Doll Face

by Sadie Grubor

  An hour later, hair and make-up done, and legs still sore, I exit the bathroom wrapped in a towel. Preparing to get dressed, I enter the walk-in closet and pause.

  Saint stands at his rack of suits with only a towel around his waist. Hair still damp, I watch a water droplet slide down his neck and slip over the large tattoo on his back. The partially extended wings made up of knives are like a warning you get too late. Because once you can see his tattoo, you're dead, close to it, or you're me—tied to him through sins, blood, and flesh.

  A shiver runs up my spine, and regardless of how sore I am, the desire is there to strip away the towel and drop to my knees. Suppressing the urges, I turn to what is now my side of the closet and scan the row of clothing. I've gone from a woman with only enough clothes to get her through a week and that will fit into a backpack to one with expensive designer dresses, shirts, pants, and lingerie in both the walk-in closet here at the penthouse and a full wardrobe back at the estate. It feels overwhelming and surreal.

  Taking a deep breath, I exhale slowly, and grab a gold dress from the selection.

  The stylist must have a thing for dresses with a conservative neckline and a low back, because this one, like the black mini dress, dips down in the back. One difference, this long-sleeved gold number is covered in sparkles from neck to hem.

  Hanging the dress on a wall hook, I pull open the top drawer of the built-in dresser. My fingers linger over a bra before remembering the open back. Moving on to panties, I choose a pair and step into them.

  "Put on the heels," Saint orders.

  Glancing over my shoulder, I find him buttoning up his black dress shirt. His eyes move from me to the floor, then back. Looking down, I see a pair of strappy gold heels. These aren't the type you can just slip into. No, these involve wrapping them up your leg.

  "Put them on." His repeat command sends a shiver along my spine and heat gathers between my legs. I should want to fight, rebel against his orders, but instead, lust rolls through my body.

  Bending at the waist, I place my foot into one shoe, wrap the long strings around my calf, and secure them just below my knee. Leaning back against the closet wall, I put on the other heel, then stand motionless, letting him look. The weight of his eyes feels like a million flames licking across my skin. I want nothing more than for them to find their way between my thighs and burn me.

  Resting his loose tie around his neck, he steps close. His hand comes up, collaring my neck and flexing. Dragging the hand down to the valley between my breasts, he flattens his palm.

  His tongue slips out, wetting his bottom lip.

  In a sudden movement, he brings both hands to each side of my neck and uses his thumbs to tilt my face up. His eyes move between mine, like he's looking for something. When I furrow my brow, he blinks, releases me, and walks away.

  I quickly slip into the dress and exit the walk-in closet.

  Saint stands at a tall dresser with his back to me. He's finished dressing, his dark suit only accentuating the ominous figure he creates.

  "If I could leave you behind tonight, I would." His words cause a sharp pain behind my ribs. "I don't know what's going to happen this evening," he adds, turning to face me. "Things are in a precarious place."

  It's only a small waver in his voice and a quick flash in his eye, but I don't miss the apprehension and fear.

  "You'll be by my or Sketch's side the entire night." His voice quickly becomes an command. "Do you understand?"

  Fear lodges in my throat, but before I can answer, he continues, "I need you to understand, Mei. Tonight, you don't question or hesitate."

  Swallowing hard and straightening my spine, I nod.

  We stay in a silent stare down for a few minutes before he finally seems convinced. Then he closes the distance between us. Reaching into his pocket, he orders, "Turn around."

  I immediately turn without question or delay, hoping it helps prove I'll do as he requested.

  A gold necklace dangles in front of my face before Saint brings it to my neck. Reaching up, I move my hair to the side and he secures the clasp at the back of my neck.

  "Don't take it off," is all he says.

  Dropping my hair, I glance down to the pendant resting against my chest. A gold circle stamped with the look of a compass.

  Forty minutes later, Frank delivers Saint, Sketch, and myself to an understated brick building. Vincent and Russ maneuver around our vehicle and find a place to park ahead of us.

