Doll Face

by Sadie Grubor

  Taking the material at her shoulder in my fist, her hands clasp my forearm, and I spin her around, breaking her hold on me and making her curse.

  I lift the blade and press the tip into the back of the shirt and slice through it. The action stops her fight. Three cuts of the expensive fabric later, the shirt is practically shredded.

  Twirling the knife in my hand, I release her and head for the door.

  Before I exit, I instruct once more, "Get ready for bed."

  Instead of heading upstairs, I return to the first floor. Sketch's eyes find me the moment I enter the room and he pushes away from his laptop.

  "Get anything?" I don't miss the bite of annoyance in his voice.

  Using the tip of the knife still in my hand, I tap on the screen of a cell phone currently wired to his laptop.

  "It's basically a burner phone," he says on an agitated sigh. "No contract to tie her to anything. Just an account to re-up with more data and minutes." He motions to the screen with a wave of his hand.

  Coming to stand behind him, I look down at the screen.

  "She's not a professional, but she isn't a fucking amateur either," he warns.

  "Explain," I order.

  "If the feds were involved, she'd be buried deeper and behind false identities and accounts."

  "But…"

  "She keeps herself off the grid really well. Like she's been doing this for a fucking lifetime." He rubs a hand over his face.

  "So, you still have nothing," I grumble.

  "There's one thing that doesn't fit, but…"

  "Sketch," I warn, my patience growing thin.

  "There's a Google alert she received about a Kayla Mearson. The alert is out of character for someone who tries not to have any attachments," he says, pausing to tap on the keys in front of him.

  A picture of a young girl comes up on the screen with the word MISSING printed above her.

  "It's clearly not doll Face."

  I tense, hating how my insides twist with his familiarity of her.

  "Don't get attached, Sketch," I growl, clamping my hand on his shoulder.

  "Fuck," Sketch complains, leaning away from my hand. "I get it, Saint. She's yours."

  His hand replaces mine once I release him.

  "Christ," he snaps, rolling his shoulder. "You realize you're acting like an obsessed asshole, right? Not to mention I don't want any part of the kind of crazy you're harboring in your bed."

  Reclaiming my seat at the head of the table, I meet his eyes.

  "You know what I am," is my response.

  "I'm not sure I do anymore," he clips.

  Gripping the handle of my knife, I flip it above my head and catch it by the blade before flicking my wrist. The knife stabs into the wood table an inch from his wrist.

  "Christ," he exclaims, jerking his arm from the table.

  "Consider yourself reminded."

  "Here," he clips, tossing a folder.

  The manila file lands on the table and slides across the smooth surface until it's within arm's reach of me.

  Placing my palm on the folder, I keep my eyes fixated to it, and ask, "Is it confirmed?"

  "It's all there." I don't miss the edgy cadence of his words.

  Before I can pull it to me, Sketch's hand lands over mine. Our eyes meet.

  "You need to know," he pauses, furrowing his brow and licking his lips.

  Narrowing my eyes, I pull the folder and my hand out from under his. This level of nervousness isn't like him.

  "What?" I bark out.

  "There's more than…" he visibly swallows, "there's just more and it's going to change everything."

  Flipping through the pages is like digging up every dead body Angelo buried. The skeletons pile up until I'm submerged. Everything I already know and those I suspected are confirmed. Staring down at the undeniable proof of Angelo's twisted games, I thought I knew his greatest. That he is, in fact, the catalyst in killing his own son in his quest for power.

  "This is everything we…" I turn to the final section of the file, and the rhythm of Sketch's pacing becomes the soundtrack to a revelation I never saw coming. "This doesn't—" the final page, the one with genetic proof, is enough to cut off my protest.

  Curling the right side of my mouth, disgust, anger, and venom stir my dark side. The demon wants flesh and bone beneath our hands—another soul to add to our collection.

  Since I was a boy, his word was law. My father preached and beat it into me on a regular basis. Do not question. Do not hesitate. Do not show fear.

