Mallicks: Back to the Beginning (Mallick Brothers Book 5)

by Jessica Gadziala

I'd returned the favor, learning how to use my hand how he liked, bringing him even a portion of the pleasure he gave me.

  But that was it so far.

  He was staying at a crummy roadside motel despite having been in town for months, and making good money because all of my father's men made good money.

  It was like a part of him knew from the beginning that his stay in town would be temporary, and he saw no point in putting down roots, in signing leases.

  I pulled up to number four, remembering how I had been excited when he told me it because it was my favorite number. Such a stupid, silly thing to think.

  Barely remembering to slam my car door, I ran up to it, slamming my fist into the door until it rattled the window to the left.

  But nothing.

  No answer.

  Heart in my throat, his name ripped from somewhere deep inside me, pained, raw.

  "Charlie!"

  "Darlin'," a deep, rough voice said, making my head shoot over to find a man standing in the doorway of room number five with long, stringy hair and a hangover of a waistline, watching me with lowered brows. "He ain't here. Took off an hour ago."

  "Was he okay?" I asked, desperate, too needy for answers to care how I sounded.

  There was no use pretending I was whole when I was just crumbling pieces inside.

  "He wasn't great. Had his ass handed to him, that was for sure. Could barely load his shit into his car."

  His car.

  Of course.

  I was so frantic that I hadn't even noticed it wasn't here.

  But if he wasn't here...

  "Took everything," he added, giving me a knowing look as I stood there, heart dissolving in my chest.

  He was gone.

  Gone.

  And he had left no way for me to get in touch with him, to see if he was okay.

  To go with him.

  I hadn't even gotten the chance to suggest that.

  See, he still made comments all the time about how I needed to go, make plans, stick with them, follow through, even though I knew how half-hearted his words were.

  He didn't want me to go.

  Not really.

  He wanted me too.

  He felt for me too, damnit.

  And I had been meaning to bring it up to him, what I had been thinking about.

  Us running away together.

  We could go.

  Take our money, pool it, and start somewhere new.

  It would be better with someone else. Safer. We would have each other to rely on.

  We could start a new life together.

  He wouldn't have to be under my father's thumb.

  And neither would I.

  And now he was gone.

  Without me.

  Hurt.

  Bleeding.

  Broken.

  I barely remembered getting back in my car, backing it out of the slot, driving down the highway toward my house.

  At some point, it must have started raining, and my clueless brain hadn't even processed it enough to roll up the windows, because when I stepped out onto the driveway, half of my hair and the side of my face and shirt were drenched.

  As I stood there looking at the house that had been nothing but a prison to me my entire life, everything within me went hard.

  Stone fucking cold.

  Whatever fear I still had, embedded in my marrow from a lifetime of learning there was good reason for it, got ripped out, a white-hot pain that made me stumble back a step before charging forward, whipping my hair out of my face.

  I went in through the kitchen, expecting to see Helga, but finding no one as I charged up the stairs, digging in my closet for some clothes, keepsakes, overturning my dresser drawer to pull up the false bottom, grabbing the stacks of cash, and throwing them into a bag along with everything else.

  I was going to leave.

  There was no doubt in that.

  I was going to leave.

  I was going to track down Charlie somehow.

  And we would start over together.

  Nurse our wounds - both physical and emotional - together.

  But not before I had the last word.

  It was foolhardy of me.

  But I couldn't seem to locate the logical part of my brain, only the sections lit up with ideas of revenge.

  Let him try to stop me, try to tell me I had to marry some old bastard who wanted to rape me until I was no longer young and pretty.

  Let him fucking try.

  "Figured you would show up eventually," Michael greeted me, voice slick, as I moved into the study to find them waiting for me.

  My brother was at the front of my father's desk, his ass propped up on the edge, arms crossed over his expensive silk shirt, the light blue color washing him out. It was a silly little thing to take pleasure in. But I did.

  That was until my gaze shifted to my father behind his desk.

  And he wasn't alone.

  Helga was situated on a chair beside where he was standing, hands holding onto her knees that were always achingly sore.

  "Hi, herzchen," she said, giving me her usual warm smile, but there was no mistaking the shaking in her voice.

  Shaking.

  Helga.

  My Helga.

  The most deceptively strong woman I knew.

  I didn't even need to look to know, but I did. My gaze shifted down the length of my father's arm, noting a small speck of red on the cuff of his sleeve, making my stomach pitch, wondering if it belonged to Charlie.

  But the sinking became a burning rage.

  He had no right.

  To put his hands on him.

  To spill his blood.

  He didn't deserve to even have a speck of such a good man on him.

  But there was no more time to dwell on that as my eyes went lower, finding a sight I had seen enough not to be shocked by its appearance. It's black and metal appearance.

  But it was in his hand.

  The hand closest to Helga.

  He was going to use my love for her to secure my compliance.

  My enslavement.

  My teeth clenched so hard that the pain ricocheted up through my jaw, the sharp agony somehow making me able to think through my swirling torrent of thoughts.

