Dirty
LP Lovell
Stevie J. Cole
Contents
1. Ronan
2. Camilla
3. Ronan
4. Camilla
5. Ronan
6. Camilla
7. Camilla
8. Ronan
9. Camilla
10. Ronan
11. Camilla
12. Ronan
13. Ronan
14. Camilla
15. Ronan
16. Camilla
17. Camilla
18. Ronan
19. Camilla
20. Ronan
21. Camilla
22. Ronan
23. Camilla
24. Camilla
25. Ronan
26. Camilla
27. Ronan
28. Camilla
29. Ronan
30. Camilla
31. Ronan
32. Camilla
33. Ronan
34. Camilla
35. Ronan
Epilogue - Ronan
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright © 2018 by Stevie J. Cole and LP Lovell
All rights reserved
This book is an original work of fiction. All of the names, characters, sponsors, and events are the product of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously. Any similarities to actual events, incidences, persons, deceased or living, is strictly coincidental.
Any opinions expressed in this book are solely those of the author.
Created with Vellum
1
Ronan
"Three," I whisper with a smile as my finger slips over the curved trigger. Click.
A heavy breath rushes from her lungs. I can almost taste her fear dancing over my tongue before I push away from her. "Now things get very interesting, wouldn't you agree, little kitty?" I say. " What to do with you, what to do..." I tap my finger over my chin. She is dangerous, but oh so much fun to play with. I think I should like to keep her, at least a little longer. Besides, fate has decided she is to stay with me, and sometimes the world does line things up for my benefit…
"Sorry to disappoint, Russian," she says tossing her dark hair over her shoulder as she sits up. Although she's attempting to remain calm, I still notice the way her chest rises and falls in ragged swells, the remnants of tears lingering on her cheeks. "You know, in most cultures it would be considered rude to try and shoot a girl while she still has your come on her thigh." She is so strong. So very strong, I almost admire her for it.
"So eloquent." My gaze falls to her bloodied chest and I grin. "Shouldn't you thank me for not killing you?"
"That was luck, not choice. Though It does beg the question: why?" She pushes to her feet. "You no longer need me, or you wouldn't have put a loaded gun to my head." She circles me, stopping to brush her lips over the cut on my throat. "Why not just kill me?"
I trail my fingers along her jaw. "I never needed you."
"You also never put a gun to my head."
"What can I say? Your amusement's wearing thin."
"And yet, you removed three bullets."
"The thrill of the hunt would have been lost had I known the prey would surely die." I smile.
She tilts her head to the side, her eyes fixing on my neck. "I no longer amuse you. I no longer serve a purpose. I'm not dead yet, so what now?"
"Oh come now, you don't want to ruin the surprise, do you?" I adjust my sleeve before stepping to the doorway.
Anastasia lies outside the door in a pool of blood. It is a beautiful sight; the way the tips of her hair are stained with blood, how her pale skin serves as such a contrast to the vibrant red, but despite the artistry I find in it, Camilla ruined everything. I cannot deny that, and when I went to kill her, I didn't—no, fate didn't. I would have killed. I did, after all, pull the trigger, but why so rashly dispose of such a beautiful plaything?
My perfect plan quickly unraveled, but what has having Anastasia dead done? Nothing that can't be cleaned up. Derevichi is still dead, and by the hands of his wife. Sokolov will still take office. So really, nothing has changed.
"Igor," I call. He steps out from the crowd of men, his eyes widening when his gaze drops to my blood-covered throat. "Since Camilla was the one who decided to make such a mess, I believe we'll have her clean this up. Warm Anastasia's car up for Ms. Estrada, would you?"
When I turn around, Camilla glares at me from the other side of the office. "You want me to dispose of your whore?" She asks.
I go to my desk and grab a cigar. "Take her car and dispose of her. No one should be able to realize her throat was slit." She crosses her arms over her chest, and I grin. "She was very distraught," I say, "after all, having lost me to you..." I light my cigar, dragging a thick cloud of smoke deep into my lungs. "I'm sure you could create quite the scene for the press."
