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

by Sonya Jesus

  She sees right through me and half-smiles. “Some can, but my concern isn’t to rehabilitate the abusers, it’s to empower the victims.”

  “Rehabilitate?” I echo back.

  “Change is a long process, sweetheart. They need to be willing to look inside themselves and see the bad parts. No one likes that step, but if you don’t think what you’re doing is bad, then it’s justifiable. Even if they want to change, it takes time and help. And they have to change because they want to, not for someone else.”

  I look away, wondering if that applied to criminals. “Do you think even the worst of the worst can change if they wanted to?”

  “It’s not your job to change them,” she warns, as she hands me the chocolate and goes for the fridge to retrieve the milk.

  I remain silent, sprinkling the chocolate into the jars. Addie works in mysterious ways, and I’ve come to love those mysteries, almost as much as I love her.

  “Your job is to love yourself first and then, if you want, find someone who loves you enough to give you the freedom to go.”

  My heart stills at that. Confusion muddles my thoughts and Breaker is all I can think about. Breaker let me go.

  “Love is about letting go and setting free. If he loves you, he’s terrified to lose you, but he gives you the freedom to come back. A parent loves a child, but we let them go, hoping they come back. You love a friend, like I love you girls, and every day you hope they’ll still be there tomorrow. And loving yourself? It’s about letting go of your inhibitions and hoping you’re still the same person without them.”

  Tears well in my eyes as I finish the chocolate and start adding the milk. “So you don’t think the women here love the men they’re with?”

  “I don’t know. I think everyone is different. On one hand, we love the people who hurt us the most, not because they hurt us, but because we love them so much we keep forgiving them. But sometimes, it’s not love. It’s survival. You love the person who hurts you because you think loving them will save you, but there’s a big difference between a victim and a lover.”

  “Do you think Kelsie is a victim or a lover?” I don’t know why I don’t just come right out and ask for the truth.

  “I think Kelsie is a victim of love. She hasn’t learned to like herself, and that’s a shame. Until she realizes her self-worth and understands she doesn’t need to depend on someone who hurts her, then my job isn’t done. I don’t want to send you girls out into the world unprepared…” Her thoughts obviously veer toward her daughter because she stops speaking.

  I give her the privacy she needs and finish up. When I’m done, I return to the stool. She’s sitting with her head in her hands, elbows propped up on the counter. I stand beside her, propping my elbows up and resting my chin in my hands, both of us lost in our own little worlds. Time feels different with her next to me, like it passes too fast, and yet I’m distinctly aware of what a minute in her presence feels like.

  It feels like my childhood. Like the six-year-old girl who had a family, a happy life with ballet slippers and pink tutus. I vaguely remember the woman who held me then, but I recall the feel of her embrace and the safety I felt by her side.

  After a very long time, I release the truth into the air. “You’re the closest thing I’ve had to a mother in a real long time.”

  Her arms wrap around me, holding me like the woman from my past, and I fight back the tears.

  Thank you, Addison.

  13

  Worse or Worst

  327

  The bright yellow walls of my room contradict the morose mood I’m in. Breaking out of my own head is almost as impossible as escaping The Farm. Everything Addie said made sense, but I don’t want to believe it. Her truths don’t have to be my truths, I tell myself as I take a seat on the edge of the bed and kick my sneakers off. It’s not like she told me anything new, anyway.

  Shit people do shitty things, and good people usually struggle to survive, not that I’m good or anything. My past sure as hell doesn’t leave room for wholesomeness, and I’m barely managing to survive. