikes, and she makes sure my bike gets two, the vengeful little cunt. Either that, or she can’t fuckin’ count.
I’m guessing it’s the former.
There’s a voice inside me that screams, “This is your fault,” but I push that down into the blackness because shit like that doesn’t help. Emotions, other than rage and cold calculation, don’t work for me. They only lead to weakness. I’ve already shown enough weakness when it comes to this bitch, and look where it’s gotten me: four dead sons, a face full of angry red shrapnel scars, and a lifetime of fucking misery and regret.
On a whim, I turn the laptop around so she can see what I see. My chest does some weird kind of jump when I see the recognition light up in her eyes when she sees what the granulated pixels are presenting to her.
Do you kiss your mother with that mouth? She’d asked me.
I smile cruelly, the bitter taste of satisfaction leeching from my tongue into my mouth as I round my desk and charge at her. She goes for the door behind her, but it slams shut, because I wasn’t going to let her slip through my fingers this time. I hear Viper slide the lock into place on the other side of the door, sealing her and I inside this sarcophagus of secrets together. I see the panic in her eyes, and it makes my cock throb.
Yes. It’s my turn now, you silly little girl.
I wrap my large hand around her swan-like neck, so fucking tight I could snap it in half. I lean in real close, watching her eyes go wide as terror and regret bleed together underneath the blue contact lenses that are hiding her bamboo green eyes from me. Her hands come up, scrabbling at my flesh as I squeeze harder, choking her. Her nails dig into my skin so hard they draw blood, and the sight revitalizes me.
There’s going to be so much more blood in our future, and it’s going to be beautiful. I’m going to carve this cunt up like a Thanksgiving turkey, piece by painful piece; like a butcher with his blade. She’ll be unrecognizable to anyone but me soon enough.
I shift my grip to her face, my hand over her mouth, and feel her greasy lip-gloss on my palm. She struggles, her fists pummelling against my chest and her knee trying desperately to find my balls, but I’ve got her pinned with my hips. She isn’t going anywhere … not now, not ever.
“I know you think this is going to be bad,” I say, pleasure and rage sizzling in my veins, “but however bad you think this is going to be, it’s going to be So.Much.Worse.”
There’s a moist rag in my pocket and I can feel it starting to seep through my jeans. I can smell the chemical on it, but it’s not for me to breathe in, it’s for her. Sure, I could just strangle her until she passes out, but it’s easier this way—cleaner. My bare hands are just about ready to snap her fucking neck, and then it’ll be over before her damnation has even begun. I fish the damp material from my pocket and release my grip from her jaw, only long enough to replace it with the hand that’s got the chloroform-soaked rag in it. Pressing it against her beautiful fucking face, she fights me with everything she’s got.
&
nbsp; I watch the light fade in her eyes as she passes out in my grip. It takes everything inside me not to throw her on the ground and kick the shit out of her, then fuck her while I beat on her until she’s no longer breathing. The beast inside me is baying for her warm blood … for her soft skin.
Do it, the voice whispers. Tie her up and fuck her to death. Fuck her and make her bleed, then slit her throat after you’ve unloaded inside her.
No.
I won’t.
I have to make this last.
She must suffer.
When I’m certain she’s unconscious, I let her go. She slides down the door and lands awkwardly on the stained carpet, her lips slightly parted as she breathes heavily.
Fuck it. My balls are like two weights between my legs, full of hate and lust, and begging for release. I won’t fuck her, not yet. I want her eyes on me and her legs tied to bedposts when I stick my dick inside her and torture her with pleasure, but mostly pain. I want her fully aware when I press my fingers against her tight little clit while making her come and cry, all at once. I want her to know all the things I do to her, and that is the only reason I don’t wrench her knees apart and slam my rock-hard cock into her right now on the floor of my office.