  "Sit down. We're going to have a little talk," my father suggested, tone as icy as my soul felt as I lifted my chin, widened my stance, dared him to come closer, put his hands on me, push me into a chair. "See, this right here is the problem," he said, tisk-tisking at me like he was some disappointed parent instead of a madman with a gun who had a hole where his heart belonged.

  "What is, Dad?" I snarled. "That I finally found my backbone."

  "Remember what happened to your mother when she thought to find hers, Helen."

  "There's a difference here," I told him, not sure how the words were coming out audibly through grinding teeth.

  "What's that?"

  "She was under some false illusions about you. Me? Not so much."

  "False illusions," he mused, brows knitting ever-so-slightly in a way I knew for interest, whether he would express that or not.

  "She believed there was some goodness - albeit buried incredibly deep - in you somewhere. Me? I know better."

  "Do you now?" he asked, voice getting harder, hard as my heart.

  "And she also thought she could ask for her freedom. I know there is no point in that. I need to take it."

  "Little girl," he scoffed, shaking his head like one would at a foolish child. "You have gotten ideas in your head that don't belong there."

  "Ideas. Like realizing I am not chattel to be bartered for slaughter," I snapped, voice fierce enough to make Helga jerk back slightly. "I am not a possession you can trade for a more secure supply chain."

  "I see Charlie shared my business more than I realized. Tell Bill and James that the plans have changed," he said, speaking to my brother though his eyes were still on my face. "He doesn't get to crawl away from this after all."

&nb
sp; I didn't defend Charlie mainly because the truth came from an even more vulnerable person.

  Helga.

  Who had been the one to tell me the truth.

  He was away already.

  It would take them a while to find him.

  But Helga was right here with a gun just inches from her body.

  Sometimes life gave you nothing but hard choices.

  "What is the end-goal here? To kill everyone I care about? Because, really, what kind of plan is that... taking away everything I care about? Do you think it will make me submissive, would have me falling into line?"

  "You never used to disobey me."

  My lips curved up at that. "Is that what you think? I disobeyed you every chance I got. While keeping it a secret to avoid a beating. What?" I asked when a muscle in his jaw started ticking. "Disappointed that you can't sell me off as a virgin anymore, Dad?" I spat.

  He paused, weighing his words, then shrugging. "I can say whatever I want. By the time he finds out the truth, it will be too late anyway."

  I had been right.

  When I was five years old.

  And thought I was surrounded by monsters.

  But it wasn't the under-the-bed or inside-the-closet variety I had worried about.

  It was the flesh and blood sort.

  The kind that didn't go away when you bathed the room in light.

  The kind that only someone bigger, stronger, scarier could take down.

  It was maybe the first time in my life that I realized that was my job.

  If not me, then who?

  I had spent my life shrinking myself, hugging walls in the hallways, hiding away in corners, biting down on my tongue. Doing anything I could to avoid being on their radar.

  And here I was thinking about taking them down.

  A fool's mission, surely.

  But if it was between being handed off to some South American drug cartel, or fighting for my freedom, I would choose to fight every time. Even if the risks were high. Even if I maybe wouldn't even make it out alive.

  Maybe Helga would.

  And Charlie.

  Two for one.

  Really, that was a fair trade.

  "Looks like she's going to cry," Michael interjected, mistaking my determination for fear. A mistake I planned to make him regret. "You brought this on yourself," he added, making me think back to when we were kids, when he told me that if Mom had just been good, Dad wouldn't have done what he did to her.

  And the rage burned anew, a fire there would be no banking, fed from a forest full of kindling, lit up with lighter fluid.

  I wanted to burn them the fuck down.

  "Why is Helga here?" I asked, ignoring my brother, telling myself he would get what was coming to him. Sooner or later. Hopefully by my hand if there was any sense of justice in the world.

  "To teach you a lesson."

  Those were the chilling words my father uttered. They fell with no impact for a long moment.

  But then I realized too late, way too late, that my father's arm had lifted.

  The bang ricocheted through my body, making my stomach quiver, my nerves frazzle, as I watched the only mother I had really known have her brain splattered against the wall.

  "I can destroy anything you love. And then make you clean up the mess. So why don't you be a good girl and go get some bleach and water."

  Any last tender spot within me stiffened, calloused over, became thick and impenetrable.

  I was sure the thought never actually crossed my brain, but my hand got the message somehow anyway, grabbing the bronze lion paperweight off his desk, raising it, and sending it flying through the air with the kind of expert precision that came from doing the sandbag toss on the boardwalk when my shift ended, but I didn't want to go home until I ran out of money.

  It whacked hard off my father's forehead, the force - and pain - sending him flying backward, crashing into the bookshelf behind him as his hands rose to cup his head.

  Hands.

  Plural.

  The gun was gone.

  He'd dropped the gun.

  My brain went from sleepy shock to laser focus in a blink.

  I had flipped my coin when I had tossed that weight.

  But I would be damned to leave the outcome up to fate.

  I needed that gun if I stood any chance at all.

  I flew toward the side of the desk, grabbing the unfamiliar gun, heated still warm from my father's hand. It was heavier than I could have guessed, something that took a precious few seconds away from me, seconds I needed.

