by LP Lovell
“Can you shoot?” he asks.
I shake my head, and a small smile graces his lips before he moves behind me. His body presses tightly against my back, and this time I do lean into him. The gun feels heavy in my hand, and I’m both anxious and excited by the prospect of ending this man’s life. Rafael’s steady breaths calm me, his chest rising and falling against my back.
“I’ll help you.” The warmth of his breath caresses my neck, making me shiver. His hands slowly slide down my arms, wrapping around my wrists before he lifts them. His entire frame encases mine as I focus on the man in front of me, the man who tried to send me to my death. For once I do not have to accept it. I’m going to kill him.
“Flip the safety off,” Rafael breathes, sliding his thumb over a small switch on the side of the gun. “Close one eye and aim.” I do as he says, closing one eye and aiming the gun at the man’s head. I pause for a moment, seeing his face, the determined set of his jaw contrasting with the fear in his eyes. Yes. I want his fear. I crave it.
“And simply pull the trigger.” Rafael’s hands move over mine, holding the gun steady. In an instant, the man in front of me becomes every man who has ever hurt me, touched me, abused me. The rage that permanently simmers deep beneath my forced indifference rises, gripping me in a red haze. I hate them all, and I want his blood. Without any more hesitation, I allow Rafael to guide my aim and squeeze the trigger. The gun explodes in my hand, raw power bursting forth. A hole appears in the man’s forehead, his eyes going wide before he slumps in the chains. A single stream of blood trickles to the floor, the liquid spattering the concrete beneath him.
For a second I just stand there, staring at the blood hitting the floor and running down the drain. I just killed a man. In a fraction of a second, I held power over life and death. I was judge, jury, and executioner. And I feel no remorse. A sense of peace washes over me as though the blood running down the drain is taking with it all the pain and helplessness of the teenage girl I once was. Many men have hurt and used me over the years, and I’ve never been able to do anything about it. There was no punishment for their acts, no justice to be found, and I expected none because my entire life was an injustice. Maybe it still is. But finally, I’ve found some form of retribution, and it’s a heady feeling. I don’t want to place my trust in Rafael, but how can I not when he hands me gifts such as this? I would never have done this on my own, but it’s like he knows what I need better than I do.
Rafael’s hands move away from mine, and I lower my trembling arms, turning to face him. He wordlessly takes the gun from me, sliding it into the back of his pants again.
“Welcome to the cartel, avecita.” A grin spreads over his lips and then, as if on instinct, he reaches up and strokes his fingers down my cheek with a gentleness that’s so at odds with everything he is. His gaze drops to my mouth, my heart does a strange little skip, and I’m not sure if it’s fear or something else. His stare lingers a beat longer before he snatches his hand away from me as though I’ve burned him. Fingers curled into a tight fist, he takes a step back, his brows pulled together in a frown. And then he turns away, walking out of the room without a backward glance. I take one last look at the dead man and follow Rafael. I just took a man’s life, and I don’t feel a thing. Does that make me a monster?
Seventeen
Rafael
I stand below the overpass, the hum of traffic a constant above us. Samuel is beside me, his arms folded over his chest as we watch the two guys in front of us heave on a rope, winching a body into the air by its ankles—the last of the Eight. The eight men Dominges hired. I’m sending a message to him. I’m Rafael D’Cruze, and this is what fucking happens when you cross me. The street lights above cast an orange glow over the bloodied bodies, making the scene all the more grizzly. Their arms hang limply, dangling and dripping blood onto the dusty concrete far below. I’m not usually one for theatrics but Dominges just declared war, and I’m making it known that I’m willing to go head to head with him. I glance at the body on the far right, gently swaying in the warm breeze, the neat bullet hole in his forehead. I can still feel the set of Anna’s body against mine, so full of determination. I expected her to be horrified, to cry or maybe run out of that bloodstained basement but no. She embraced it, took that gun from my hands with barely a trace of hesitation. I saw something inside her rise to meet the challenge, and I can’t help but feel a sense of pride in the little Russian. I could feel that rage I so often see in her eyes pushing to the surface, like invisible fingers luring her to pull the trigger.
