by J. L. Beck
I drag my gun from the waistband of my pants and hold it out to him. “I’ll tell you what, you take this, shoot yourself, and I’ll wipe your debt.”
His disbelieving gaze bounces between Soo and I. “Shoot myself, where?”
I look over at Soo as if weighing my choices. “How about in the thigh? It’s a meaty body part. If you don’t hit an artery, you’ll walk out of here alive.”
Marco’s mouth flops open and closes a few times. “I—what about something else?”
“Well, fuck, Marco. Do you want an itemized list of options to pick from? This isn’t a fucking game. I made you an offer. Do you accept?”
He shakes his head once, as if he still isn’t certain about his choice. Then again, more firmly.
“Great,” I say. Then I raise the gun and pull the trigger, shooting him in the thigh.
He falls to the ground, clutching the wound as he squeezes his eyes closed and breathes through his nose. “I brought you money. I gave you my fiancée. We should be square now. I’ve basically given you my entire life.” He grits his teeth to get the words out. I bet his leg hurts like a bitch. Too bad it’s going to get worse.
Suddenly, I’m hit with an idea. I motion to Soo. “Get her here. I want her to see the kind of man she almost married. Maybe she’ll be a little more grateful for her situation.” Mostly I want to see the pain in her eyes, the tears falling down her cheek.
I want it all.
Soo thumbs out a text message and keeps his eyes trained on Marco. He gives me a nod and slips his phone back into his pocket.
I crouch down in front of Marco, who is rolling around on the ground like a turtle on its back. “Now, when my girl gets here, and make no mistake, she is mine, we can have a real chat.”
It doesn’t take long for another SUV to pull up. As soon as the vehicle comes to a stop, a small figure climbs out of the backseat. Her legs are bare, her dark hair mussed. At least one of my guys was smart enough to shove her into a coat, even if it is three sizes too big for her. Only her ankles are visible above her bare feet. Good. Marco doesn’t deserve to see a single inch of her creamy white skin.
She takes a hesitant step forward. Her eyes dart around until she finally spots Marco. I anticipate her next move, and when she rushes toward him, I catch her around the waist and pull her into my chest. Digging my fingers into her hips, I grind my crotch into her plump ass, reminding her I’m still in charge.
“I brought you here for one reason only,” I say. “Watch and keep your mouth shut. If you’re lucky, you won’t be next.”
She shudders in my hold, but says nothing.
“Good girl,” I whisper only for her before I shove her toward Soo. He grabs hold of her arm, but keeps a few inches between his body and hers.
Turning my attention back to Marco, I stalk forward, towering over him. “Tell her about our deal, Gardello.”
He shakes his head, his eyes frantic, his neck scraping on the concrete. My patience is wearing thin. I don’t have time for games. I’m going to teach both of them a lesson. Lifting my gun, I shoot him in the other leg.
Celia lets out a whimper and presses a hand to her mouth. Tears pool around the edges of her big brown eyes. I expect to find fear in them, but surprisingly, I only see sadness and disappointment.
“Let’s try this again. Tell her about our deal,” I encourage as I point the gun at his right bicep.
A loud groan escapes his mouth, and he flops around for a couple of seconds before the words rush out of his mouth, “I drugged you at dinner and sold you to Diavolo to pay some of my gambling debts.”
For half a second, Celia just stares at him. A single tear slips down her cheek. “Why?” she whispers, like his fucking response means shit.
Still, I want her to know the kind of man he is. I want her to know everything—all the lies, secrets, the pain, and blood that’s been shed. I want her to know the truth.
“Answer her.” When he hesitates to answer, I crouch over him and shove the barrel of the gun into his bicep. “Answer. Her,” I grit out, my anger flaring.
Marco’s beady eyes refuse to meet hers. “Once we married, I planned to kill your father and take over as leader of the five families,” he says in one long exhale.