  Stepping out of the car, Saint leads me beneath the green awning. Costa's Italian Restaurant is spelled out in white script on the front window. Through the glass, every table looks full. And when we enter the establishment, all eyes feel like they're on us.

  Instead of waiting for the hostess, Saint places his hand to the small of my back, urging me to continue. He guides me through the restaurant to a back hallway. At the end of the corridor, past a kitchen door and bathrooms, are double wooden doors. Two men standing on either side nod and push them open, revealing a private dining room.

  Where it felt as if all the people out front were staring, it's very clear that the ones in this room definitely are. There's a brief lull in conversation as they study us.

  Saint slips an arm around my waist. Hand gripping my hip, he pulls me close to his side and leads us into the room. Tilting my head back, I look up at him. His eyes sweep the room.

  "Dante," a deep Italian accented voice calls.

  Saint's fingers tighten on my hip.

  "Come." The voice draws my attention, and Saint leads us toward it.

  At a table against the back wall, four women dripping in an array of jewels, designer dresses, and flawless makeup are seated beside three men in suits with an air of arrogance. The one in the center is obviously in charge, but it's the large man standing behind him I can't look away from.

  Wrinkles and graying hair expose how much time has passed since I last laid eyes on him—since the day a man called Max bought my innocence and delivered me further into darkness. His familiar dark eyes meet mine. With a slight tilt of his head, he furrows his brow.

  I stiffen.

  Noticing my reaction and pulling me tighter into his side, Saint's mouth comes to my ear, "You okay?"

  No! I silently scream in my head. Every instinct to run kicking in, I make note of the two emergency exits located along the back wall with my peripheral vision.

  Allowing myself to move my eyes to the man who called us over, I clench my jaw.

  "Dante," the man I currently stare at says like it's a question.

  "Angelo," Saint finally greets, and it almost breaks me.

  Thankfully, Saint tucks me into a chair at the table before I collapse.

  My eyes move back and forth between Angelo and Max before I drop them to an empty wine glass. Unseeing the way the light reflects off the rim, that night so many years ago flashes through my mind. Max buying and delivering me to the man who would tear away my innocence. Looking from under my lashes, I take in Angelo. A man who, after praising his son for killing a piece of me, would wait until the room was cleared out before shoving his cock down my throat.

  Saint takes the seat next to me. His hand comes to my thigh and squeezes.

  Knowing he can sense my discomfort and panic, I take a deep breath, place my hand over his, and on my exhale, I put my mask in place. I won't let my emotions or past effect Saint, though I'm sure he'll demand answers later—answers he'll soon find he doesn't want.

  "Where's Felix?" Saint's question pulls me from my own thoughts.

  "Coming." Angelo waves the question off. "He's making a special entrance as the guest of honor," he concludes before moving his eyes to me.

  "So, this is your new…" he hesitates a moment before finishing, "acquisition?"

  "This is Mei," Saint introduces. "Mei," he addresses me, "this is my Uncle Angelo and…" He motions to the blonde woman at his side, but before he can finish, Sketch appears.

  "Aunt Rosie," he coos. "It's so good to see you.
"

  Her lips press into a disapproving line.

  Pulling out the empty chair on my left, Sketch steps close to the table.

  "That's for Felix," she snaps, nostrils flaring.

  "Should I pull up a chair from another table?" His question is laced in so much sarcasm, I try not to laugh.

  "I don't know why you're here at all." Her words are filled with so much disgust, they surprise me. Her eyes move from him to Saint. "You should've left your mutt at home."

  "Aunt Rosario, you know Maurizio is family," Saint counters.

  She scoffs, lifting her chin. "He's the son of the help, not family," she retorts.

  Tension rolls off Sketch in waves, causing a protective and possessive side of me to emerge. I've said worse things to him, but as far as I'm concerned, only I get to be a heinous bitch to him. Not this overly made up and plastic faced cunt.

  "I understand," Saint acquiesces, making me bristle. "But he's one of my men, so he's family." I relax and Sketch calms at his stressing of those two words.