  "Dante, please don't—"

  Her cries are cut off by the back of his hand and she crumbles to the ground.

  The urge to protect her tenses my muscles, but I school my features.

  "She's a traitor," he shouts. "And a whore."

  The words slice me open. Anger starts to burn in the pit of my stomach. But his word is law and must be obeyed.

  "Still making up your own truths I see," she shouts, spitting blood at his feet.

  He fists her by the hair and pulls her up on her knees, bowing his head until their faces are only inches apart.

  Words are exchanged, too quiet for me to hear, but the defiance melts from her face, replaced with terror.

  "No," she gasps, tears pouring over her blood-smeared cheeks.

  "Yes, Theresa," he hisses, tossing her to the floor. "She's just another whore."

  Grunts of protest draw my attention from the sobbing woman on the floor.

  "Dad," Felix shouts from the other side of Angelo before moving toward the bound and gagged form of Uncle Dino.

  "Stop him." Angelo's orders are always obeyed.

  Reaching out, I grab Felix's arm, and eyes flashing with confusion and anger meet mine.

  "Control yourself!" Angelo's demand falls on Felix's deaf ears.

  He pulls from my grip, only to be subdued by two other men.

  "Let go of me," he shouts, struggling against their hold.

  A loud grunt draws my attention once more.

  The look in my uncle's eyes is clear. He's silently warning my cousin about his outburst.

  Felix quiets, but the men don't release him.

  "Welcome, brother," Angelo greets.

  He tries to step forward, but his shoe meets my mother's leg.

  Every muscle bunches and my chest feels like it's going to explode. Crossing my arms over my chest, I try to hold myself together and in place. Every moment with my mother flashes to mind.

  Her singing me to sleep.

  Her telling me stories.

  The way she overfeeds me when I visit the house.

  The sad look in her eyes when I walk out the door.

  Fighting back the urge to collect her in my arms and protect her becomes physically painful. A pit forms in my stomach, like a churning of needles and glass.

  Spreading my legs farther, I plant my feet. To go to her is weakness. She's a traitor to our family, and disloyalty comes with a high cost. It's one we all know.

  With his expensive Italian shoe, he kicks her leg, causing her to whimper.

  "Max," Angelo calls over his shoulder, "prepare the whore."

  Turning my head at the muffled shout from my uncle, I watch him struggle against the men holding him.

  "Don't worry, you too will get what traitors deserve, brother," Angelo says, the final word drawn out in disgust.

  "Dante, please," my mother cries softly.

  When I don't look at her, sharp tips of my pain pierce my soul.

  "Please, look at me," she begs.

  "Shut up," Max growls, and I don't have to look to know there's a gun to her head.

  "It's not your fault," she rebels against the order.

  "Bitch, what did I say?" The crack of bone slices through the room, followed by her cry of pain.

  "Stop trying to help her," Angelo says.

  For a moment, I'm sure he's talking to me, but then it becomes clear the words are meant for my uncle.

  "You've helped her qui
te enough, haven't you?"

  Uncle Dino's eyes narrow in defiance.

  "Where's the other traitor?" Angelo asks, make me start.

  Another? The question swirls around my head.

  It's a muffled response, but Uncle Don's face makes his intended "Fuck you," evident.

  Angelo's laugh is humorless and sadistic.

  His hand comes up expectantly. A switchblade is placed in his palm, and within seconds, the blade pierces my uncle's thigh.

  Felix tenses, taking a step forward, but he doesn't get any farther.

  "Dante," my mother rasps, her words broken by gasps for breath, "you are not like them."

  Looking down at her kneeling form, Max's hand in her hair keeping her upright, our eyes meet.

  In them, I find love, forgiveness, and understanding, and it confuses me. She knows what's coming for her.

  Her lips part in a bloody smile.

  Surprise unfurrows my brows.

  "Get them in place," Angelo orders, and like the well-trained soldier I am, my attention moves to him.

  Uncle Dino is pushed to his knees next to my mother, the pain in his carved up thigh making him bow forward onto his hands. My mother is forced to all fours when Max shoves between her shoulder blades.