I glance over at Celia. She’s now dropped her hand and completely wiped the emotion from her face. A mask I appreciate since it resembles my own overtakes her doll-like features. She drags her gaze to me now. She’s looking at me like I’m the monster in this story, but she doesn’t have the slightest clue.
Tipping her chin up, she squares her shoulders. “Why did you bring me here? Why did you want me to know?”
Instead of answering her, I dig the gun a little harder into his arm. “Tell her the rest. The part I know you’ve been holding back.”
Marco squeezes his eyes closed and huffs. “You disgust me. Once we married, I planned to pass you around to my guys. Let them break you in, turn you into a biddable wife. Once they did, we’d get your disgusting scar fixed, and maybe you’d be worthy of being seen in public with me.”
I expect her to cry, fall to her knees, or at least yell at him, but all Celia does is stare at Marco. She opens her mouth, but no words come out. I don’t give her time to collect herself. I don’t give her the chance to say her piece. I shoot Marco in the shoulder and enjoy the cry of pain echoing through the air.
When I turn back to face Celia, I find her gazing at the man she was supposed to marry. Her mouth is hanging open, and her eyes are wide, but again, there is no fear, no pain, no agony that I hoped to find there.
“Your presence here is no longer needed. I only had you brought so you could see what a worthless waste of space I saved you from. Now that you have, we can start working on you paying me back. That’s for another day, though.”
Soo shoves her toward one of the men, who corrals her into the car without touching her. She doesn’t fight. She doesn’t even try to say anything. They pull away, and I step over Marco’s body. He’s stopped twitching and rolling like the slug he is.
“And you,” I grit through my teeth. “I don’t care how much money you owe me. I’m collecting now with your life.”
Marco stays silent. He doesn’t even flinch. Part of me had hoped he would at the very least beg for his life. Pathetic.
I position the barrel against his forehead. “By the way. Celia is still a virgin, even now. How else am I going to auction her off to make up for the money you owe? Fucking idiot.”
Marco blinks, and I pull the trigger. My question needs no answer. I don’t feel a single sliver of remorse for killing the fucker. I haven’t felt remorse in a long time. What I do feel is anger. Anger at the way Celia reacted. I wanted her to cry, suffer, feel ashamed. Instead, she just stood there with her head held high, like she didn’t give a fuck. My need to rip her apart and put her back together again means I need to find another way to hurt her.
I don’t care how it happens; I will have my revenge.
9
Celia
My ears still ring from the gunshot, a sound that lingers in my mind and will probably do so for a long time. I watched the bullet whizz through the air and embed itself into Marco’s skin. His pained cry should probably have bothered me more, but after the words he said, his pain didn’t touch me. My sympathy for him withered away with the hopes of him coming to save me.
If I’m being honest, I wasn’t really that surprised by what he said. I knew what our relationship was from the start. We weren’t going to fall in love and pop out a few kids, but for some stupid reason, I got it into my head that there would be some type of respect between us. A mutual understanding about the ridiculousness of our lives. From that, I could have built something. Now there was nothing to build. I’m at rock bottom, grasping at anything I can to pull myself back up.
As much as I try to block it out, I can’t forget the way Marco looked at me. Even in pain, the disgust had been there, plain as day. Anguish ripples through me. I feel so stup
id. Why hadn’t I seen it before? Maybe I just didn’t want to. Maybe I wanted to hold on to the sliver of hope of having a better life after I left my parents’ home.
I don’t know what Nicolo did to him after they carted me away, but something tells me it’s not good. He was already in bad shape when I left, and Nicolo definitely isn’t the forgiving type. Death will be kinder to him than Nic ever would be.
Time ticks away like a bomb waiting to detonate. I pace across the room, checking the door again, hoping by some miracle that they left it unlocked this time. It’s not, but I spend a moment pressing my clammy forehead against the cold wood and grip the handle tighter, willing it to open for me.
The door handle rattles under my palm, and a gasp escapes through my parted lips. Like a skittish newborn calf, I skitter away until the bed comforter brushes the back of my thighs. I expect him to walk through the door, but when I see that it’s just the housekeeper, Sarah, I let out a sigh.