Igor steps back into the room dusting snow from his shoulder. "The car is ready, boss."
I puff my cigar, my gaze locked with Camilla's. Oh, I can see the fire already dancing in her eyes but as much as she wants to hate me, she craves me. So she'll do whatever I ask. I flippantly motion toward the door.
"Blood-stained doesn't bode well for subtly dumping a body, Ronan," she says, waving her hand over her dress. "I need to change."
My chest warms with a tingle of excitement. "Makes it all the more thrilling." I snap my fingers at the door. "Igor, bring Camilla a long coat, please."
"Your blood lust might be a problem, Russian."
"Oh, but I don't think it is."
Igor rushes in, holding out a long white fur coat which Camilla slips into, her eyes never leaving mine.
"Go with her," I say, dismissing him as I take a seat behind my desk.
He nods before closing the door behind him.
Camilla can pretend she's annoyed all she wants. I know better. I just let a caged animal out for a short run... I drum my fingers over the table, staring at the crumpled papers, the bloodied letter opener. She is so volatile, so fearless—the ultimate thrill.
I lean my head back against my chair and the cut on my neck pulls open with a sharp sting. Warm blood oozes from the wound, and I smile. She cut me. She would have killed me, and I revel in that.
Placing my cigar in the ashtray, I grab the laptop from the desk, open it, and pull up the security cameras. A grainy image of Igor lumbering down the stairs with Anastasia's limp body slung over his shoulder pops up. Camilla's right behind him, a vision in her white coat. I press the rewind button, stopping the footage shortly after I shoved Camilla into the office, right on the moment when she sliced the blade across my throat. My chest grows warm, my nostrils flare. I watch the screen as she backs away from me. I step forward. Round and round we go until I'm fucking her, jabbing her with a letter opener. I rewind and watch the video time and time again until adrenaline is snapping through me like an open electrical wire. My breathing falls ragged and parts of me I'd rather keep hidden claw to the surface.
There's noise outside the office door. Something bangs against the wall and I push up from the desk, cross the room, and open the door. One of the workers leans over a bucket, ringing out a mop. He places it on the floor and makes one swipe through the blood.
"Stop," I say, my voice echoing through the empty foyer.
He turns and looks nervously at me. My heart hammers against my ribs, sweat pricks over my brow. "Leave it for now."
His gaze drifts from me to the puddle of blood and down to the mop before he shoves the mop in the bucket and heads down the hall. My head spins, my chest grows unbearably tight. I make my way to the staircase and take a seat on the last step, staring at the puddle. There's so much blood, seven liters most likely spilled on my pristine white marble. The smell
of iron hangs in the air, and I breath it in. So familiar. So comforting. And I can't help but close my eyes, I shouldn’t for I know what awaits me, but sometimes I must remind myself where this monster came from in order to keep him caged. I slip into the darkness, into the memory of the moment that changed me, the moment I decided I hated my father and that emotions were for the weak.
Sofia’s lip trembles, her eyes fill with tears. We thought our meeting place in this warehouse was safe, but my father and his guards stormed in unexpectedly. He stands against the far wall, glaring at us as he puffs on a smoke. “Please, may I get dressed?” Sofia whispers.
“No!” my father says with a laugh. “Ronan, you have betrayed the Bratva.” He motions toward Sofia. “Sleeping with a rival leader’s daughter… you fool. Do you really think she would be interested in you for any other reason than information?” His gaze strays over my naked body, a snarl of disgust curling his lip. “I should have you killed, but you are my only heir. The Bratva will go to no other family!”
Sofia subtly shakes her head, her teeth digging into her bottom lip. “It’s not true…” she whispers and one of the guards backhands her across the face. My chest goes tight when she stumbles, and when I go to move for her, I’m grabbed by one of the other men.
My father laughs. “You are only sixteen, I’ll assume ignorance and a need for a tight pussy is your excuse.” He takes a drag from his cigarette before grabbing my hand and placing a knife in my palm. “I’ll use this to teach you a lesson, to show you what weakness are. You will make this right. You will prove your loyalties to me.” He inches toward my face, hate burning behind his eyes. “Make her bleed for the Bratva.”
