Yours (Beautiful Sinner Series Book 4)

by Elena M. Reyes

  You don’t escape our world unscathed.

  I take another step back and he follows, unwilling to release his hold. Another, and he brings his hand down across my other cheek, catching the corner of my mouth and breaking the skin. The metallic taste fills my mouth. The flash of pain almost makes me stumble, but I regain myself and take two more steps back.

  And on that final move back, Lane slams me into the counter, the force knocking over the bottle and emptying its contents all around us. It breaks in half, the top slicing my arm and I grit my teeth, holding back the pain.

  I grab the sharp glass and wrap my fingers around the unbroken opening.

  He doesn’t see it. Lane’s too busy breathing hard against my neck, right below my chin where he’s pressing his lips, a complete contrast to his other actions.

  His lips part and the kiss is tender. Almost worshipping.

  I hate his touch. I don’t want this.

  “Who is he, Mariah?” Teeth scrape against my skin and I shudder; I feel disgusted, and sadness fills my chest. Lane isn’t giving me another out, and I close my eyes. “How long have you been fucking him behind my back?”

  “Don’t force my hand, Lane. Please leave.”

  “How fucking long!” he screams and snaps his teeth over my neck. His bite hurts. It burns as the stupid man breaks the skin.

  “Forgive me.” And on my next breath, I shove the broken, jagged glass into his neck. Push it in a little deeper before he can step back and scream out from the shock and pain.

  Lane stumbles, his hand coming up to his chest, not paying attention to me. I kick him. With all the strength I have, I land my foot on his chest and run to the front door.

  He’s grunting; I hear him stumble and the crash of something glass. Then his footsteps come near, and it’s as I make it to the entryway table and grab my Glock that he appears in my line of sight.

  He takes a step my way and I remove the safety, pointing the barrel at his chest. “Stop.” My voice is shaky, my emotions threatening to overtake me as I let the first few tears fall. “Last chance.”

  Lane laughs, the action causing blood to spurt and stain my floor. “You wouldn’t.”

  “Leave.”

  “Not before I kill you.” And he means it. The hate in his eyes sears me. The threat isn’t without intent; his position as next in line for the Molly empire his father built makes him a dangerous man with the means to do just that.

  It’s why our union interested both his family and mine. My father to be precise.

  The Asher’s don’t need them, but I won’t deny that they’re useful at times.

  Then, everything happens fast. One second, I’m swallowing back a sob, and the next, I’m pulling the trigger four times. Two to the chest. Two to the stomach.

  Lane falls back on impact, his head banging against the archway behind him and groans. Blood quickly pools, and his shirt is proof of how little time he has left.

  The gun slips from my hand and I walk over, kneeling beside his head, and push the hair back. His eyes are still aware—wide and scared.

  “Ivan is De Leon’s youngest son, Lane. He sent a basket to everyone who worked on clearing their money and file, not just me.” My tears fall on his cheek, and his expression fills with remorse. “I never cheated.”

  “I’m sorry.” It’s low and hoarse. Our eyes stay locked for a few minutes, but then his close and don’t reopen. His chest no longer rises and falls. He’s gone.

  “I am too.”

  “Are you okay?” someone says, and I snap back to the present, pushing back the thoughts I’ve fought to bury. Lane was my first and only boyfriend. My first kill.

  Did I love him? No. Not a single part of me belonged to him—not like a woman loves her man—but regret still lingers over my actions and stupidity to stay and please others. To make him happy while I became wary and miserable.

  I should’ve broken it off before then.

  I should’ve seen that Lane needed help.

  I should’ve, but didn’t.

  His demons had nothing to do with me, and yet, I became his focus and allowed it to go that far.

  My eyes focus on the person in front of me, and I’m shocked it’s Javier. “How did you find me? Are you stalking me?” The latter leaves me in an accusatory tone, which causes his brow to raise.

  “No. I’m not.”

  “Then how...” my words trail off as I look behind him and realize where I am. I’m back outside of the Asher building, a few steps from the door, and have no recollection of how I arrived. Squinting a bit, I make out the receptionist and she’s looking at me from her desk with concern stretched across her face. “Christ, I’m a mess today.”

