Brutal & Raw: Mafia Romance & Psychological Thriller (Beneventi Family Book 1)

by Sonya Jesus

  “No,” he mumbles and points to the TV. “I miss it, don’t you?”

  I’m not sure what I miss. “Then why don’t we focus on moving on and getting back to work?”

  His figure comes back on the screen, dragging four fourteen by her hair. With a devious smile plastered on his face, he relaxes and watches himself. “We have orders coming in, you know?”

  “How many?” I’ve been so busy I haven’t even checked the books.

  “We’re just getting the word out, but maybe six, seven.”

  “Are we ready for that? Things all set up at the new place?” I ask as he switches out the tapes.

  “Nothing digital. We’re still keeping everything old school to be off the radar. Since we moved to the abandoned GWF place, we have the kill mill for harvesting. We’re working on securing the perimeter and sterilizing. Can’t exactly get paid 70k for a dirty kidney, it’s bad for business, but the conditions are better.”

  “Crops?”

  “Fifteen or so. The Cabralis helped with recruitment and gave us some of their discards. Not many are good for the herd, at least not for a few months. We can’t risk large numbers until we find the one you let go.”

  “Franco…” I trail off, the irritation growing with the ticking seconds. “There’s still a gun within my reach, and my nerves are itching to pull a trigger.”

  The whites of his eyes widen as he assesses my threat. “You need me.”

  I smirk and bob my head, giving him a false hope that he has gotten to me. “The Farm can function without The Butcher… Or do you think I’d bank my fortune on only one man?” I’ve found a way to monetize Franco’s particular assets. I’m sure he’s not the only psychopath roaming around the city, but maybe he’s the only one on a leash.

  He abandons the subject and takes a seat. “Did you want to increase quantity?”

  “No, we still have family help. They think it’s because of the change in leadership, but we need to keep them thinking that. As soon as we find Lyla and figure out what she’s been up to, we can get back to normal.”

  “I’ll drop by the hot spot again and talk to the recruiter who brought her in. Maybe he can ask around.”

  I nod, giving him the okay, and make myself comfortable. I return the gun to the drawer and pull out my phone, checking for any updates from Kelsie.

  Nothing.

  Franco plays the final video, which captured the last time we had Lyla on camera. I watched this three times already, looking for body language, or anything connecting her to the other girls. Not that it mattered anymore. They were all dead.

  A scream I recognize all too well disrupts my thought process.

  A quick glance at the screen turns my stomach. “Turn that down.”

  He reluctantly adjusts the volume and devotes all his attention to the clip of the Harvest, wearing a smile on his lips. The chopped-up pieces of a disassembled girl are scattered on the ground while Franco dangles the ovaries of another one. This one, alive and watching, as he shows them to her.

  He stows them away in an icebox then goes for the lungs. I never like to watch this part.

  I switch my attention toward Lyla and the other girls. They’re lined up against the cement wall in the viewing room, behind a glass partition. Their bodies bruised and bloodied. Each of them stares at the floor; some puke, others sob uncontrollably. Lyla does too, eventually, but for the briefest of moments, she holds The Butcher’s eyes before she spews the contents of her stomach all over herself.

  It hadn’t been the first time she watched him work, but it was the last. A surge of guilt floods my heart, and I focus back on The Butcher, forcing myself to watch what I condemned her to. Instead of the girl, now dead on Franco’s steel slab, I picture Lyla.

  Her red hair hangs over the sides, the bands strap her down, and The Butcher’s knife slices her open.

  God… This is what I wanted him to do.

  Cut piece by piece. Remove one by one. And save me from her.

  I keep my eyes fixed on the screen, the contents of my stomach churning as Franco’s bloody hands dip into the body. The acid burns up to my throat, but I force myself to watch it all, knowing had it been Lyla, my heart would ache, not my stomach.

  No matter what I did to her, or things I had done to her, that same hopeful look was always on her pretty face. I roped her, branded her, and destroyed her. I bled her dry, starved her of life, and all to fucking save myself, because she was different. I knew it from the first day I laid eyes on her and every day after that.