I grit my teeth. “No!”
He takes the blade from my hand and presses it to my throat. “Kill her or I’ll do it. Then I’ll kill your mother and your sister.” My heart bangs against my chest in uneven beats. The Bratva is everything to him, and he will do whatever it takes to protect it. “How much blood do you want on your hands, Ronan?” He moves the blade away, shrugging a shoulder as he steps toward Sofia and trails a hand over her side. Rage bubbles through my veins. “Such pretty skin,” he says before slicing along her side. Blood seeps from the wound, trickling down to the dirty floor. He slashes across her chest and she screams. I fight against the guard holding me, yelling for him to stop, but he doesn’t. He keeps cutting and slicing. Her screams eventually take on a rhythm, a song that repeats in my head. When he’s finished, he tosses the knife in front of my feet. The guard releases me and I fall to my knees staring at Sofia covered in blood. The door closes with a loud bang and I crawl over to her, fighting the urge to cry. She’s gasping for breath, her bloodied chest rising in jagged swells. “Please,” she manages. “Ronan… make it stop.”
“You’ll be fine,” I whisper as I drag her into my lap and hold her. I know it’s a lie, there’s too much blood. So much glistening, red blood. She shakes her head. “I’d rather die by your hands than his.”
Swallowing, I glance at the knife a few feet away.
“Please…”
My heart pounds so fast my head swims in a dizzying heat.
“Please, if you love me, kill me. Make me bleed.”
It’s almost as though another force takes the knife and places it in my hand. My entire body shakes when I place the blade over her throat. Is this what love is? Pain. Loss. Grief. A loss of control? My stomach churns. I should have killed her when he told me to, it would have been merciful, clean. I stare down at the mess, the pool of blood seeping around me. The smell of iron hangs heavy in the cold air. Sofia reaches up, weakly trailing her fingers along my jaw, and I watch the tip of the blade as I drag it across her throat. The way the ruby blood bubbles through the cut, I can’t help but drag my finger through it. It’s so quick. Relief resounds within her last breath. Her body falls limp in my arms, cooling as her warm blood pours over me—I know this is something I’ll never forget. Violence and peace mixed into one act, what a beautiful symphony this is.
I finally open my eyes, and am met with Ana's blood once again. A small smile works its way over my lips as I stand, walking to the bucket to grab the mop. When I make my first swipe through it, I hum the tune of “Moonlight Sonata”. It seems fitting, just as it is fitting that I be the one who cleans up Ana’s blood. There’s poetry in it.
To many, death seems like such a tragedy, but it’s not. It’s the final act, the grand crescendo of life. There is beauty within one’s final breath. Such a shame more people don’t understand what a masterpiece it can be.
2
Camilla
I sit behind the wheel of Anastasia's Mercedes, my fingers gripping the cold wheel as Igor directs me along the icy roads. He looks like a statue in the passenger seat with tension radiating from him. He didn't like me before I took a slice out of Ronan and he sure as fuck isn't going to like me now. My thigh throbs painfully, serving as a stark reminder of how close I came with Ronan. Death breathing down my neck, whispering such sweet promises.
We drive for half an hour before I pull up to the site of an old mine. The rusted chain link gate hangs open and the road veers off to the left. Climbing from the car, I walk up to the flimsy looking metal barrier that separates the road from the drop beyond. I glance down the sheer cliff face carved out of the limestone. In her distress, it would be entirely plausible for fragile Anastasia to kill her husband then drive of a ledge, ending her life in a fiery explosion at the bottom of the ravine.
Smiling to myself, I walk back to the car and get in. I drive in reverse for a good hundred yards and pull the handbrake on. "Get her out of the trunk," I say to Igor. He glares at me. "You aren't here to look pretty. Hurry up." He throws the door open and I climb out, waiting impatiently as he hauls her blood drenched body out of the trunk. "Put her in the driver's seat."
