Perfect Monster: A Dark Mafia Romance

by B. B. Hamel

  “Wedding.” Dad barked a laugh. “You’ve got to be joking.”

  “There’s no joke here.”

  “You despise my family. I know the history between you and Oisin. There’s a reason I didn’t want to come, but I thought, I wasn’t involved in what happened. Surely you’d understand that.”

  “And I do.”

  “Why this charade? You, marrying my daughter?” Dad laughed again, shaking his head. “Why the hell would you want someone like her?”

  Roman moved fast.

  He reached across the table, snatched up Dad’s beer, turned the glass sideways, and smashed it into his face.

  Dad grunted in shock and pain as his chair tipped and he fell backwards with a crash. Beer spilled out all over the table and floor, dripping down onto Dad’s fallen body.

  The silence that filled the room afterwards was thick.

  Roman tossed the glass aside. It hit the ground and rolled beneath a booth.

  “Get up.”

  Dad grunted and struggled. He stood, his clothes stained with Guinness. He righted his chair and sat. He bled freely from a cut in his forehead.

  “Do you want to try that again?” Roman asked.

  “You can hit me as much as you want, but it won’t change the fact that Oisin will never agree to any of this.”

  “Oisin’s been living in a cave for the past three years. My men have been searching for him day and night, and that stupid old man knows that if he ever emerges into the world again, he will die. You will go back to your boss and you will tell him that this is his only chance to survive. I’m married to your daughter, and I want your boss to pledge fealty to me. Tell him that if he wants to have a life again, he’ll come to the wedding, get down on his knees, and beg my forgiveness.”

  Another silence like the bottom of the ocean. Thick, black water, drowning me.

  Dad’s blood dripped down onto the table.

  “You’re serious,” he said at last. “We take money from Darren Servant.”

  “I know that. You’ll end that relationship.”

  “He won’t be happy.”

  “Do you think I give a shit? I have the Drozdov Bratva and the Liberto Mafia in the palm of my hand. When Oisin gives me the MacKenna, I’ll take control of the east coast and push deeper into the Midwest. None of the others will stand against me.”

  Dad watched Roman for a long, tense moment. Neither of them moved. My brain screamed that I should get up and run away, because something violent as about to happen—

  But it already did.

  “I’ll tell him.”

  “This is his only chance. He will swear loyalty to me on his knees and beg my forgiveness, and then together we’ll take the country by storm.”

  Dad dabbed at the cut on his forehead with his fingers and nodded almost to himself. “I have to admit, this isn’t what I expected.”

  “Whether Oisin accepts or not, I’m married to your daughter. The ceremony is only a formality.”

  “I’ll see what he says.”

  Roman stood. “Convince him. There’s power in being my father-in-law.”

  That did it.

  Before, Dad wasn’t convinced—I could still see the doubt. Even if he tried to hide it, I knew him well enough to peer beyond the mask.

  But that changed his mind. Now Dad leaned forward, an almost eager smile on his lips.

  “I should say congratulations then. My daughter made something of herself after all.”

  Roman took my arm and helped me to my feet. He turned me and pushed me toward the door. I took several steps then looked back.

  Roman loomed over my father.

  “If you speak to her like that again, I will kill you, and it will bring me great pleasure to do so.”

  He turned away, rage etched into every inch of his body. He took my hand and pulled me out of that pub.

  Dad’s curious smile lingered after me as we stepped back out onto the sidewalk.

  We approached the bike. Roman got on and held my helmet out.

  I took it, but didn’t put it on.

  Seeing Dad broke something in me. It was like I was that girl again, the ruined, barely alive girl, at rock bottom with no future in sight. I hated feeling like that and wanted to go back in there and scream in my father’s face.

  Instead, I met Roman’s uncertain frown.

  “Take me somewhere we can talk.”

  He nodded slowly. “We can walk around Central Park.”