  "Dante, Felix, come," Angelo beckons us to his side.

  "I forgive you." My mother's words earn her a booted kick in the side.

  "Damn it, Angelo," Uncle Dino curses, placing an arm protectively around her.

  In a flash of rage, Angelo stabs Dino in the shoulder, over and over, until he falls away from my mother.

  "Don't touch the whore," Angelo warns, a new edge to his voice I'm not familiar with.

  Straightening to his full height, he regains his composure before addressing us.

  "The time has come for you two to prove your loyalty, devotion, and make your oath of blood," he announces reverently, and everything becomes clear. I know what he wants us to do and the reason for her words of forgiveness.

  "You bastard," Dino exclaims, and another grunt of pain follows.

  Guns are thrust toward Felix and I, and Angelo motions with his head for us to take them.

  Taking the gun, I hold it at my side.

  Felix reaches out, his shaking hand hovers over the weapon.

  "Take it," Angelo urges. "Prove your loyalty."

  I can feel the tension growing as Felix hesitates.

  The dark pain blossoms along with my full understanding of this situation.

  Felix is more of a brother than a cousin and his suffering is only feeding the pain growing inside me. It's like nails being hammered in my gut.

  Tightening my hold on the handle of my gun, I step forward, lift the barrel to my mother's forehead. The action takes Angelo's focus off Felix.

  My eyes lock with hers, love and forgiveness still shining from their depths before they close.

  "Open them," I demand, making her blink in surprise.

  Her head jerks back with the force of the bullet before her lifeless body crumbles to the floor.

  "Now, Felix—" Angelo begins.

  Before he can finish, I sidestep, aim and pull the trigger a second time.

  Uncle Dino collapses into the puddle of blood soaking into the cement.

  Tossing the gun on their bodies, I step back to my previous position.

  The room is quiet, but inside, I'm sliced open and raw.

  "Well, that didn't go exactly as planned," Angelo jokes, getting uncomfortable laughs from the rest of the men.

  The same men who stare at the emotionless and deadly fifteen-year-old boy who killed his own mother and beloved uncle without a second thought. The one who walked out of that room like nothing had happened, although it had unleashed the darkest side of him. One that would grow into a stronger, darker, needier, and vengeful creature.

  So much had led up to the moment I stood before my mother and shot her executioner style. And while most thought I'd forced her to open her eyes because I was a sick fuck, the truth was, I needed to see the love and forgiveness for what I was about to do. Even believing she and my uncle had both betrayed our family, I still needed that from her.

  And now, with the information Sketch just gave to me, I am back in that room with them.

  The woman I called mother had supposedly been trading secrets and information to Leonid Vasechkin. At the time, Leo was head of the Russian Mob and this information is what I believed was the reason Angelo's son, AJ, was killed.

  As Angelo's word was law, I didn't dare ask for proof. Now, my suspicions of being used to cover up his actions are confirmed. I just didn't realize the depth of his deceit and part he played in the death of my beloved cousin.

  I retrieve my cell from the table.

  "You're still going through with this? Knowing what this all means and what it will begin?" Sketch asks.

  Scrolling to my cousin's number, I tap the screen and prepare to set my plan in motion.

  "Do you know what time it is?" Felix growls.

  "Yet, you answer," I tease.

  Not amused, he barks, "What the fuck do you want?"

  "I need to request an audience with you," I inform.

  "And this couldn't be done at a more reasonable hour?" he snaps.

  I allow him his anger. Only because what I have to talk with him about will not only flip his world upside down, but also our family. Felix will soon learn the truth of the organization we've dedicated our lives to, that we took a blood oath to serve and sacrifice for a greedy, selfish bastard.

  "Tomorrow," I say, ignoring his question. "On sacred ground. Noon."

  At the mention of where I want to meet, he goes silent. Understanding this conversation has everything to do with our previous discussion, and could leave one, or all of us, dead.

  "Done," he says, ending the call.

  Placing my phone back on the table, I lean forward, forearms to the table.