  Rosario's face contorts, looking like she's sucked on a lemon.

  "Now, now, dearest," Angelo finally chimes in, patting her arm. "Maurizio can take the empty seat there." He motions to the table next to us. "This one is reserved for the birthday boy," Angelo explains.

  I'm not sure what it is about his words, but everything feels loaded with double meaning. It's frustrating and frightening.

  "Thanks, Uncle Angie," Sketch quips, moving to the other table.

  A scowl forms on Angelo's face, but disappears at the approach of a man. He walks to Angelo's side, leans down, and speaks close to his ear. His eyes light up, and a large smile spreads on his face.

  Pushing out of his chair, Angelo claps his hands together, and announces, "Our special guests have arrived."

  Guests? I glance to Saint. His eyes narrowed on Angelo.

  One of the emergency exit doors bangs open and two men in dark gray suits drag a man into the room.

  "Here he is now," Angelo cheers.

  The room fills with apprehension and uncertainty.

  Felix is tossed out into an empty space in the center of the room. One of the dark gray suits uses his foot to shove the man onto his back.

  I gasp.

  "What is this?" Saint asks, pushing up from his chair.

  Felix lies on the restaurant floor in the same clothes he wore at the strip club three nights ago. Except now, the expensive suit is dirty, torn, and stained. Blood covers his face, seeping from a wound above one of his swollen and bruised eyes. One of his legs lays in an awkward position and a deep bruise rings his neck.

  "Do you think I'm stupid?" Angelo shouts.

  Everyone's attention moves from Felix to him.

  Angelo rounds the table, yelling down at Felix's motionless body, "You're a traitor just like your fucking father!"

  Drawing a gun, he points it at Felix's head.

  "Angelo," Saint shouts.

  Gun still pointed on Felix, he slowly turns his head to Saint.

  "Don't think for one second you are getting off either," Angelo sneers, pulling the trigger.

  The room erupts into female screams.

  Saint takes a step forward, drawing me behind his body, and Angelo bursts into laughter.

  Glancing around Saint's body, I search Felix for a bullet wound until red starts to spread over his right shoulder.

  "Get down," Saint growls over his shoulder. When I don't listen, instead watching for any signs of life from Felix, he twists. Using his big hand, he grasps my shoulder and shoves me to the floor. "Under the table," he orders, turning back to Angelo.

  Angelo turns, holding the gun on Saint.

  "No," I cry.

  When I try to get up from the floor, Saint steps back, blocking me under the table.

  "I gave you everything," Angelo exclaims. "And you repay me the same way your mother did."

  "By not loving you," Saint quips.

  Angelo's face contorts into rage and he brings the gun across Saint's face.

  "Traitor," he screams, shoving the barrel to Saint's chest.

  Leaning in close, he licks his lips, and growls, "I have a special gift for traitors."

  The moment the words leave Angelo's mouth, the emergency door bangs open again. There's a moment of clanging and glass breaking.

  "Bring her to me." Angelo's words are filled with annoyance.

  The rage pouring off Saint make me both curious and afraid to know who was just brought in the room.

  "What did you do to her?" Saint growls.

  Peering out from under the table, a dark-haired woman is tugged to stand behind Angelo.

  The abuse she's suffered is all over her face. The black eye, bloody lip, and swollen cheek all physical evidence, but it's the disheveled clothes and faraway, haunted look in her eyes that rings too close to home. Her violation runs deeper than skin and bone.

  "Giuliana swore she wasn't a part of your schemes," Angelo begins, waving the gun at her, before turning it back on Saint, "But…I had to be thorough." The sick smile on his face makes my stomach knot. "You understand?"

  "You sick fuck," Saint spits at him.

  "If it makes you feel better," Angelo continues, ignoring Saint, "I believe her and will be taking her into my home once you are…" he pauses, "unable to provide for her."

  "What?" Rosario hisses, knowing damn well what the asshole is suggesting.

  Rolling his eyes, Angelo swings his arm to the left and pulls the trigger.