  When my head finally jerked up again, my father was turned toward me, bleeding from a giant gash to his forehead, his eyes more demon than human as he started moving.

  Approaching.

  He was going to kill me.

  And, I realized, there was no way in hell I was going to let this be my end, cowering on the floor like a startled child.

  After he had ordered the death of my boyfriend.

  After he had shot my only mother figure.

  No.

  In fact, fuck no.

  My finger slid to the trigger, suddenly thankful for all the action movies I had seen in my life, because I had no experience with a gun.

  "You're gonna pay for that you fucking bi-"

  My finger pulled.

  The gun jerked.

  The bullet sailed.

  And I watched in unexpected horror as the front of my father's throat exploded, sending cinematically bright blood smattering the books to his side, the desk to his other, the front of his obnoxiously expensive suit and tie.

  His eyes were still on me, shocked, gaping like a dying animal. Which, I realized as he made some Godawful gurgling noise with what was left of his throat, was exactly what he was.

  A dying animal.

  He teetered on his feet before collapsing down, hand covered in blood as he clutched his throat, as the life drained out of him.

  The second I saw it leave his eyes, his soul heading back to hell where it belonged, the gun fell from my hands, shocked disgust making bile rise up my throat.

  I'd just killed someone.

  I had just killed my father.

  I had dreamed of being a lot of things in my life, but a killer was not one of them.

  I couldn't seem to hear past the whooshing noise in my ears as I watched my brother drop down next to my father, his mouth opened wide like he was yelling, but it was nothing to my deaf ears.

  But he turned, eyes accusing, hurt even, making me aware that even monsters could feel pain, could mourn loss.

  But then his gaze when to the gun I had discarded, and whatever shock that had overtaken my system slipped away, leaving me with nothing but the harsh, cold reality.

  He was going to kill me.

  Michael was going to kill me.

  I scrambled backward, crab-walking away until I was around the desk, throwing myself onto all fours before pushing myself up and running.

  My pulse was a wild thing, frantic and unrelenting, panic a collar around my throat choking tighter with each passing second as I rammed wildly into the table in the hall, the pain a sharp stab to my hip as I made a dash for the front door.

  My hand was on the knob when there was a whiz past my ear then a thunk to the wood right beside my head.

  I didn't need to look at the hole burrowed there to know it was a bullet.

  That he was only an inch off his target.

  My head.

  Panic making my brain skittish and unfocused, I ducked, turned, and dashed for the steps, clamoring up and out of range of the gun as my brother came running up the hallway.

  By the time he was on the first step, I was around the corner in the hall.

  I didn't think.

  I didn't consider the best option.

  I made a dash for my bedroom, slamming and locking the door, then using every bit of concentrated strength in my adrenaline-fueled body to shoulder my dresser in front of it before running into my bathroom,
locking the door, and cowering in my shower, trying to think, trying to calm myself down even as I heard the gun fire off a few more shots before my brother's body started slamming against the door, calling out my name in a rabid, demonic way, nothing but pure hatred to be found within it.

  I don't know how long I sat there cowering in my shower, my body shaking, my mind racing with all the ways I had screwed up my life by letting myself be pushed around, by staying when I should have left, by not forcing Helga to go with me.

  Oh, God.

  Helga.

  My heart, reinforced with the concrete I had built around it, cracked, letting the pain leak out, overtaking my stomach, chest, my throat, until it felt like I was choking on it, until I was bent over retching, though nothing came out because there was nothing in my system.

  I wasn't sure how long it went on, when my brother's slamming became a different kind of knocking, but it felt like ages before my brain registered the difference, letting the fear recede enough for me to hear properly again.

  "This is Detective Collings, Miss Eames. Please open the door."

  Collings.

  Detective Collings.

  That name alone had me carefully climbing out of the tub on shaking legs.

  Collings.

  That was a name that conjured up ideas of goodness, of fairness.

  And I could use all the good and fair that I could get.

  I'd just killed a man.

  "Com... coming," I tried again after clearing my throat, hearing the thickness in my words as I struggled to move the dresser, finding that once the adrenaline had drained, my arms felt as useless as a baby's. After four tries, it finally moved, sliding back into place, allowing me to unlock the door with clumsy hands.

  I had barely pulled it open when Detective Collings rose a hand, placing his pointer finger in front of his mouth, demanding silence from me.

  Confused, I moved back a step as he invited himself in, closing the door halfway.

  He looked like Connor.

  Wide shoulders, a solid jaw, keen but kind eyes. Except this Collings had a bit of a bushy mustache that made my lips want to curve up, but I couldn't seem to find the muscle control to make that happen.

  "Helen," he breathed out my name. Almost like a sigh. "I have heard a lot of things about you, Helen. My son thinks highly of you. Can you have a seat?" he asked, waving toward my bed as he grabbed the chair from in front of my vanity, dragging it across the floor to sit on just a foot or so from my legs. My eyes must have skittered to the door, looking for shadows, hands with guns. "We have your brother in custody," he said, picking up on my concern.