Cartel

by Lili St. Germain

  ‘Yes,’ I panted. ‘Please, I’m sorry. Anything.’

  Emilio grinned, withdrawing the needle. I gasped as I watched it fall neatly into the breast pocket of his suit, such a tiny scrap of metal, but a violent threat to keep me toeing the line.

  ‘Remember this when you talk out of turn,’ he said. ‘Remember what you are to me. What I am to you.’

  I bit back angry tears. He owned me for life. The present I could somehow handle, but my future? It was almost too much to bear.

  The guy between my legs scooted closer, his movements hesitant and slow.

  Hurry up, I wanted to urge, but I refused to show any more weakness in front of these men. Instead, I laid back and braced myself for the pain.

  And found his eyes, piercing into mine.

  Not Emilio’s.

  Murphy’s.

  In the shadows, his blue eyes gleamed with amusement. And something else.

  Satisfaction.

  ‘I’ll leave you to it, doc,’ Emilio said, walking out into the hallway. A second later, he ducked his head back in and called out to Murphy, ‘You coming?’

  ‘If it’s all the same to you, boss,’ Murphy said, grinning, ‘I think I’d rather watch.’

  Emilio chuckled and disappeared.

  My mind hurtled back in time, remembering a scene almost exactly like this. I was sixteen years old, and I’d just pushed my baby boy out into the cruel world that would insist he be taken from me. I had been allowed to hold him, the nurses laying him on my chest for a few precious minutes before he was whisked away. I had looked longingly into a set of perfect, dark blue eyes that stared into my own; a piece of my own soul made physical and brought into the world.

  Now, pinned to the bed by crazy Murphy, I looked into a different pair of blue eyes. But there was nothing loving or soft in these eyes. There was just a dominance that fed on my terror.

  Hot wax was applied to my delicate skin, and then the burning began. Burning, and pain. It was hot. Much too hot. And as I looked at Murphy, I could tell they’d made it too hot on purpose. It felt like I had fire stuck to my skin.

  ‘You can cry if you want,’ Murphy said, his mouth forming a devious smirk. ‘They all do.’

  I didn’t want to. But I did. I cried.

  As my tears fell faster, his grin widened.

  I hated him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Dornan

  He was sitting behind his office desk when she sidled in.

  Dornan whistled. ‘Caroline,’ he greeted John’s wife. ‘Looking good.’

  What he meant was, she looked clean. She’d had forty-eight hours to detox the junk out of her system, and he damn well hoped it had made a difference. But he saw the desperation in her puffy green eyes, and his gut clenched unpleasantly.

  ‘Fucking hospital,’ she seethed. ‘Can you believe they kept me in psych for two fucking days?’

  She sat her skinny ass on the edge of his desk, right next to him, flipping her auburn hair over her shoulder. Dornan was amused. Caroline was young, twenty-five, and she was the epitome of a club whore. She belonged firmly in party girl territory, but he guessed she’d seen her meal ticket in John and taken it.

  ‘I wonder why you’re in here,’ Dornan asked, lifting his boots up onto the desk and crossing his ankles.

  ‘I just wanted to say hello.’ Caroline shrugged.

  Dornan pursed his lips to stop from laughing. ‘Hello, Caroline,’ he said lightly. ‘Where’s your daughter?’

  Her shoulders slumped and the light in her eyes all but bled away. ‘With Celia,’ she said softly.

  Of course she was. In an instant his amusement at her predictability turned into pure apathy.

  ‘With Celia,’ Dornan repeated, dangerously calm. ‘And I guess you’re on your way to go pick her up, aren’t you? Take her home, cook her a real meal. Read her a fuckin’ book?’

  He taunted her because if he couldn’t voice his frustration he would start hitting her with his fists. And he had to remember that she was John’s wife. Don’t do it, don’t do it.

  Caroline hovered nervously at the edge of the desk. ‘Go home, Car,’ Dornan said sharply. ‘Go be a fucking mother to that girl for one single night.’

  She still didn’t move, and he saw the unanswered desire in her eyes. Not for him, hell no. They’d fucked once before — back when John was in prison and Dornan was drunk — but he had nothing in him for her. She reeked desperation like cheap perfume.