She’s always had this cold distance to her, but what I took for broken suddenly seemed so beautifully ruthless when armed with a gun. Anna Vasiliev has every reason to be a mess, but she’s so fucking strong, and at that moment, I saw her in all her perfectly ruined glory. My little bird is, in fact, a little warrior.
She made my dick so hard, and I wanted to fuck her right there amongst the blood and the violence. I’m not sure if that makes me a sick fucker for getting hard over killing a guy, or over a girl who’s spent her life being forced to fuck men.
My phone rings, and I take it from my pocket, exhaling a breath when I see Nero’s name on the screen. I turn my back and answer it. “Yeah?”
“How is it going?” he asks in a clipped voice.
“Fine.”
“So she’s okay?” I have to laugh at that. “Something funny?”
“I’m not sure she’ll ever be ‘okay’.” I shake my head. How can she be after what she’s suffered?
There’s a beat of silence, the creak of an office chair. “Well, she needs to be.”
I snort. “The girl has been a sex slave for….how long was she in there?” He seems to know things about her I’m sure she doesn’t even know.
He clears his throat. “Nine years.”
“Nine…” I try to work that out. She barely looks eighteen.
“She was sold at thirteen.”
Fucking hell. I drag a hand through my hair, fighting rage and sheer fucking despair at the thought of a thirteen-year-old Anna being taken and raped. It makes me sick to my stomach. “What the fuck do you intend to do with her?” I’m practically growling down the phone at him now. I agreed to this, but fuck if she doesn’t eat away at whatever sliver of moral compass I have left.
“That’s my business. You agreed to this, and you owe me.” He’s right. Whichever way I turn with this, I’m cornered.
“Fine, but whatever she’s worth to you, I have a feeling Dominges might have figured it out.”
“Why?”
“He hired some mercenaries to try and take her.” Nero lets out a string of curses. “They didn’t succeed of course.” I stare up at the bodies hanging like Christmas decorations from the underpass. “And I know he said he wanted her back so he could kill her, but this is extreme even for him. I can’t see him going this far over an escaped girl. If there’s something you want to tell me, now would be the time.”
“Just protect her. No matter what.”
“You’ll be the one with the debt by the end of this.”
“Yeah, yeah, I owe you my first born child. I know.”
I smile as I hang up. Turning around, I give the bodies one last parting glance. “Let’s go!”
I get in the passenger seat of the car and straighten the cuff of my shirt. I need a drink.
I sit on the sun lounger, cigar smoke drifting over my face as I watch fireflies dance in the darkness. I’m rarely alone, and even my own home is like a fortress, full of soldiers and staff. Someone always wants something from me. Out here, the air feels a little easier to breathe, calming. I inhale and hold my breath, relishing in the slow burn resonating through my lungs. When I exhale, smoke dances through the night air, the scent mixing with night Jasmine and chlorine. Lifting my beer to my lips, I take a sip, the ice-cold liquid sliding down my throat. Something moves in the darkness beyond the glow of the pool, and I narrow my eyes.
Slowly, I uncoil from my spot on th
e lounger and reach behind me, my fingers wrapping around the gun tucked into the back of my jeans. Stalking around the edge of the pool, I keep hold of my beer and walk out into the gardens. Moving through the gap between the hedges, I snap my gun up in front of me when something moves in my periphery. Haunted blue eyes lock with mine. Anna eyes the gun before making eye contact again. There’s not even a trace of fear in her eyes. I lower the gun and tuck it back into my jeans.
“It’s late. You shouldn’t be creeping around in the early hours of the morning.”
She tips her head forward, and I swear I see the hint of a smile before her hair covers her face. “I couldn’t sleep, so I thought I’d creep around out here.”
Did she just get fucking smart with me? “You know, the gardens are kind of pointless if you can’t see them.”