  That’s why I needed Franco to stop it.

  He’d take her eyes, so they’d stop seeing someone good.

  He’d cut out her lips, so her kisses could no longer tempt me.

  He’d cut her heart out, and save me from ever wanting to own it.

  Because I almost did. And if Costa Beneventi taught me anything, it was that love was the most popular way to die. So, I sentenced the first woman I gave a damn about to death before I cared enough to die for her.

  Surviving is all that matters.

  Franco leans back, the chair creaking from the force. “Did you have to let her go? It’s been three months, and my fingers are itching to get bloody.”

  I glare at The Butcher, who apparently still needs to learn not to question the fucking boss, and tap the end of my phone against my thigh. “Then cut them off.”

  “Funny.” He runs his hands through his pristine hair, the clean white shirt stretching around his biceps. Quite a different figure than the ovary-yielding maniac in the surveillance videos. “But seriously, do you have to screw every girl we recruit?”

  “Only the ones who pique my curiosity,” I answer honestly, despite not owing anyone an explanation.

  “Well, your dick’s really fucking curious then.”

  I nod my head and push for him to pause the video. “Last time I checked, I own them, and if I want to screw them before I have them killed, that’s my business.”

  “Because it’s your business, you should think about not being as involved with the sexual aspect. They see your face, they get to know you, and everything goes to shit if they get away.”

  “Then don’t let them get away.”

  “That’s not the point. How many times did you visit 327?” he questions.

  Too many.

  “I know I said you haven’t been around much, but maybe that’s not a bad idea. If something happens to you, then what? Who is your second? Your pansy-ass brother who ran away from all this?”

  “Careful, Franco.”

  “I’m trying to make you see reason, Breaker.”

  “Boss,” I correct him. Calmly, I put my feet up on my desk and tap on my head, telling him to think about where he is and reminding him of what his place is in my world.

  He backs down and glances around the room. “Sorry, Boss.” He gets up and grabs the video from the VHS before adding it to the box. “Thank fuck we escaped the middle ages in this new place and don’t have to keep reusing this stuff.”

  “Leave those,” I say, rethinking the situation. Costa had his reasons for being anti-digital, but with enough money, impenetrable firewalls can be built. Unfortunately, half a million dollars in untraceable cash isn’t something that comes by easily, especially not when no cash flow is coming in. “You go find the recruiter and check on the footage from the CCTVs. Call me with an update in a couple of hours.”

  “And these?” Franco holds the obsolete tapes up.

  “I’ll take care of them.” Before he uses them against me. “And Franco, don’t come back with nothing this time.”

  “Let’s say I find her. Do I make her disappear?”

  No, my insides shout, betraying me. “Find her first.”

  2

  Given a Choice

  327

  His breaths are heavy, as if he had been running for hours. I wait and curl into the small corner next to the pee pan.

  "What's your name?" His deep voice fills the small room, echoing off t
he stall walls.

  The question stills me. "L-ly-la," I stutter, my throat dry and sore from all the tears.

  "Are you thirsty?" His voice is a smidge softer than before—something that hits me as uncharacteristic.

  I lift my head and peer into the darkness, but make out nothing. A tap on steel catches my attention, and I jolt to my feet, the chains around my ankles rattling in the process. The door opens, flooding the room with light, stinging my eyes. I strain to keep them open, but the person waits until my hands block my view.

  The door shuts, and a small light is turned on, dimming the room.

  "Hello, Lyla," the same rugged voice sounds different in here, closer.

  Squinting my eyes, I make out the shape of his face, but he’s careful to keep it hidden in the darkness. The light outlines the silhouette of his body, revealing broad shoulders and an unmistakable wide stance.

  “Who…” The word escapes my mouth with no voice attached to it. I rub at my throat, sore from the constant screaming, and try again. “Who are you?”

  He leans against the wall, stretching out his leg toward the light. “That’s not important. I’ve been watching you.”