  ‘I’m strung out, D,’ she begged. ‘Please. The doctor said I should wean off slowly. I just need a little —’

  ‘There it is,’ Dornan said sarcastically. He’d been waiting for her to ask for some smack. What she really wanted. Her begging was like clockwork.

  Dornan dropped his feet back to the floor with a solid thud, standing with emphasis so that he was towering over the junkie his best friend had had the misfortune of marrying.

  ‘I’m sick of your shit, Caroline. I’m cutting you off. Get the fuck out of my face before I hurt you.’

  Amusement rose inside him as he watched her panic. She was about to lose her shit right in front of him, and he kind of wished he had the time to let her. She deserved to beg a little, maybe even grovel.

  ‘You can’t do this,’ she stammered, trying to stay rooted to the spot as he dragged her towards the doorway by her arm. ‘I’ll tell John what you did to me while he was in prison!’

  Dornan stopped dead in his tracks and dropped her arm like it was covered in shit.

  ‘If you’re referring to the time I woke up on your couch to see you’d climbed your dirty snatch up onto my dick, please tell him. I’m sure he’d love that.’

  Anger and frustration rolled off her in waves, mixed in with the faintly sweet odour that seemed unique to junkies coming down. That anxious, desperate sweat smell. Like fruit before it turns and starts to rot. The edge. She was on the edge.

  ‘I’ll tell him you forced me,’ she threatened.

  That tipped him over the edge. He grabbed a chunk of her greasy auburn hair and tugged, pulling her face to his.

  ‘Just fuckin’ try it,’ he hissed through gritted teeth. ‘I dare you.’

  The fight went out of her, and she became limp in his grip. Junkies were all the same. He’d had to deal with enough of them in his line of work. He pushed her out of the doorway and slammed the door shut before he started laying punches into that stupid face of hers.

  Fucking bitch.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Mariana

  Three days passed. Three days of pacing the room, of scratching the wounds on my wrists that were only just now beginning to heal. Three days of three meals a day, delivered by Murphy himself. Three days of pure and utter hell.

  Three days, and no sign of Dornan.

  I should have known he wouldn’t help me.

  And then, in an instant, everything began happening too quickly. Murphy handed me a towel and pointed to the door.

  ‘Go shower,’ he ordered. ‘Wash your fucking hair. It looks like greasy old spaghetti.’

  I glared at him, but I also really wanted a shower. I hadn’t bathed in days, and I was completely and utterly worn out.

  Freshly showered, I edged back into the room wearing a towel and new underwear. I sidled past Murphy, dreading what he might decide to do with me now that I was clean and half-naked in front of him.

  But what he did surprised me. He handed me a folded black piece of clothing, and as I shook it open with one hand, my knees gave way.

  It was a dress. Innocent enough, a simple silk number with no sleeves that would reach to the floor on my frame.

  But it wasn’t the dress that worried me. It was the why.

  ‘No,’ I said, dropping the dress at my damp feet and scurrying back. ‘No, no, no.’

  I jumped as a woman appeared at the door. She looked a few years older than me, but immaculate, like a porcelain doll. Huge blue eyes were the main feature of her pale face, her thin lips fash
ioned into a scowl. Her glossy brown hair was slicked back into a bun and she wore a black shift dress that looked expensive. She was like a beanpole, so thin her cheekbones jutted out, her elbows and knees angular. Maybe she was a prisoner, too.

  When she spoke, however, I realised she was definitely not a prisoner. ‘She’s chubby,’ the woman snapped, her ice-blue eyes raking up and down me. I still had my towel on, but I felt exposed under her withering glare. I backed away towards the bed. Her accent was hard to pin down, but I was guessing New York. And she was definitely Italian. Oh, Jesus, was this Dornan’s wife? Was this the one he had been talking about? If so, I completely understood the ‘My wife is a cunt’ comment. I couldn’t think of a better word to sum this woman up.

  ‘I’m practically obese compared to you,’ I agreed, just as snappily. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Shhh, Bella,’ Murphy said with a small smile. ‘You’re just jealous of her rack.’

  Bella. Definitely Italian. But it was the wrong name for her. She was pretty, regal, but she was certainly not beautiful.