  “Just today?” Javier jokes, his hand on my shoulder, squeezing it. I didn’t realize it was there, nor do I know where I went or how long I’ve been standing here. “Hey, look at me.”

  “I’m heading back inside.” I rebuff him, shrugging his hand off. His touch, no matter how small, feels good, and it’s for the best I keep him at bay.

  Men like him are dominant and distrustful. They come and go as they please, while the women stay behind to clean and cook—to give the world around them the illusion of perfection.

  Perfect wife.

  Perfect kids.

  Perfect house with a large yard and a beautiful dog running around.

  I’ve seen it from my father. And while my mother has always remained quiet, I refuse to let anyone else hold that power over me. It’s why I admire Malcolm’s mom. My aunt doesn’t play by those rules and refuses to let her husband or son become that sick.

  Because this misogynistic idea, the illusion of a killer being a family man, gives him a reputable status. It makes him dependable and trustworthy, something that no criminal is.

  I will kill anyone who crosses those I love without remorse.

  And the sole reason I regret killing Lane? His mother.

  The pure look of horror and devastation in that woman’s eyes when Malcolm turned the body over and gave them three days to leave the country still haunts me. Gail was devastated to lose her only child, and the raw pain of her wails made me realize that I never want to be in her shoes.

  To be that vulnerable.

  “No!” Gail stands, eyes blazing in anger and despair. “This isn’t true. Tell me it’s not true, Mariah!”

  “I’m sorry,” I answer, my voice low. A little unsteady; her pain makes my chest clench. I feel bad for her. His mother, even though she was overindulgent and turned a blind eye to Lane’s bad behavior—her son’s many addictions—genuinely loved him. That was her baby, her only child, that I killed. “He’s gone.”

  “You fucking—”

  “Tom, I’d be very careful about how you finish that sentence.” Malcolm sits forward in his chair, hands flat atop his desk. “Disrespect her, and your wife will be burying two bodies, not one.”

  “Nephew,” my father says suddenly, hands up as if to pacify the situation. “Leave this to me. It’s my daughter at fault here and who needs to make amends to the Dermots.” That stung, a sob catching in my throat at the look of disgust he sent my way. In his eyes, I messed up. He’s afraid of the Dermots for some reason. “Mariah needs to pay for her crime. I’ll make sure they’re not to—”

  “Not another word before I lose my last shred of patience with you. I’m not your brother, nor do I hold qualms over hurting one of my own.” At Malcolm’s words, Dad steps back and sends me a murderous glare. Something my cousin catches. “Stay in your lane, and keep those eyes on the ground. She’s above you and always will be.”

  “Do you not have a heart?” Lane’s mother steps in front of her fuming husband, her fingernails digging into his arm, a silent plea to keep composure. There’s more he wants to say, insult me, but can’t. Not with Malcolm here, and more so with the six fully armed guards standing post. Their Molly operation, while quite large, only holds that power because my family has allowed them to flourish with the agreement that they
know their place and pay a due, giving them rights to a certain area. I was just a bonus. “She killed our son and you—”

  “You should thank her for being merciful.”

  Both Lane’s parents and mine gasp, but it’s Tom’s face I focus on. He’s turning red in anger. Hate. “You seem to forget that we hold power in this city, too, Asher. Chicago is—”

  “Mine.” Malcolm interrupts, standing from behind his desk, and walks toward a small storage cabinet in the room. Inside there are a few guns, a knife, a ring, and a glass used when certain business agreements are made.

  It’s an old-school tradition. You sign with blood, not ink.

  A collective intake of breath and the glass shatters upon impact, creating a small hole where it met the wall. It’s a symbolic gesture. Their accord is over.

