by Lana Sky
The reality of who I am is a mash of far different descriptors. Liquor, cocaine, and laxatives. My vice arsenal.
In this moment, I crave all three. I’m not upset about Tristan—I’m not. It’s how damn hot it is in this supposedly grand establishment. It’s how bright the lights are. It’s the fact that my arraignment outfit is already picked out.
The fact that I’ve been practicing my lines in the mirror for the moment I’m inevitably interviewed by the police. The fact that I’ve already programmed the state penitentiary number into my cell phone with the understanding that soon enough, calls from that building will dictate my entire life.
I might as well be imprisoned there, too, though the thought is far more appealing than I suppose it should be. Ironically, I’d have far more freedom behind bars.
“Ada? I think we really need to talk. There’s something—”
“I need to use the bathroom,” I say, rising to my feet. That piece of bread weighs on my stomach. I feel too heavy. Dirty. Unclean. My mother instructs the maids to clean the floors seven times a day.
Is this really so different?
“Ada, wait.” He grabs my hand, and I just eye it, feeling detached from the slim, manicured fingers in his grasp. These hands have done things my mind can never comprehend. Vicious, vile, disgusting things.
All in the name of family.
“Ada? Fine, if you want to do this now, I’ll come clean. I know about the indictment.”
Blood rushes through my ears in a torrent of deafening noise. When I blink, Tristan’s lips are still moving, forcing my brain to play catch up to understand.
“W-What?”
“I know, baby,” he says gently. “Why do you think I was really late? I was busting my ass to make sure the goddamn reporters wouldn’t try to catch you here alone. I know you’re worried. And I could lose my job for this, but…it’s been squashed. I don’t know how, but according to my contacts at the precinct, the warrant to arrest your father has been put on indefinite hold. I can’t get any answers as to why. Maybe they jumped the gun—”
“What do you mean?”
“Your father won’t be arrested tomorrow, baby.” He rises to his feet, pulling me into his arms. I think he’s genuinely surprised when I wrench away. “What’s wrong?”
My smile is gone, replaced by a look that haunts me in the polished reflective wall across from our table—one of abject horror.
Daddy won’t be hauled off to jail tomorrow, plunging our family into international public scandal and turmoil.
I won’t have to wear my chosen black dress or practice my “sad face” in the mirror for hours before facing the press.
I won’t have to fear getting a call from the state pen every day.
Roy Pavalos will stay in my home. In my life.
Controlling my world with an iron fist.
“I need to use the bathroom.” I twist out of Tristan’s reach, staggering in the direction of the restrooms.
“Wait—” he grabs my arm, displaying a persistence he rarely has. “There’s something else. I want you to come away with me. Tonight. I’ve already made the arrangements, and we can—”
“What?” I’m barely listening to him.
A flicker of movement catches my eye from across the room near the window. Or where the window once was. A hole is there now. Before it, a dance of swirling glass floats through the air, suspended for a second that seems frozen in time. Then an explosion of noise sends everything moving again. Boom! People start screaming. Running. Dazed, I look back at Tristan, but he’s not there anymore…
Or at least he’s not on his feet.
My brain takes ages to connect the dots with the red liquid splattered all over the floor and the body lying nearby. Except it’s not right. Can’t be Tristan—the proportions are all wrong. There are two arms, two legs, a torso, but no head...
I’m aware that my mouth is open, but no words come out.
All I can do is stare.
Then run. It’s an instinctive motion, pivoting on my heel, to join the press of people racing for the nearest exit. There’s no rhyme or reason to it. No thinking.
I make it so easy for the man who must have been standing behind me all along, waiting to attack.
I see his fist come from nowhere and realize that nothing I can do will stop it from colliding with my skull.
The sickening thud that comes next, somehow sounds more violent than the previous noise that shattered the quiet atmosphere.
And the world goes black.
Chapter Two
Some men wear their intentions so blatantly. You can look them in the eye and see every thought in their head rattling around, as legible as newspaper headlines.
In my world, the only things that matter are what could make a splashy news story, after all.
People love the sordid nature of my father’s political career—a rags to riches fairy tale and a shining example of hard work. And ambition. Everyone ignores the darker side of his inspiring story, like the supposed cartel ties that catapulted him to power, or the origin of the money that funds his decade-long political run. They love the mystery of who he’s fucking and what business move he might make next. The flashy stuff.
No one cares that he’s a true monster. That he rules the lives of those around him with an iron fist. That he’s cruel and volatile with a temper to match his ambition.
Frankly, those details are boring, the stuff everyone already knows. Men with power have secrets. They live double lives and aren’t nearly as perfect as they want the world to believe.
My life certainly wasn’t perfect. I think all of us knew that there was always a time limit ruthlessly ticking the seconds down until it all fell apart. You can only live on blood money for so long before the lies and secrets start to catch up.
Ours are plenty, locked away in a closet so full of skeletons it might as well be a crypt. My father had a way of justifying it all. For the sake of the family.
For my mother.
For me.
We were tethered to him beyond any familial ties.
He ensured as much. From the age of fifteen, I ceased to be his daughter, Ada-Maria Lucia Pavalos.