Instead, I pull her shirt up to expose two perfect tits, her pink nipples smooth and flat. I straddle her waist, unzipping my jeans and palming my cock with one hand, squeezing it to the point of pain. This’ll be the last time I jerk off in a long time because I’ve got myself this little whore now, and she’s just become my come receptacle for the rest of her short life. She thought she could outplay me, the fucking President of the Gypsy Brothers? The Kingpin of Venice Beach? No. I snuffed out her daddy for his betrayal, and I’ll do exactly the same thing to her, only much, much slower.
I start to jerk off over her big, round tits, the movement causing them to bounce ever so softly, up and down, my balls aching at the sight. I stop only to lean down and take one nipple in my mouth, sucking until it pebbles to a hard peak. I can’t help but grin. This girl is as fucked up as me. Even in her unconscious state, I feel her writhe beneath me, her breath coming faster.
Dirty whore.
I don’t have long, though I’d like to take my time here. But for now, I’ll settle for blowing on her before I bundle her up and move her to the compound in San Diego. I pause to unzip her jeans and pull them off so she’s in front of me with her long, tanned legs.
Just a little, I think. I won’t fuck her. I just want a taste of what’s to come later, when she’s chained like a fucking dog on the floor. I already know where I’m taking her. I’m putting her underground, where there’s no light and no hope.
My cock twitches impatiently. Spreading her thighs apart, I hook a finger into her lace panties and pull them to the side, dipping one finger into her moist cunt. My cunt. She’s deep in the chloroform-induced sleep I’ve bestowed upon her, but her pussy still tightens when I take my thumb and apply the slightest pressure on her clit. A wry smile spreads across my face as I remove her panties and ball them up, shoving them into her mouth. She might be dead to rights, but that shit turns me on; the way she’ll choke if she wakes up and tries to draw in a breath to scream.
I’ve already vowed to myself that I won’t fuck her, but I need to be inside her. I’m about to blow just thinking about the fear in her eyes as I take my pound of flesh, over and over, for the lives of my sons. For her arrogant assumption that she could enact her revenge on me for taking her daddy. John deserved what I did to him. He took my woman, twisted her mind until she only wanted him, and he had the audacity to try and steal my fucking son from me too. Not once, but twice.
I force her legs to open wider, and she’s wet enough, just from where I’ve been touching her to slide my dick inside her pussy. I stop halfway, biting on the inside of my cheek until I taste blood, the pain bringing me back to the point of control so I don’t slam my cock into her, violently. I want this magnificent torture to last, for me and for her.
My cock throbs and my balls tighten painfully. I’m only halfway inside her, and I’ve only been there for seconds, but her pussy contracts ever-so-slightly and I have to pull out, spilling thick ropes of come all over the tits she probably paid for with the money her fucking father and that traitorous bitch, Mariana, stole from me.
Once I’ve finished, I stand and admire my handiwork with a smirk. Her legs are spread wide, shaved pussy in full view. My come pools between her tits and in the hollow of her collarbone, seeping into the hem of her shirt that I’ve pushed up around her neck. Any last trace of guilt ebbs away as I think of what she’s done to me, to my sons, and to this club. She might be the girl I watched come into this world, but that girl died. This ghost, this fucking whore, who walked into my office and presented her ass to me with her palms flat on my desk and amusement in her eyes? She should have stayed the fuck away, because nobody escapes my wrath twice.
The things I’m going to do to her.
I’m going to make her death last the rest of my life.
I’m going to hurt her. I’m going to defile her. I’m going to burn her soul away until all that’s left is blood, shattered bones and screams.
I’m going to keep her alive until she begs me to let her die, but even then, I won’t let her leave me. I’ll never let her die. I’m going to twist her diabolical fucking soul until she’s completely at my mercy; knees on the ground and her mouth on my cock, sucking and begging for forgiveness all at the same time.
I’m going to kill every single person she ever cared about, rip her fucking insides out, and only then will I let her bleed to death beneath me as I fuck the last bit of light out of her dying eyes.