Once he's dumped her in the seat, I lean inside the car, pulling the seatbelt out and looping it through the bottom of the steering wheel before I buckle it. Now, something to keep the accelerator down... As luck would have it, when I glance down my gaze lands on a decent sized rock. With a satisfied smile, I pick it up and wedge it over the accelerator. The engine lets out a high-pitched whine, and I take a deep breath before I tear a piece of material from my dress. "When I say, you're going to put the car in drive and step back, Igor. Fast."
Igor glares at me, but eventually nods. I unscrew the fuel cap, stuff the strip of material inside, then pull the lighter from my coat pocket. The flint rolls under my thumb, and I watch the flame dance as I eagerly reach for the scrap of material. The flame meets the end, crawling over the silken threads. I crave the destruction, I do. "Now!" I shout.
Igor leans inside the car, jumping back as it jolts forward almost taking him with it. The wheels spin, sending the loose gravel spraying everywhere as the car guns toward the metal barrier. With a crash, it smashes through and disappears over the edge of the cliff. There's a moment of silence followed by an enormous bang. I rush to the cliff's edge and look down just as the fuel tank catches and the car erupts into a ball of fire. Precious heat blankets my face. The flames eat away at the luxury Mercedes like an angry monster craving a sacrifice, and that makes me smile.
When I step back from the ledge, Igor who is already heading toward the woods that line the road. "Tell me we're not walking back," I say. Of course, he doesn't answer, just disappears beyond the tree line. I glance down at my heeled boots and sigh. This is going to be unpleasant.
Half an hour later and I'm ready to kill Igor... and Ronan. I'm freezing, my feet are killing me, and the throbbing in my leg grows with every step. Not to mention, my boots are ruined. I break through the edge of the forest onto a small country road. A car idles a few hundred yards away. Igor is standing next to it with his arms crossed and his foot tapping over the road. On a groan, I stomp over to him and yank the door open. Fucking Russians.
______
As soon as I step through Ronan's gaudy front door, one of his staff takes my coat
. He doesn't so much as blink at the sight of my dress coated in blood. Hell, maybe there's just so much of it that it looks red now.
"Mr. Cole asked me to inform you that dinner is at seven," the man says before quietly disappearing.
Ronan himself is nowhere to be seen. The foyer floor that only a few hours ago was a beautiful shade of crimson is once again spotless, sparkling marble. It's as though it never happened, as though Anastasia's death did not occur. She has been erased, and the thought makes me smile. God, how I hated the way she looked at Ronan, her pathetic simpering, and... the fact that she had his attention in any fashion. My grin morphs to a frown. Was I jealous of her? No, jealousy is something one feels when they are possessive of something or someone. I'm not possessive of Ronan. I hate him...
My heels click over the marble as I make my way up the stairs to my room. Something has changed. I can sense it in the air, feel it thrumming through my veins. I should be dead. Really, I should have been dead from the second I set foot in this monstrosity of a house. Since the moment I arrived, Ronan and I have danced around each other, pivoting and twirling with knives in hand, drawing blood with every move. But tonight, with his gun pressed to my chin, that was supposed to be our big finale, the crowning glory of our piece. I should have died, and yet, here I am. So now what? Does the dance go on? Or do we begin a new one? Shit. I hate the endless questions, the not knowing.
Stripping out of my dress, I go to the bathroom and start the shower. I wait for the room to fog up before I go to the toilet and remove the back. Inside, propped against the pipe, is the mobile phone from my mysterious friend. It looks so innocent, so harmless. I know better. I turn it on and check it. No messages. Maybe that's it. One simple task: steal a USB stick from Ronan and drop it off for them. And then what? They have no more use for me. I did my part, fully expecting to die before I saw the consequences, but I'm not dead, which means.... I may yet see the consequences of my actions, and I think I'd rather be dead than deal with Ronan's wrath if he finds out. Even though there must already be a rat in his midst, said rat is obviously very good at hiding while I am an obvious suspect. I need to get rid of the phone, but where? I glance around the bathroom. I'll have to be clever, so for now it will stay in its hiding spot. I place it back inside the toilet tank and slowly slide the lid into place before I climb into the shower to wash the dirt and blood from my body.
Dirty Page 1