  She huffed, feigning disinterest as she addressed Murphy. ‘I don’t have all day,’ she said, holding up a small red bag in her palm. A make-up bag. ‘And I’m going to need a while with this one.’

  They were either getting me ready to sell, or getting ready to induct me into the whorehouse hall of fame. Neither sounded appealing. I clenched my jaw, moving as far as I could into the corner of the room. Dornan, where the hell are you? I doubted he would be able to do anything to stop Emilio from selling me, but for some reason I still wanted him to be there. Clearly, I had issues.

  Murphy surveyed me from the doorway, then slammed the door shut.

  ‘Put the dress on,’ he said.

  ‘What’s happening?’ I demanded, clutching the towel to my chest.

  He stepped forward, the expression on his face grave. It suddenly struck me as odd that this time, for the first time since I had met him in my father’s house, there was no sexual innuendo, no inappropriate touching and no threats. He was sombre, and that was more terrifying than I could have ever anticipated.

  ‘You’re nervous,’ I said incredulously. I looked at his hand, seeing a slight tremble there. ‘Why are you nervous?’

  The unflappable bastard had had his cage rattled. But by who, and why?

  ‘Put the dress on, honey,’ he said shortly. ‘Or I’ll take you out there naked, and trust me, you do not want that. You’ll be eaten alive.’

  Bella laughed dryly behind him.

  ‘What do you care?’ I muttered, but I turned my back to him and hurriedly threw the dress over my head, letting my towel drop at the same time. I didn’t like the idea of being eaten alive naked, whether it was a real threat or not.

  Somehow, I knew that things were about to change. I’d sensed it as soon as Murphy had walked into the room.

  Are you going to sell me?

  Yes.

  YES. Dornan’s reply rose in my throat like bile, and I swallowed anxiously.

  I panicked while I was smoothing the dress down. I panicked as Murphy sat me on the edge of the bed.

  I panicked while the skinny bitch chewed gum and carefully applied make-up to my skin. I panicked as she used a blow-dryer to dry my hair. It was a silent scream that tore at my insides, threatening to bubble up and spill from my lips unbidden.

  Never show fear. The mantra that I had chanted in my head, over and over, since I had offered myself to Emilio. But my resolve was wearing thin, and my fear was breaking me open, shining through the cracks like a million dying stars in the night sky. People would see through those cracks, and they would know. They would see my fear and they would enjoy it.

  I didn’t fight Murphy or his bitch offsider Bella because I knew what was held over me. I could practically see the crumpled photograph of Luis in Murphy’s breast pocket, right over the spot where his dead black heart would sit.

  I didn’t fight, because I knew it would be futile. This was the part where they would take bids on my life.

  ‘Stand up,’ Murphy ordered, after Bella had finished applying a truckload of mascara to my eyelashes. ‘Give daddy a twirl.’

  I didn’t twirl. He could go fuck himself.

  Murphy stood to the side a little as Bella tossed the make-up bag on the bed and left the room, slamming the door behind her.

  My eyes still on the door, I jumped as Murphy grasped my chin in his long fingers.

  ‘I’d buy you,’ he said.

  I took all the rage and the hate that had been sitting inside my chest for the past few days, and channelled it into my knee. I smiled sweetly as I brought it up into his balls, hitting my target with force and precision.

  I grinned as he doubled over in front of me.

  ‘Baby,’ I said in his ear, ‘you couldn’t afford me.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Dornan

  He could feel his father’s eyes on him; could feel the rage inside Emilio, burning two holes in his face.

  The girl was going to be auctioned off, and the sadness that spread through Dornan’s chest at that fact was deeply unsettling. He’d spent mere moments with her.

  But he had tasted her tears.

  Tasted her blood.

  And he couldn’t bear what would come next.

  He briefly considered bidding himself, but he didn’t have fifty grand. He might have a rich father, but Dornan was rich in assets, not cash. He had six sons, for shit’s sake. Six sons who ate him out of house and home.

  ‘You do not want to sell her,’ Dornan said, jabbing his finger in the direction of the basement.

  ‘Of course I do, figlio. And I want her owner to be the most brutal motherfucker. I want to send Marco pictures that will make him wish he was dead.’