  The grain of the dark wood table blurs. My thoughts race with the words I'll share with Felix. Words that could unite us or tear us apart. The latter will possibly sign my death certificate, but Angelo has gone too far. His twisted manipulations have finally caught up to him.

  Mei

  Jerking awake from another nightmare, a sadistic reminder of my past, a heavy darkness and the weight of a large body settles over me.

  Panic pushes my flight instinct into action. I bring my hand up, preparing to use the heel of my hand to smash this person's nose. Before I can make contact, my wrist is caught in a giant hand. Not wasting any time fighting to get free, I wrap my legs around his thighs and buck beneath him, rolling us from the bed.

  "Christ," he growls, releasing my wrist.

  His arms come around me in a protective cocoon while the thud of his body makes the nightstand rattle and knocks the air from his lungs. Palms planted on his face, I shove hard. For a moment, I'm free of his hold, only for him to grab my forearms.

  "Christ," he exclaims. "Calm the fuck down."

  The recognition of his voice, his smell, and my surroundings, stop my defensive maneuvers.

  Shit! I'd been tempted to disobey and stay in the blue bedroom, but it took only one look at that doll, lying twisted in an unnatural way on the floor, to send me up to his room.

  In a swift move, Saint sits up, pressing me to his chest. One hand finds my ass and the other the back of my neck, holding me in place.

  "What the fuck was that?" His question rumbles against my chest.

  "I didn't…" I pause, remembering the nightmare he dragged me out of. As the adrenaline subsides, my muscles begin to twitch and my emotions rise to the surface.

  "Mei?" he asks, giving a squeeze to my neck.

  "I didn't know it was you," I answer quickly.

  "Who the hell did you think it would be?"

  "No one," I say, not wanting to confess a damn thing about the twisted shit my subconscious and memory show me at night.

  "Up," he orders, releasing my body. I scramble away and stand at the foot
of the bed. Rising from the floor, his eyes rake over me.

  "All that's missing are the shoes," he notes my choice of bed clothes.

  I cross my arms over my chest, suddenly feeling more exposed than when I strip on stage.

  He takes a step toward me. I take a step back. The cold look in his eyes and set of his jaw stops my retreat.

  Sitting at the foot of the bed, he snares my waist with a muscular arm and repositions me between his knees. His face lifts, and our eyes lock. There's a brief moment of vulnerability, and it scares the shit out of me. This is Saint, The Saint, cold, dark, and deadly. I feel like he's showing me something, intentional or not, I shouldn't be seeing.

  I open my mouth. To say what, I don't know, but he blinks and the moment is gone.

  At my hips, he fists my sweatpants and underwear, then yanks the material down my legs until it pools around my ankles. His calloused hands run up my thighs and over my bare ass, then dig in, pulling me against him and forcing me to straddle his lap.

  Gripping the hem of my tank top, he tears it over my head, then reclaims my ass and neck with his hands. Eyes locked on mine, he asks in a low, rough voice, "Tell me who haunts you?"

  "Tell me what happened to the other women," I counter in a hushed tone.

  "Why do they interest you so much?"

  Swallowing down my nerves, I confess, "I'd like to know my fate."

  Sliding his hand from behind my neck to my jaw, his eyes drop to my lips as he brushes his thumb over my mouth.

  "You aren't like them," he admits, shoving two fingers into my mouth.

  I roll my tongue around the digits and suck as he removes them.

  The thrill I feel at his words isn't normal or sane. Regardless, a need so powerful and consuming takes over. Wrapping my arms around his shoulders, I grind down against the hard ridge of his cock. The friction is glorious, pushing me closer and closer to the precipice of release.

  "No," I whine, so close yet denied.

  The hand on my ass lifts, keeping my pussy from what it wants most.

  Slipping my arms under his, I curl them up, trying to force myself down on his clothing-covered cock. I'm so close. I just need—

  "I want to feel you come around me," he growls.

  Wrapping his arm beneath my leg, he inserts two wet fingers inside me from behind.