  Cameras?

  "Night cameras," he explains without needing to. "And intercoms." He stretches his arm toward me, extending a water bottle. "Drink," he demands, his tone suggesting no alternative.

  My knees ache, and my ankle is sore from rubbing against the leather of my shackle, but I struggle to my feet and take a hesitant step toward him. This is the first person who has been in here in three days. What is he doing here?

  “I’m not going to touch you,” he promises and steps into the light. His tone is far too gentle for the man standing in front of me. Ice-blue eyes glisten in this light, piercing me through and paralyzing me. Like curtains, the whites of his eyes are cloaked with thick lashes, emphasizing the brightness of his irises. Captured in his gaze, I stare at him, and only when he blinks, do I bother to breathe again.

  “Then what are you doing here?” I ask, though the words die out toward the end. My instinct urges me to tread lightly... Something about him is dangerous.

  “Bringing you water.” The hint of annoyance in his tone petrifies me, and I step forward. Obviously, he doesn’t like to be questioned.

  “Thank you,” I mutter, as I take the bottle from him. With the new proximity, the scent of his cologne swirls around me, swarming my head with a mixture of spicy notes and leather, and draws me closer. Through my lashes, I quickly glance him over, looking for details to help me later. He doesn’t flinch a single perfect muscle, unconcerned with my scrutiny—which is terrifying.

  His amber-colored skin is covered with black ink—outlines of objects I can’t quite make out. The silence between us siphons the air around us, drawing all my breaths and expelling them by force, as if he commands it so.

  When he captures me studying him, my breath hitches in the back of my throat. I flinch and turn away, breaking the trance and caressing the bruised skin on my cheek. It still stings from the repeated backhands of the prior days, so out of instinct, I step back.

  His hand wraps around my arm, halting my movement and yanking me toward him. Even inches away, his breath is calm, steady, and in control, while I struggle to breathe. A “please” hangs on my lips, but it never hits the air.

  He releases my arm and latches on to my neck.

  Tighter, his fingers press against the pulsing veins surrounding my throat, the pads of his fingers soaking the rapid rhythm of my heartbeat. I struggle to breathe against the strength of his grip, my breath quivering. Between gasps, I spurt out, “You said…you wouldn’t …touch me.”

  His hand relaxes abruptly, but he doesn’t release me. “I did, didn’t I?”

  I gulp down the nerves; the tangled ball presses against his palm as it travels down my throat.

  His eyes narrow on me, slowly squinting and sealing the conduit of information with a harsh scoff of disgust. His hand drops to his side, and he points at the water bottle. “And you said you were thirsty?”

  Some of the water from the bottle has spilled onto my hands. Had I been trembling? I note the broken seal of the cap. My eyes glance over the first face I have seen since the night of my birthday, and I ask, "What's in this?" Thirst dried out my vocal chords, so my words sound foreign to me.

  He smiles at my delay attempt. “Hydrogen. Oxygen.”

  What—Oh… I finish unscrewing the bottle and distract him by keeping up the conversation. “No Na in there?” That’s the only other chemical on the periodic table I remember.

  He looks at the bottle’s label and smirks. “You’re smart, aren’t you?”

  I bring the bottle to my lips and pretend to be distracted by his question. “Why do you think that?”

  “I’ve done my research.”

  Hmm. Maybe not well enough.

  "You’re different,” he says, as if it were a good thing. “But this isn't a place where smart people usually end up." He ambles past me, not at all worried about being reprimanded by whoever is in charge of this place, meaning he must be up there in the hierarchy.

  "What exactly is this place?" I ask, distancing myself inconspicuously. It makes no difference in these close quarters. "Why am I here?"

  "I'd be more concerned with what happens now that you are here." He straightens his body, shifting his posture and drawing his shoulders back. With his chin tilted upward, he looks off to the right.

  Following his gaze seems like a bad idea, so I lower my eyes to the floor. The tips of his expensive shoes are pointed toward me, his stance wide and sturdy. I run down the last however many days I’ve been in here and draw one single conclusion: "You're going to kill me, right?"