“I like it.” She turns away and starts walking towards the pond. I find myself following her, watching as she trails her fingers over the petals of the roses as she passes. She’s barefoot again, and her floor-length white skirt brushes the grass as she walks. Golden hair falls down her back, messy waves almost brushing her ass. She looks like a lost ghost, wandering in the darkness, haunted.
She stops at the pond and sits on the edge again, brushing her fingers across the surface of the water. The fish swim up to greet her, opening and closing their mouths, trying to suck on her fingers. For a moment she looks…serene.
“Nightmares keeping you awake, little warrior?” She turns that haunted gaze on me and nods once. “Is it the first time you’ve killed someone?”
“No,” she says quietly before dropping into silence. “I once belonged to a man who liked to break young girls.” She keeps tracing patterns in the water. “And when his methods didn’t break me, he’d get angry and make me kill one of the others.” She inhales a deep breath.
“He didn’t kill you though.” I try to keep the bite of anger out of my voice.
She shakes her head. “I escaped a couple of times. I was always forced to watch the girls who ran with me die. I wanted him to kill me. More than anything. But I was his favorite.”
“You kept trying?”
She sweeps the curtain of hair away from her face and looks at me. “I knew that the second I stopped trying, was the moment he’d finally broken me.” Her eyes drift closed. “There are some fates worse than death.” Her voice remains strong and steady, full of strength. Fuck, if she doesn’t make me want to hold her and promise her all the safety in the world. I want to demand the name of such a man so I can end him, but this isn’t my fight. It isn’t my business. I take a seat on the edge of the pond, and I don’t know if she’s even aware of the way her body tilts towards mine.
“You’re a survivor, Anna.”
“Survival,” she breathes. “It seems so pointless though, doesn’t it? What kind of life is this?”
Without thought, I take her hand, clutching it between mine. “One step at a time, avecita.” She stares at her hand in mine. “Firstly, you should probably stop hiding in the garden at night.” I smirk.
“I like the darkness.”
“Why?”
Her eyes meet mine, a soft smile whispering over her lips. “Didn’t anybody ever tell you? You can’t see the stars without the dark.”
“Poetic.” I sip my beer before offering it to her. She eyes the bottle warily. “You’ve never had beer?” She shakes her head and chews on her bottom lip. It shouldn’t draw my attention, but the way her teeth gnaw at the plump flesh… “Try it.” She releases my hand, and her fingers gently brush mine as she takes the bottle from me. She tentatively lifts it to her lips and tips the bottle back, swallowing before her face scrunches up. I laugh and take the bottle back from her. “It grows on you.”
She retreats into her silence. Nine years of slavery. How is she still half fucking sane? I’ve heard the stories of Sinaloa whores trying to escape and being beaten to death, or worse, escaping and being thrown into some of the nastiest brothels they have. Some even manage to kill themselves, although they make it hard for them. Most of them don’t survive a year, and the ones that do are mentally ruined by that point. Nine years. I’ve never heard of one making it so long. And though she’s undoubtedly damaged, she’s strong. When I look in her eyes, I can see the torture and the pain, but she wears it like an impenetrable shield. I can’t help but respect that kind of tenacity to survive.
I want to protect her, simply because I can, and because she deserves to have someone in this whole fucking world give a shit. But I can’t offer her that. I can’t promise that—because of Nero. Just business, I remind myself, for what feels like the hundredth fucking time since I met her, I can’t offer her much, except maybe one thing…
“Twenty-two,” I say.
“What?”
“That’s how old you are. Twenty-two.”
I stand up, leaving the beer on the low wall next to her.
“Rafael.” I pause. “Thank you,” she says quietly, the purity in her voice reaching inside me like the goddamn hand of death. I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment and then walk back toward the house.
When I walk into the kitchen in the morning, Maria is standing in front of the stove, frying bacon. I kiss her cheek and she side-eyes me before swatting at me with a dishcloth. I’m trying to swipe a piece of bacon when I sense someone behind me. I turn around, hot bacon burning me as I come face to face with Anna. Shoving the food in my mouth, I lick grease from my fingers.
“Raised in a barn…” Maria is grumbling, shunting me out of the way. “Sit, both of you.”