I became his accomplice. For years, every sick, sordid undertaking of his has stained my soul. I couldn’t plead ignorance if I tried.
The day he went to federal prison, I wouldn’t be far behind him.
But now, I don’t have to worry about that possibility anymore—I’m dead.
As my awareness returns in bits and pieces, my first coherent thought is that I wish my head had been the one blown apart. Not Tristan’s.
I know that for certain—his body was the one lying on the floor. Someone killed him.
Though, hell, maybe I’ve gotten my wish after all—they’re just a poor shot and failed to kill me outright. My skull is on fire, every movement resonating like a kick to the head. I’d scream if I could, but my lips remain frozen, clamped together.
Am I paralyzed?
Or drugged?
I should know the difference…
“…she’s a sexy piece of ass, ain’t she?” The voice drips into my skull, uttered gruffly, but I don’t recognize the speaker. A male. Fear drips through my veins, fighting to wake up my sleeping nerves and lifeless muscles.
Nausea rips through me, and I can feel the impulse to vomit. Purge. Reset.
But I can’t.
“Don’t touch her,” another man replies. His voice is softer, and I strain to make it out more clearly. They sound close, but muffled, as if I’m hearing them from underwater. “Dom said she was his alone. No marks. No injuries. You better pray you didn’t bruise her with that punch—”
“If he wanted her scot-free, then the bastard should have gotten her himself. We did all the fucking work and brought her out here, to the middle of fucking nowhere. Why not have a little taste? If he plans on doing to the little witch what he’s done to the rest, it would be a damn shame to let this sexy bitch
go to waste.”
The rest…
“I’ve warned you, Trey,” the second man replies. “He said we can’t touch her.”
My body is moved without any action on my part, and I land heavily on something solid and unyielding. A floor? It’s colder than the tile in my bathroom. Marble?
Not the flooring of the restaurant, I suspect.
Where the hell am I?
Sensation is returning to the rest of my body, at least, in excruciatingly slow increments. The pain in my head is centered along my right temple—but that’s the least of my worries.
Harsh, an unfamiliar touch grazes my thigh, inching beneath the hemline of my dress. Higher. Too high. Boldly, they shove my panties aside, prodding the flesh beneath the lace barrier. Horror rises up so fiercely I can taste it—but I’m paralyzed, unable to control my limbs, even to flinch. My eyelids are too heavy to lift. I can’t even speak.
“Damn,” the gruffer of the two men breathes, sounding sickeningly close. “She’s like a goddamn little furnace—”
“Enough.” That voice is unlike the others. Instantly, I recognize it. The guttural baritone shoots through me, triggering a sensation few men have ever inspired.
It takes a lot to scare the daughter of Roy Pavalos. My childhood was filled with inviting criminals and drug dealers over for dinner. My teenage years were spent in their beds, and all the while my father lorded over every single interaction like a tyrant king.
But it’s rare to meet someone that truly sends a shiver through my core. In fact, I think only one man has ever fit the bill.
Domino Valenciaga.
He had an accent retained from a past no one knew anything about. Something from Latin America, maybe Portuguese, or Brazilian. The slight inflection turned every word he said into a double-edged sword, musical almost. Lethal in another sense. He was the only person I ever knew to make a death sentence sound beautiful.
For five years, he’s been my father’s righthand man, recruited from only God knows where, standing faithfully by his side ever since.
A funny thought comes to me now, despite the stench of blood in my nostrils and the fear pummeling through my chest like a barrage of blows—I’ve rarely spoken to him directly, apart from the typical greeting.
“Hello,” I’d say.
His reply was always the same. “Ada-Maria.”
It’s a strange admission now, but I used to have nightmares, starring the very specific way he could say my name, mangling the two syllables into one unique utterance. “Nightmares” that left me so wet I had to relieve the ache with my own fingers.
It’s his voice I’m hearing now, though he’s speaking too quickly, and my head hurts too badly to follow. I only catch snippets.
“…blood. You killed him in front of her?” Domino asks. His speech is so flat that one can never get a read on his emotions. I’ve heard him praise my father and curse his enemies, all while sounding no different.
What is he doing here?
“Didn’t have a choice,” the second of the two men explains. “You wanted him dead. The bastard hired elite security. The restaurant was the only way.”
Wanted him dead.
I keep seeing flashes of Tristan. His eyes. His face. His body lying prone on the ground, covered in blood.
A wave of panic drowns me in terror. I don’t know how my body remains so still, each breath slow and heavy. Whatever drug they gave me, it’s damn good.
So good, I almost give in to the mind-numbing calm that smothers most of my thoughts. Why fight? It feels better to be high…
“Still, you killed him in front of her,” Domino says. “That might complicate matters. I aimed to use her ignorance to my advantage. Now she’ll have an idea of the danger she’s in.”
Danger?
“You didn’t say not to fucking kill no one in front of this bitch,” the first speaker interjects, his brashness clashing harshly with Domino’s suave monotone.
The drug in my system is strong—definitely a sedative—but it must be wearing off. All at once, sensation returns to my face, enough that I can flutter my eyelids, gleaning snatches of my surroundings snippets at a time.