  Screams fill the room and I bury my head in the floor, but I still hear Rosario's body hit the ground.

  "Well, looks like I'll have plenty of room for you now, my dear." His words draw my attention back to Giuliana.

  Angelo holds the gun on Saint, but reaches out with his other hand to brush her disheveled hair from her face. The moment his fingers touch her cheek, I see it.

  A fire lights in her chocolate eyes.

  "Never again," she cries out, her left arm arching through the air, light catching on the metal before she lands a steak knife in the front of Angelo's throat.

  It's then I remember the clang of dishes and sound of broken glass. She must have grabbed it from a table in passing.

  Angelo gags, dropping the gun and gripping the handle sticking out. Giuliana shoves the knife deeper. A shot rings out, catching Giuliana in the temple. She crumbles to the floor next to Felix.

  "Don't," Max warns as Angelo yanks the knife from his throat.

  Blood bubbles out of his mouth and over his chin to mingle with the blood pouring from his neck. The front of his shirt saturates with red. I can't look away. My dark urges rise, wanting to add our own slashes to his body. I want my own vengeance, cutting off his cock and shoving it in his own mouth, or in the hole in his neck.

  Crawling out from under the table, I stand next to Saint and take in the carnage.

  Max kneels next to Angelo, hand over his throat. I want to gut him too.

  Taking a step forward, Saint puts his arm out, stopping me.

  Wrinkling my brow, I glance up to find him scanning the room.

  Following his gaze, I take in the full scene. A jolt of surprise runs through me.

  Half of the wait staff holds a gun to someone's head.

  "Did you do this?" I ask on a whisper.

  "No," he responds as all the emergency exits and main room entrance open.

  Two figures clothed in black, long sleeve shirts, black pants, and Kevlar vests enter from each of the emergency exits behind us, while four more arrive through the main entrance. It only takes a couple minutes to realize they are all women, all dressed in black, with face shields revealing only their eyes.

  "Kanojo wa tōchaku suru," one of them announces.

  The four at the main door part, allowing a woman to enter the room. She too is dressed head to toe in black, but her face shield is different. At her approach, the design comes into focus and makes sense.

  It's the face of a Geisha.

&nb
sp; Saint

  The minute the waitresses pulled guns, I knew she was near.

  The Geisha approaches. Dark hair pulled into a tight bun and dressed in black, aside from her face shield, she's not exactly an imposing figure. A good head shorter than me and thin, it's easy to see how the men she's killed would underestimate her.

  Instead of stepping around the bodies littering the floor, she uses her long legs to step over them. Glancing down as she passes, she stops next to Giuliana. Squatting down, she places her gloved hand on her chest.

  Lifting the hand, she makes a circular motion before placing the same hand on Felix.

  Two woman wearing waitress uniforms come forward, picking Giuliana off the floor.

  "Stop," I demand.

  The Geisha's head snaps to me, but other women don't acknowledge I've spoken.

  "Her family will—"

  "Will want their daughter to live," she speaks for the first time, standing back to her full height.

  Muffled by the face shield, I still make out the Japanese accent. My mind drifts to my sister, wondering if The Geisha knows where she is.

  "She's alive?" Mei asks, the hope in her question clear.

  The Geisha's eyes move from me to Mei.

  Wanting to keep Mei off her radar, I move, blocking The Geisha's view.

  "What do you want?" I ask, crossing my arms over my chest.

  Her head tilts.

  "It was his time," she states.

  Furrowing my brow, I glance to Felix.

  "Not him," she hisses. "Him!" She points to Angelo.

  "You cunt," Max shouts from his kneeling position, pulling a gun.

  Before he can lock onto his target, her leg shoots out. The heel of the boot knocks the weapon from his hand, sending it skittering across the floor. A second woman in black pushes up to his back, a sword to his throat.

  "Yameru," The Geisha exclaims. "Kare wa sugu ni shinudarou." Her eyes move to me, and she finishes, "Ichido kore wa kare ga naniwoshita ka o shiru."