I yank my gun from the waist of my pants and place it on the breakfast island. Maria huffs. “No guns at the table!”
“Do I not own this fucking house?”
“Language!” She jerks her head towards Anna, and I take the gun, putting it in the kitchen drawer. Anna ducks her head, covering her amusement.
Samuel strolls into the kitchen typing on his phone. “Morning.” His suit jacket is open—his hair damp from the shower. He’d look like a respectable young businessman if it weren’t for the tattoos crawling up his neck and covering his hands and fingers. “Anna,” he says to her, jerking his chin as he takes a seat.
“You’ve met Samuel. He works for me.” She says nothing. Maria places a plate in front of Anna and then me, making one for Samuel.
“Everybody works for you, Rafe.” Sam rolls his eyes. “So, Anna, where are you from?” He already knows where she’s from, but I smirk at his effort to draw the little Russian into conversation.
She looks at him blankly, and I almost want to laugh. “Think you might have finally found a girl you can’t charm, Sam.”
“Ah, come on. I don’t bite.”
She looks at me, our eyes locking. Something passes between us, something unspoken. It’s like she’s looking for permission. “Moscow,” she finally answers.
In my periphery, I catch him looking at me before he clears his throat and starts talking about a couple of bars I own. To Anna, it would all sound legitimate, but we really just use the bars to clean money. Nothing else. I find myself looking at her every so often, watching the way she slowly eats her food, as though she’s savoring every bite. She’s filled out now, and as her health has returned, it’s impossible not to see how beautiful she is. She glances up and pauses when her gaze crashes with mine.
“Rafe,” Samuel says impatiently. I look at him. “A little distracted?” I glare, and he laughs as he bites off a piece of the bacon in his hand. Anna gets up and as quiet as a mouse just leaves the room without a word to anyone. I let out a breath. “She’s pretty,” Samuel says.
“Fuck off.”
“Don’t pretend fucking whores is beneath you.” He laughs.
“She isn’t a fucking whore!” I snap, my muscles twitching with rage and the urge to grab him by his throat. His eyes go wide, and he wisely shifts away from me.
A whore chooses to have sex for money. Anna was a slave, taken against her will and raped. I tighten my fis
t on the table in front of me. “I have work to do.” I push away from the table, grab my gun from the drawer and leave the room.
Eighteen
Anna
I sit on the edge of the pond, tearing little pieces of bread apart and tossing them into the water. The orange and pearlescent fish rise to the surface, spots of luminous color in the darkness of the water. The pond is like a bubble, closed off from the outside world. The solitude brings a sense of serenity that soothes my fraught soul. I hear a noise behind me and whip my head around to find a shadowy figure lingering near the hedge line. Cigar smoke wafts on the air, and then a tiny cherry red glow illuminates the hard features of Rafael’s face. Only two weeks ago, I hated him and everything he stands for, but I’ve come to trust him. Every night for the last week I’ve come out here to the gardens, and every night I see him. Sometimes we talk, sometimes he says nothing at all, but each time he leaves, he seems angry or maybe upset. I always think he won’t come back, but here he is. Maybe I’m a fool. Engrained instinct tells me to shut him out—interested only in the most basic survival, and Rafael is a threat to that, to the resistance I’ve taken so long to build. But then there’s this other part of me that’s getting louder. I think she was unleashed the day Rafael put a gun in my hand and helped me to shoot a man who had wronged me. That girl is angry and wounded, but she craves something more than just existence and survival. My body has become this war zone for the two parts of me—the accepting and the fighter—two halves of the whole. Rafael gave me that, and for the first time in a long time, I allow myself to feel something I have always blocked out: hope. Dangerous and intoxicating, and it smells like cigar smoke mixed with expensive cologne and just a hint of beer.
Dark eyes watch me, twinkling in the darkness like a predator stalking its prey. I turn back to the fish and hear him move closer until he’s standing behind me. My skin prickles with awareness and my heartbeat quickens, as every instinct demands I turn around and face the threat that I know he is. And yet, I know he won’t hurt me.