I’m in a room, I think. Somewhere with dim lighting. Blinking is a struggle, turning my perception of the world into a disjointed slide show.
I see a shadow. A man? He moves quickly, growing larger by the second.
My heart races as a smell itches my nostrils, mingling with the stench of blood. Spice. Masculine musk. Lethality.
“No,” Domino replies, his voice washing over me as that shadow becomes even larger. Him? “But do you know what I did ask you to do?”
My belly flips, picking up on the slow, subtle inflection that colors his usually emotionless voice.
“I asked you not to touch her.”
“We had to carry her in here,” the man argues. “Didn’t we—”
“That’s not what I meant. Two fingers. That’s how many you shoved inside of her cunt just now, am I correct? Not to mention what you’ve done to her face.”
A whoosh of air breezes past my head, triggering another wave of nausea. I can physically gag—and at the same time, I’m able to keep my eyes open for longer than a second.
The man standing before me is the devil, I’m sure of it. My mother spent enough of my childhood peppering my bedtimes with stories of the creature awaiting me if I dared to sin. The only problem?
I’d been born into sin, committing my first immoral act the second I’d been given the name Pavalos. This family is evil incarnate, my life an endless parade of sin after sin.
But if I ever felt the need to repent, it would be now.
The devil is a cold soul with dark eyes devoid of compassion or warmth. They stare at something beyond me, set in a face so beautiful it could only belong to a fallen angel who dared to forsake God himself.
Dazed, I realize that I’ve seen this face before—every day, in fact, for the past five years. He’s certainly no angel, just a man with the beauty of a divine being.
Domino Valenciaga.
“Apologies, if I didn’t make myself clear, before,” he says, his voice so soft, his demeanor so casual—which makes the fact that he draws a blade from a sheath strapped to his belt all the more terrifying.
My father loved that gimmick of his. While his compatriots hired private guards armed with military-grade weapons, his man required only a blade, one that he displayed openly from a battered leather sheath he kept on his belt, no matter the outfit or occasion.
The unique weapon gave him an air of mystery, and made him unpredictable in a world based on surefire odds and getting one over on an opponent.
My father liked to call Domino his wildcard. His ace in the hole. His berserker.
As disoriented as I am, I can see why. He’s riveting as the light reflects off his blade and highlights the lone glint in his eye that proves without a shadow of a doubt... He’s soulless. An animal relying purely on instinct.
The will to kill comes as easy to him as breathing.
“I told you she was mine.” His tone remains so level that the knife in his hand could be as trivial as a cigar. Something held merely to pass the time.
Until he crosses beyond my line of sight with a slow, easy stride.
A noise echoes next, so chilling that it snaps what remnants of the drug are still controlling my ability to move. I flinch, rolling onto my back with a better view of the ceiling above and the room’s layout overall.
It’s spacious, but I don’t recognize the color scheme. Beige walls. A high, white ceiling.
And red liquid spraying in an arch as if by some new age fountain—or in this case, from a man clutching his right arm to his chest as he staggers into my line of view.
I’ve never heard someone scream like this.
Liar. But it’s a sound I’ve tried my damned hardest to suppress.
The cry of a man in pain is so different from any other. So guttural, almost a howl—but it’s the sq
ueal you watch out for. That high-pitched inflection point that heralds true pain.
This man is nowhere near there. Yet. “What the fuck—”
“Raise your hand,” Domino says.
My head lolls toward the sound of his voice and I find him, standing tall just a few steps away. He tosses his knife into the air, catching it by the handle easily. There’s no mark on the blade, but it’s the only weapon capable of causing so much blood…
“Do what he says,” another man warns. He’s too far back for me to see his face. I only catch a shadow from the corner of my eye.
“Your hand,” Domino requests, snapping his fingers. “Lift it.”
Still groaning, the other man complies, revealing fingers streaked in scarlet that tremble with agony. A gash slices into the flesh of his forearm, the source of the bleeding.
I am so high. The lighting plays off my vision, turning every drop of scarlet into a blazing, flickering trail like neon paint. It drips, drips, drips as Domino inspects the limb, his face unreadable from this angle.
Then he moves in a way that resembles some sick, beautiful dance. Without warning, he grabs the man’s arm, ignoring how he whines as a result. Then he brandishes the knife.
The man sputters, “N-No—”
My eyelids fall, drenching me in darkness. I don’t see the action that results in the horrific scream that echoes next, but I can guess. Something to do with the blade hitting a firm surface that gives with a crunching squelch.
The screaming takes on an almost musical quality, building to a high-pitched crescendo. Then, bingo. There it is. That note of true agony.
The one my father taught me how to play.
Disgust rips through my body, crawling up my throat. I gag so hard I lurch onto my stomach, forced to brace my hands against the floor as liquid issues from my lips. Over and over.
I’m still choking on bile when I sense a flicker of movement come from behind.
“Two fingers for the two you used to soil what is mine,” Domino says. “Now get the fuck out. You—” his shift in tone makes me suspect he’s speaking to the other man beyond my view. “Take his share and get him out of here. Now.”