As always, her hair is pulled back into a tight bun, her features set in a scowl. She refuses to meet my eyes as she sets a tray on the bedside table. “Some water and a late-night snack. I’m sure he’ll be up to talk to you soon.”
Her words make me flinch, dread bleeding into my veins. I don’t want him to come to me with bloodstained hands and gloat. All he is going to do is rub in my face that even my fiancé thought I was trash.
“Could you at least not lock the door,” I ask her as I take a step toward the door. “I know this place is guarded. So I won’t try to escape. I just want to walk around the house. No one would even know it was you. It can be our secret.”
She snorts. “That’s unlikely. Considering I’m one of the few who has the key to your bedroom. He would kill me for it without a second thought.”
I knew it was a long shot. Still, disappointment engulfs me as she walks out without another word. A shaky exhale escapes my lungs. I don’t know why I thought she would give me the chance to escape. I belong to him now, and everyone in his little private fantasy world bows to his whim, too afraid of what might happen if they step out of line. Either that or they simply don’t care.
The simple wood tray she set on the side table draws my attention. It’s loaded with a couple bottles of water, and a plate of fruit, with various nuts and cheeses. What the fuck kind of place is this? Do they think I eat like a Disney princess… nibbling on berries and fruits like it will actually sustain me? What I wouldn’t do for a double bacon cheeseburger right now. And fries. And a coke. Two cokes.
Saliva builds in my mouth at the thought. I may never have the luxury of those foods again. No, I can’t think like that. Like a gnat, I swat the thought away, and in no particular order, I eat the only food I have. I keep shoveling the food into my mouth until there’s nothing left. I’m not surprised when I finish chewing through the last mouthful with a grimace that I’m still hungry.
I wash down the offending combination with one bottle of water. I’ll save the other in case they forget my existence again for a while. I remind myself to be grateful, that I’m not in that cell in the basement, that he hasn’t hurt me beyond the humiliating way he used my body. There is still hope, and I’ll hold on to it until the day I die.
My gaze moves to the window. The sun is setting, and the room grows dark with every second passing. I let my eyes drift closed, willing sleep to come, but all I see is Marco lying in a pool of blood. The image feels so real that I snap my eyes open as fast as I’d shut them. With a racing heart, I stare out the window and take a couple of calming breaths.
Even with my father being who he is, I had never seen so much violence, not until the day Nicolo kidnapped me. My father always told me that women were made to sit on the mantle and be pretty. To speak only when spoken to. Mob business was never discussed in front of me, and I had never seen anyone killed. I’d heard rumors about what my father did and knew that he wasn’t exactly a good man, but I had no idea how dark and depraved he was.
The rattling of the door handle garners my attention, and I turn away from the window and its promise of a chilly sunset evening.
Expecting Sarah, I march across the room and give her an earful regarding the diet she has me on. “Have you ever heard of protein in—”
But it’s not her tall willowy frame that ducks into the bedroom… it’s him, the devil himself, and instantly, I cut off my tirade.
I can’t help but gape at him and hate myself for retreating even more. Especially because he does no more than step into the room holding a box. Fear… fear and something else that I can’t quite place settles deep in my gut while I wait for him to give me his next order.
“Protein?” he asks, a brow raised in questioning. I can’t tell if he cares or if he’s just asking so he can mock me later.
“Yes… Sarah keeps giving me fruit and nuts. I need more than snacks to survive.”
His blue eyes narrow, and his gaze sweeps over me from head to toe. Suddenly, I feel naked. I’m still wearing his shirt, and I pull the tails down with trembling hands to make sure I’m decent. It doesn’t matter what I wear; he seems to look right through me.
“People survive on less. Quit being a spoiled brat and be glad I feed you at all.”
His verbal lash startles me, and I jump a little, not quite expecting that would be his response. I feel like cowering, but I don’t, won’t, can’t.