  Dornan’s fingers tightened around his tumbler. Scotch on the rocks, to ease his fraying nerves. That little whore Bella had always been good at two things — sucking dick, and relaying gossip to him. So when she’d called a few hours ago and told Dornan there was an auction tonight, he had jumped on his bike before he’d even hung up. He’d sped as fast as his bike and the traffic would allow, weaving dangerously between cars and trucks on the busy stretch of highway that ran from Venice Beach, LA, all the way down to the ends of San Diego where the US touched Mexico.

  ‘Pop, I’ve spoken to people,’ Dornan protested. His trigger finger was itchy, and he had an impulsive desire to rip his gun from its holster and shoot his father in the face. He had a tendency to be volatile when cornered. ‘I’ve been speaking to Marco’s business associates.’

  Emilio looked up sharply from where he was studying a handwritten list of names. ‘You what?’

  ‘It was a coincidence,’ Dornan continued, the lie as easy as the truth.

  He had inherited his silver tongue from his father, and so it was much harder to sway him. But it was worth a try. He couldn’t let Ana go; he hadn’t thought of anything except her for the past few days. He’d tried to fuck her out of his system, then resorted to booze and drugs, but nothing worked.

  He wanted her, and he was going to find a way to get her.

  Emilio stood up and rounded the desk, standing over Dornan. ‘You want to defy me, son? For a girl? A fucking Colombian whore?’

  He did. He really, really did.

  ‘Gino says she’s been doing the books for Marco for years. Two or three. Says she’s pretty fucking good at taking dirty money to the laundromat and cleaning it up.’

  Emilio took a step back, his indignation fading slightly.

  ‘Go on,’ he said.

  ‘Apparently our Marco has been quite the gambler. He owes a lot of bookmakers a lot of money.’

  Emilio threw his hands up in exasperation. ‘You’re telling me things I already know. Get to the point.’

  ‘She was using Gino’s workshop as a front. Funnelling a lot of illegal money through, holding off the bookies by laundering their money for them.’

  Emilio looked bored. ‘The point,’ he urged
, clicking his fingers.

  ‘I think Bella is in over her head,’ Dornan said. ‘The burlesque club in Venice is bleeding money, and she’s too fucking dumb to figure it out. I say we put this girl to work, see if she can do better.’

  Emilio didn’t seem overly keen, but then, he wasn’t ordering Dornan from his office, so it wasn’t all bad. He circled back to his side of the desk and uncapped a decanter of whiskey.

  ‘If it doesn’t work, I’ll shoot her myself,’ Dornan offered.

  Emilio rubbed his fake tooth with the pad of his finger, like he did sometimes when he was thinking.

  ‘Gino’s shop woulda been small fry,’ he said.

  ‘Millions, Pop,’ Dornan corrected his father. ‘Millions.’

  ‘I’ve already invited sixteen fucking people to this auction,’ Emilio snapped. ‘Could you not have come to me with this yesterday?’

  Dornan scoffed. ‘I very much doubt she’s the only girl you have at your disposal.’

  Emilio grinned. By saving Mariana, Dornan knew he was only condemning someone else. He wondered if she was older. No, probably younger. Probably a girl who’d been promised a better life and herded into a shipping container, then driven to her doom. Dornan’s gut turned to ice. Forget about it. Focus.

  He couldn’t save them all, and he needed Mariana.

  ‘And you’re going to vouch for this little bitch?’ Emilio’s eyes were beady, alight with something all of a sudden. Anger? No. He was amused.

  Dornan sat back in his chair, surveying his father.

  ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘She’s just one little Colombian bitch; what’s the worst she could do?’

  Emilio raised his eyebrows. ‘You know better than to assume that, boy.’

  ‘I’ll keep her under lock and key. I’ll make sure she’s watched by the brothers.’

  Emilio grinned. ‘Just watched?’

  Dornan laughed. ‘Of course not.’ Nobody else will fucking touch her. But Emilio didn’t have to know that.

  He could see his father was teetering on the edge of a decision.

  ‘If she’s an issue, we deal with it. There’s nothing to say we can’t sell her again in a month. But in the meantime? She might be able to actually repay some of Marco’s debt.’