  “You’ve fooled yourself into believing you are more than what you are. All of you. It’s the same mistake Lane made the night he attacked my family, in her home, intending to end her life.” His back is to the room, voice controlled, and yet you feel his ire. The evil that lurks beneath the surface and his enemies cower from. “You are nothing but what I allow. One word from me, and your entire life can be burned to the ground with you inside the building. Or in your case, Uncle, the home I’ve allowed you to keep. I’m being more than courteous here, at Mariah’s request, by letting you all live. Because had he succeeded or ran, I would’ve made you watch me dismember him limb by limb while alive.”

  Neither set opens their mouths, but their eyes speak volumes. Fear. Almost choking panic at his words.

  If they stay here another minute, he’d order their execution on the blatant disrespect alone.

  “Leave.” At that, all four parents snap their eyes my way. I don’t give them a chance to refute my demand or negotiate. I’m saving their lives, even if they don’t see it. “Take your son’s body, sell what you can, and get out of the country within the next forty-eight hours. Do not look back. Do not come back.”

  “Mariah, sweetheart,” Mom says, voice low and contrite. And I believe it, too. Problem is that she’s a product of a male-dominated home where his word is the law and his demands reign king. She has no real backbone. “Baby, please stop this nonsense. This isn’t how I brought you up.”

  “I think it’s better for all involved if you two leave as well.” Tears gather in her eyes, hurt, and disappointment flowing down each cheek, but I’m not moved. Not this time.

  Lane’s dad opens his mouth, the retort on his tongue sure to be coated in venom, but he’s interrupted by a guard stepping inside. There’s a body over this employee’s shoulder, the body-bag hiding their identity, but everyone knows.

  “Heed her warning. My cousin’s more generous than I am.” Malcolm snaps a finger, and the body is placed at the Dermots feet. His mother’s eyes fill with tears that fall as a hurt-filled wail escapes her chest. Her husband, though, shows a little more composure. There’s sadness, but overpowering the pain is hate. He’s scared, but the disdain is just as powerful. “She asked me to return him to you, and now I have. So do as she bravely suggests. Leave. Don’t further tempt me to break my promise.”

  “You have our word,” Mr. Dermot says, and her cries grow louder. He understands that this means their entire operation must leave—every member of the family—or face the repercussions. With his arms around her midsection, he turns, and they make it to the door where one of their men, a distant cousin, awaits to take Lane.

  And when they step across the threshold, Malcolm claps once. “The clock is ticking. For you as well, uncle.”

  Two steps are all he lets me take before snatching my wrist and pulling me against his strong chest. “What’s wrong?”

  “Let go.”

  “Talk to me.”

  “Respect my boundaries, Mr. Lucas.”

  “Understood.” And all of a sudden, I hate that word. Despise how easily he gives in to my request. This yo-yo’ing is going to drive me crazy. Javier makes me want to run to him and then away, far away, because I’m not ready to let the walls down I’ve built around myself.

  This is for the best. Has to be.

  “Good.” Snatching my arm from his hold, I continue toward the door. He doesn’t say anything, just lets me walk away, and it confuses the hell out of me, but then a hiss meets my ears and I shiver.

  “For now.”

  9

  MALCOLM GIVES ME a nod before entering the opulent establishment near the Asher building the next morning at ten. The Bennett meeting had to be pushed back due to medical reasons, and while I still don’t believe his wife is okay after what occurred, extending this another day isn’t feasible.

  Not when dealing with the sentencing and execution of a man.

  Mistakes can be costly. Destructive.

  Walking through the lobby, I make eye contact with each man standing beside the three exits and nod. We’re in the heart of the Loop, a few minutes from Malcolm’s financial building, and I’m impressed with the surveillance I’ve seen thus far. Not that it can’t be improved, but he has a solid foundation I can work with.

  He owns it, provides all security for it, and only those trusted—business associates that pass through frequently—are allowed to reside within.

  I had the choice of an apartment here but chose wisely without knowing.

  Mariah can run but can’t get far. She has no idea how close we are.

  How easily this predator can reach his prey.

  Because that’s what this dance feels like; a game of cat and mouse I don’t plan to lose.