I square my shoulders and meet his gaze again. “I want real food. Burgers, fries, eggs, and bacon. Anything other than trail mix.”
The corner of his lips lift the barest amount. It’s like he thinks this is a fun game or something. “Is that all?”
“Is that all?” I huff. “Is it really that insane to think that I might want an actual meal and to not eat cubed cheese and almonds every single day!” My voice raises an octave, and the skin of my cheeks heats.
Instantly, his lips flatten, the smile wiped clean from his face as he crosses the room, stalking toward the bed. I know right away I should have kept my mouth shut. My limbs remain locked in place. Like an antelope in the sights of a jaguar, I wait for him to come in for the kill.
“Have you ever heard the phrase, don’t bite the hand that feeds you?”
My throat constricts, but I say nothing. I’m not about to dig myself a deeper hole.
“Since you don’t want to respond, I’ll assume you have, so I’m sure you understand in that pampered head of yours how this works. I give you fucking food, and you eat it. May that be nuts and fruit or a steak and baked potato. I’m in control, not you.” The sternness of his voice tells me the conversation is over. Sensing that, he sets the box on the bed and then slips his hands into the pockets of his black slacks. I do my best not to stare at him, but I can’t help it.
I notice there is no blood on him this time.
Either he’s getting better at staying clean, or he just has an endless closet of clothing to tap into after he murders someone. I’ll bet it’s the latter since he seems like the type to bathe in the blood of his enemies.
“Get dressed,” he orders, and after a second, gestures to the box. “Clothes for the princess.”
Imaginary red flags wave in front of my vision. This has to be a trap. He is bringing me clothes? I hover where I stand, uncertain and afraid. He’s still lingering so close to the box I’d have to squeeze between him and the bed to get to it. Touching him isn’t high on my to do list at the moment.
The way he’s looking at me, the set of his too arrogant shoulders, it tells me he knows exactly what he’s doing. Fine. Fuck him. I’ve already struck out on one battle I’m not about to strike out again. I stride to the other side of the bed, snag the box, and drag it toward me.
I refuse to look up at him as I slide the lid back and peel apart the thick white paper inside. It’s hard to hide my surprise when my eyes land on the contents—a dress. Black, thin, and so short, it might as well be a tube top. He can’t actually expect me to wear this?
Picking the dress up, I notice how stretchy and cheap t
he material is. Something I imagine a hooker or stripper would wear. There’s also a pair of towering black high heels to complete the getup. The last thing I find in the box is a small syringe. Shit, he’s going to dress me in barely there clothes and drug me.
I lift it up to the light. “What’s this? Drugs?”
“Get dressed, and I’ll show you.” His voice is dipped in poison and laced with honey.
I put the dress and its accessories back in the box and glare up at him. “This isn’t exactly real clothes. I was thinking maybe some yoga pants and a nice comfy T-shirt.”
God, why can’t I keep my mouth shut?
He continues his study of me, his expression unreadable, and then, in the blink of my eyes, he walks around to my side of the bed. My lungs burn as I suck a ragged breath between my lips. Yep, I should’ve definitely kept my mouth shut.
Running away isn’t an option, not when I’m stuck between the bed and the wall. Without another place to go, I hold my ground and turn away, so I don’t have to look at him this close to me.
His strong hand comes into view, and he tilts my chin up, forcing my gaze to his. I can see a wave of slow anger rising within the icy depths. Why does he feel the need to touch me?
“You can wear this fucking dress to dinner, or you can wear nothing.”
Would he really do it?
I’m half tempted to push him, but afraid of the outcome and what it might do to me. What he might do. I know well enough that he would enjoy my discomfort through the entire thing, and that’s enough to push me in the direction I need to go. I take the box off the bed and maneuver around him to go to the bathroom to change.
“No,” he growls. “Dress right here. You have five minutes, or I’m ripping off that shirt and throwing you over my shoulder. The choice of what you wear to dinner is yours.”