Elliot’s point-of-view takes place three years before Seven Sons, when he leaves Juliette and returns to Los Angeles in an attempt to bring down the Gypsy Brothers himself
“Julz!” I said forcefully. She raised her pale green eyes to mine, and something inside my chest tightened painfully. I could always tell if it was going to be a good day or a bad day by her eyes. The lighter they were—the more washed-out—, the worse it was going to be.
It didn’t make sense, but it was as if on those days, every ounce of joy and happiness had been sucked right out of her, leaving only the pain and the rage.
And there was so much pain inside this broken girl. My girl. It hurt me sometimes just to look at her; just to sit beside her and breathe the same air. It hurt to exist within the same life as her, to know the burdens she carried inside herself, tightly wrapped, black and desolate.
And today? Today her eyes were so pale, you’d struggle to even call them green. Whenever I saw her like this, I imagined them. The Gypsy Brothers. How I’d love to go there and burn their clubhouse to the ground, and then piss on the fucking ashes. For the things they had done to my girl. They were things so horrific, … I wouldn’t even know how to begin describing them.
I remembered the night I’d had found her, almost by chance.
Three years ago, I was still a cop with the LAPD, just before everything in my world fucking imploded. I’d been called into the station at the last minute. I remembered how dog-tired I was after pulling a double shift that’d only ended five hours prior. But the flu was going around, and our precinct was falling like dominoes, one after the other. Mendoza was apparently the latest to fall prey, and we’d been working together all night. I swore to pay him back the next time we were on shift together.
I’d been mainlining cheap station coffee when the call came in over the radio from St. Andrew’s hospital downtown. Normally my squad operated from our own station, Pacific Division 14, but our building was being renovated, so we were all crammed into the older LAPD building on South Spring Street.
I’d literally just turned up at the station to cover Mendoza’s shift when my Captain started barking at me. My eyes felt like they were full of sand and the coffee tasted like shit. I wanted to tell the woman to back off—yes, my Captain was a five-foot-nothing African-American woman,with
enough attitude to render me speechless every time she spoke. I stood still, trying to look respectful as I choked down a mouthful of the caffeinated sludge I’d just unwittingly poured into my mouth.
“Walk,” Iverson barked, taking my coffee cup and tossing it in the trash. “I’ll fill you in while you change.” Not one to argue, I started for the locker room with a strange sense of dread starting in the pit of my stomach. Something told me that what I was about to hear wasn’t good. “Marina Del Rey,” Iverson said, still following me to the men’s locker room. “Go with Kennedy. He’s waiting for you in the basement.”
I raised my eyebrows as I took a fresh shirt from my locker and shrugged it on, buttoning it as Iverson relayed more information. She didn’t seem to care that she was standing in the midst of shift change in an LAPD locker room, surrounded by dudes in various stages of undress, but regardless, I listened intently as Iverson listed more details, noting the fact that I was yet to utter a single word in this conversation.
“It’s a priority case,” she was saying, and I nodded as I got to fixing my belt. The last thing I did was take my Glock from the locker in front of me and snap it into the holster at my hip.
I made my way towards the basement, ready to start whatever it was Captain Iverson was skirting around. She continued to follow me, which was odd. Really, really odd. When we were halfway down, she stopped suddenly. I was a few strides ahead of her and backed up. “Everything alright, Captain?” I asked, my mouth still burning from the shitty coffee I’d forced down. I’d never seen the woman look so jumpy.
“McRae,” she said, then trailed off suddenly. Something wasn’t adding up.
“Is this a personal case, Ma’am?” I asked slowly.
I saw her tense. “Not really, no. But there’s a girl… she’s with the Gypsy Brothers.” My stomach dropped when I heard that. Shit. I’d been at the scene of a murder just last month that had been the work of one of their members, and nobody would talk. The suspect, Jimmy Alvarez, had been let go on lack of evidence. Everyone knew he had shot the stripper in the back of the head, but damned if we could pin it on him. Motherfuckers were good at finding their way around the law. “She’s the president’s daughter,” Iverson added. “She’s fifteen, and she’s probably going to die. She’s at Marina Del Rey.”
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