  “I want you to know what happened to me.” I reached out and took his hand. I hadn’t told anyone about the incident since that day in the hospital and I never wanted to speak it out loud ever again—until I watched Roman slam that glass into my father’s face.

  Roman was the only person in this world that would ever stand up for me. It was startling, how quickly he acted, how ruthlessly and violent.

  And now I wanted to give him this piece of me.

  One secret for one secret.

  “Get on,” he said.

  I pulled the helmet on over my head and climbed onto the back. I wrapped my arms around my husband and felt the engine roar to life. I pulled myself tighter against him as he pulled into traffic and rolled back toward home, and my stomach twisted into knots.

  22

  Cassie

  Three Years Earlier

  I blasted “Despacito” as I rolled down the quiet Boston streets. It was late, a little past ten on a Wednesday, and the hard-drinking crowds weren’t out. I was exhausted, running a little ragged, my head filled with math equations from the college course I was taking at night to get extra credits before I started at Boston University in the fall.

  It was deep summer. Crisp in the evening, humid during the day. I pretended to sing along, putting my Spanish to the test—and mostly failing.

  I felt good.

  Things at home were decent. Dad had been out a lot, putting in long hours at wherever he did his business, which suited me fine. He was always on my case when he was home, bugging me about grades and friends and my future, and no matter how hard I worked myself, how raw and burnt-out I felt, it was never enough for my old man.

  Tonight, I wouldn’t let it bother me. Class was going well, even if it was a lot of work, and I was making new friends. I planned on hanging out with a nice girl name Lorrie and a couple guys this weekend, in theory to do homework together, but I doubted we’d get much done in a packed bar on a Saturday night.

  I rolled up to a stop sign, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel. Life was looking up. I’d leave for college soon and then I’d be out of my dad’s reach—he wouldn’t be able to obsess over every little thing I did. I had insisted on living in the dorms, and although that’d been a big fight, he eventually gave in.

  I was going to have a life. I could be a normal person for once.

  Someone tapped on my window.

  I jumped and reached for the volume. I turned the music down and stared at a smiling man—dark eyes, dark hair, pale skin, early thirties at most, a little scruffy looking, his beat-up denim jacket and tight jeans artfully torn, but otherwise harmless. I was in a quiet neighborhood not far from home, and although nobody else was around, I felt safe enough to roll down the window.

  “Excuse me, I’m so sorry to bother you,” the guy said. He smelled like cigarettes and cheap alcohol. “I know it’s creepy to just knock on your window, but I could really use some help.”

  “Um sorry, what do you need?”

  A bad feeling crept up my spine. It was the way he smiled at me, so benign, but it didn’t reach his eyes. And I couldn’t see his hands.

  “Directions. Do you know how to get to the river from here?”

  I frowned and leaved toward him as if trying to hear better. “Sorry, did you say, the river?”

  He reached in and shoved a gun against my head.

  I’d seen guns before. My dad had them in the house. Hidden, but accessible. My father was the kind of man that always kept a weapon nearby.


  Not me. I hated guns. More people ended up dead with guns around than without them.

  I had a can of Mace in the dash that Dad insisted I carry with me. That wouldn’t be much use to me now.

  “Sorry, girly, but I need you out of the car.”

  “Okay, okay, okay, okay.” I couldn’t say anything else. I was broken, stuck, a wheel spinning in mud. “Okay, okay.” I pushed open the door.

  He stepped back and kept the gun aimed at my chest.

  My hands shook. I stumbled as I stumbled onto the curb. I wanted to scream—where was everyone? How was this street completely empty?

  “Open the back door.” He gestured toward the car. “Fucking move.”

  “You can have it. Just take it. You can have my wallet, whatever you want—“

  “Back door, right now, or I blow your brains out.”

  I opened the door. He shoved me roughly onto the seat, and for a panicked moment I thought he planned on kidnapping me, stealing me away, maybe some enemy of my father’s or maybe a random psychopath out on the hunt.