  “They’re waiting and the room is ready,” Mariah says from beside him, looking straight ahead while matching his steps. I’m two behind them and watching their dynamic, taking in their reactions from the moment they entered my SUV. They speak through looks and short answers, but behind the professional demeanor is respect and familial love.

  “Thank you. Make sure Mr. Bennett is down in five.”

  “Already sent him a text, and he’s downstairs.” She’s checking her phone, but I catch the tilt of her head and the slight look back from the corner of her eye. “The guard is also in attendance and awake.”

  “Perfect. That’ll be all.” Malcolm stops at the elevator and puts a key to the panel. “Take Javier’s car and head back. I need you to work on the Frederick contract.”

  “Are you sure?” Now she does look back and meets my stare. I’m not hiding or avoiding. “I’m more than happy to—”

  “Positive.” He kisses her cheek, pulling her attention away from me, and I hate it. Loathe her looking at anyone that isn’t me, but I keep my reactions at bay. This feeling—this rage-fueled jealousy—isn’t something I’ve faced before. It makes me see red. Yearn to feel the life essence of whoever holds her gaze on my fingertips. “I want the twins in and out of my office before they start trying to sell me bullshit I neither care nor have time for.”

  “I know.” Mariah laughs and its warmth settles around me, calms the devil within, while my expression remains blank. She sneaks another look after a minute, almost like she can’t help herself, and narrows her eyes at my demeanor. What kind of reaction are you looking for, Muñeca? Are you thinking about our kiss? However, the longer we stare, the more I see what lurks behind those pretty orbs. Something is bothering her. Maybe a hint of annoyance for being asked to leave. “The food has been ordered and the files are ready. We’ll be using conference room two for this one.”

  “Will they need an escort to the office?” She doesn’t respond to him, too busy trying to read me. The only things she gets from me, though, are a raised brow and a nod in her cousin’s direction. “Mariah,” he says, and still nada. Not even an acknowledgment of her name.

  “Pay attention, Muñeca.” That snaps her out of it and with a quick wave to Malcolm, she rushes out without answering. My eyes follow her the entire way. “I’ll be picking them up.”

  “You two are becoming quite entertaining to watch.” He enters the elevator and Carmelo and I f
ollow, not another word spoken on the matter. We ascend to the sixty-eighth floor, and the doors open into a spacious living space with nothing but a large conference table at the center. The room has floor-to-ceiling windows that line the outer walls from one side to the other, the view showing us a slightly overcast day with an uninterrupted view of city landmarks and skyline.

  Mr. Bennett sits at one end of the table while the guard is placed at the center, tied to a chair and gagged. His face is swollen and a tooth is missing, and while both men hold enraged expressions, one person is missing.

  The wife. The victim.

  “How is she?” Malcolm asks, sitting down at the other end while I take my place right across from the aggressor. “Will she be joining us?”

  “No.” Kyle doesn’t explain further, and no one probes. Instead, we turn to look at the one person who does owe an explanation. “Speak,” Bennett hisses through clenched teeth a minute later, and the man flinches a bit before composing himself. “Tell me why you earned the bullet in my gun.”

  Nothing. No answer.

  And all it does is piss me off. More so because no matter what country you’re in, it seems that disrespect is a common trait that all assholes share.

  There’s a paperweight at the center of the table and before anyone asks him again, I pick it up and throw it. It lands near the bridge of his nose and a gash appears, the blood rushing to the surface before falling to his lip and filling his mouth.

  “The next blow, I’ll aim for your eye with my knife. Answer him,” I say, tone even and low.

  He trembles, his fear palpable. “I love her.”

  “What did you just say?” Kyle stands, the chair scraping harshly against the floor. His hands come down atop the glass table, the force making it shake while his lip curls up into a snarl. “Repeat that, Douglass.”

  Douglass swallows hard, coughing a bit. “I fell in love with Mrs. Bennett.”

  “Did she reciprocate?” Malcolm asks, holding a hand up to Kyle who moves in Douglass’s direction. He pauses with a minute nod and waits. We’ve already discussed how to handle him. Get what we want. “Or is this a gut feeling?”