  "No." He steps closer, wielding distance like a tactic.

  The tiny hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention, beckoning me to retreat. I hold my ground and face the man who expertly employs comfort and intimidation like a dangerous weapon. “I don’t believe you.”

  A smirk graces his full lips. “Am I not trustworthy?”

  “You kidnapped me, tied me up in a dark room, had people come in here and inject me with things, and—”

  “You don’t have to list every step… I’m familiar with the process, and you should be thanking me.”

  “Thanking you?” I spit out without thinking. Shit! My heart nearly explodes inside my rib cage and my adrenaline spikes.

  A low, rumbly laugh fills the room, adding to my anxiety and my anger. I curb my tongue as he runs his hands through his silky dark hair and shields his eyes from me. Unable to assess how much danger I’m in, I consider apologizing, but I refuse to give him even more of an upper hand.

  “Thank you,” I say instead, reflecting the same calm and collected demeanor as he did before.

  He stops laughing and glares at me, his jaw locking in place as he too studies his opponent.

  “Thank you for kidnapping me on one of the worst days of my life and making it worse. For locking me up and starving me, for depriving me of light and contact, and for making me pee on camera.” I kick the small pan full of urine on the floor for emphasis. I wait until the stream touches his perfect shoes, and repeat, “Thank you…”

  “For what exactly?” he asks with a harsh tone.

  “For making me realize that no matter how shitty my lives were, they were so much better than being shackled in some pyscho’s dungeon.”

  “I’m not a psycho,” he answers all too steadily and shrugs his shoulder. “You haven’t met him yet… Thanks to me.”

  My face drops.

  “You should also thank me for giving you a few extra days of peace. You’re going to wish you had more soon.”

  “Should I thank you for the bruises on my face?” I ask, albeit my rage is slowly turning to pure fear and it comes out softer than I intend.

  “I think it’s time for you to rejoin the other girls.”

  “Why?” I ask, no longer so confident. “Why don’t you kill me?�
��

  "Because I don't kill my herd...at least not while they are of use to me."

  "Use to you?" My hand trembles, spilling some of the water. I seize the opportunity and spill some more, hoping to buy time.

  He lunges forward and steadies my hand before bringing the bottle to my lips.

  I smash them together, and use my teeth to hold my mouth shut.

  He grabs a fistful of my hair, snapping my head back and forcing my mouth open. "There are many ways you can be of use to me," he says, as he pours the liquid down.

  I choke on the water, but I’m ignored until I’m gurgling. He chucks the bottle at the floor, and it bounces over the urine stream as he takes a key out of his pocket.

  While I cough and heave, forcing the water to come back out, he unlocks the shackle around my ankle and waits for me to purge the contents of my nearly empty stomach without moving a muscle. When I’m done, I glance at him, feeling triumphant for ruining his plan.

  "Clever," he says softly, "but that was just water." He snatches my elbow in his hand and drags me out of my prison…into another.

  This one full of women lined up against a wall. Naked and terrified. Tears roll down their dirty cheeks, cleaning the dark spots as they glide over their skin, then drip on the concrete. My eyes lock on a dark-haired girl, her beautiful green eyes pierce through me, a warning or a plea captured between the blinks. Unlike the other girls, she holds her head high. Like me.

  “It's about time,” a man says as he walks toward the women, wiping his bloody hand against the apron, which is tinged a sickening shade of faded red. Butcher comes to mind. “You're slowing me down. I don't have time for you to play with the new heifers. We got orders coming in.”

  Three other men walk in from the same door The Butcher came in through. I note the fresh bloodstains on their clothes. They point at girls, as if choosing a piece of meat. One draws my attention. He has a scar running down his cheek and fresh scratches all over his torso. His hair is disheveled and unwashed, damp from something other than water.

  Instinct connects the dots for me. Water doesn't cause clumps—blood does, bodily fluids do.