  But then he crawled in on top of me and it was worse, so, so much worse.

  He shoved the gun into his waistband, and I felt a surge of hope—

  Until he pulled a knife from his pocket and flipped it open.

  “Don’t want to risk killing you by accident before I finish, but I need to make sure you’re listening.” He wrapped one hand around my throat and squeezed. I gasped, tried to suck in air, but couldn’t. His other hand started to open on my jeans, unbuttoning the top button—

  “Please,” I choked. “Please don’t. Please don’t touch me, please, please.” Tears rolled down my cheeks.

  He ripped the front of my pants open. I felt him grind against me—felt his disgusting erection—

  “They didn’t tell me you were so pretty.” He tightened his grip on my neck. I couldn’t breathe. My eyes bulged out. “Go ahead and scream. I like it when a pretty bitch screams. Makes you clench down while I fuck you”

  I was going to die.

  This man was going to rape me, and I was going to die.

  He pulled my shirt up.

  He wanted to violate me.

  Take me, ruin me, desecrate me, this creature, this fucking animal, he was going to murder me if I didn’t do something, if I didn’t at least try to fight back.

  I had no other choice.

  I could roll over and accept this abuse and die, or I could take a risk.

  He reached down, unzipping his jeans, and I slammed my knee up as hard as I could into his crotch.

  He must not have expected it. Maybe he thought I was too passive, too scared. And he was almost right, I almost didn’t do it—some stupid part of me believed getting raped was better than getting killed.

  But it wasn’t one or the other.

  The dead look in his eyes—it would be both. He’d have his fun then dispose of me.

  His hand released from my throat and I coughed and sucked in gasping breaths. He cursed and brought the knife down as I popped open the door behind me, but too slow—

  The knife bit into my stomach and ripped to the side.

  I gasped as it cut me clean across. Sliced me hip to hip. It burned, like he lit my intestines on fire, and I fell backwards out of the car.

  Blood bubbled up, so much blood, drenching me.

  I scrambled away. Not thinking, just reacting. He came after me, cursing the whole time. I ran to the front of the car, leaving a long smear of red behind me.

  “Get back here you stupid bitch,” he said as I reached the front door.

  I threw open the passenger side and shouted in pain as I jammed the button to open the glove box. The front fell forward and I reached in for the metal can—

  He grabbed my hair and yanked. I screamed and turned, shoving the Mace in his face and pushing down the trigger.

  A gunshot blast. If the bullet hit me, I didn’t feel it. The can sprayed directly into his eyes and he gasped in the thick liquid, pawing at his face. Rebound spray misted into the car and I gagged on it, but kept spraying, the bastard, the sick bastard. I leaned back against the car and kicked him, shoved my feet into his chest and sent him sprawling. He hit the curb, tripped, and smashed his skull into a parked car.

  I crawled into the passenger side. More blood drenched the seat. I got across, behind the wheel. Groaning and in pain, so much pain. My eyes watered like crazy. Stupid pepper spray. That stuff saved my life.

  Hospital, I needed a hospital. I started the engine, hands slick with blood, almost unable to turn the key.

  He appeared in front of me, the gun aimed at my face.

  “You fucking bitch,” he screamed, his eyes red and swollen.

  I slammed on the gas.

  Another gunshot. The bullet cracked the window and lodged somewhere in the back seat.

  I smashed into him then hit the brakes. He flew off the hood and bounced on the pavement twice.

  He tried to get up and I slammed the accelerator again.

  The second time he made the car bump wildly. I sped off, flying around the corner, one hand pressed against my belly trying to keep myself from bleeding out, the other barely steering, his body a lifeless lump in the rearview mirror.

  23

  Cassie

  Present Day

  Roman held my hand through the entire story. He didn’t interrupt or ask questions, only let me get it all out. When I finished, I release a breath that felt like I’d been holding it for years and leaned my head on his shoulder.

  He wrapped his arms around me and hugged me close.

  “Thank you for sharing that,” he said softly. “Can I ask something?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Was he dead?”

  I nodded and closed my eyes against the tears. “I think when I ran him over, it must’ve killed him.”

  “And you made it to the hospital?”

  “No, I crashed a few streets over and passed out, but some guy called an ambulance. I got lucky.”

  Roman kissed my hair, then my cheek, and wiped away my tears. “Not lucky, kukolka. You fight. You’re a fighter. Do you know how proud I am of you?”

  I pulled back and stared at him.

  Those words. Do you know how proud I am of you?

  Nobody ever said that to me before.

  Not my father, not any of my friends.

  It wasn’t what most people said when they heard you survived a rape. There was a lot of pity, a lot of frowning and sighing and making sure you were okay, but nobody ever said they were proud.

  After it happened, after the initial wave of well-wishers subsided, I was a pariah, as if getting sexually assaulted by some stranger and not getting killed for it left me bruised and worthless.

  I got calls, of course. People checked up on me. But after a few days, it was like I disappeared.

  All I wanted was some love and respect and help. I wanted a friend to hold my hand while I cried, or to tell me that I didn’t do anything wrong.

  Or someone to say that they were proud of me.

  “I killed a man,” I said softly. “I know I killed a rapist. I know he deserved it. But I ran him over with my car and left him like an animal in the street.”

  “He would’ve done worse to you. Most people in your position, they freeze up, they panic. But not you, Cassie. You fought back, and that takes strength and guts. You fought and you won. You should be proud of yourself.”

  I laughed, unable to help it. I laughed at the absurdity of feeling proud of what happened to me.

  That night was a never-ending wound. My stomach was stitched but it never closed, not completely.

  “The thing that kills me most is the way my dad acted afterwards, like I had it coming. Like it was my fault.”

  Roman’s face turned sour. “Your father’s a piece of shit.”

  “I know, but still. It stayed with me, the look on his face. He said I was ruined. Can you imagine that? Your daughter survived a rape attempt, and you call her r
uined.”

  He took my hand and kissed my fingers, one by way. “I’ll put a bullet in his head for you. I swear, I will.”

  “I believe you.” I leaned over and kissed him. “You don’t need to do that. Wouldn’t it ruin your plan?”

  “Fuck my plan. It’d be worth it to make the bastard suffer.”

  “I don’t need that, but thank you.”

  “I’m sorry you had to go through that. And I’m sorry your father is such a piece of trash.”

  “It wasn’t your fault. I don’t think it was anyone’s fault.” I shook my head slowly and looked up at the sky. “I don’t know who that guy was or why he chose me. Wrong place, wrong time, right?”

  “Could be,” Roman said quietly. “Although I have a hard time believing in coincidences when a mafia family is involved.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “You think my father had something to do with it?”

  “I’m speculating and it doesn’t matter. What matters is that you survived.”

  “Now you understand why I went to Sea Isle. I had to get away from my dad and from all my friends and all those pitying, judgmental looks. I wanted to start over.”

  “And I understand why you’re not a fan of cars.”

  I smiled slightly and leaned my head on his shoulder again.

  “Motorcycles aren’t so bad.”

  “Only when I’m driving. Otherwise, they’re incredibly dangerous.”

  We lapsed into silence. Central Park was beautiful and reminded me of my favorite places back home in Boston, though that still seemed like a lifetime ago.

  I felt safe with Roman. It was a strange contradiction—he should’ve terrified me. He was everything I hated: a monster, a killer, a beast. I watched him end multiple lives in our brief time together.

  And yet he’d done nothing but keep me safe.

  “I just want to move on. Do you know what I mean? I feel like I’m stuck reliving that moment over and over. I keep feeling the knife cut into my stomach. I can still smell the stale cigarettes on his breath. I can taste the anger and bile in my throat. I can’t escape it.”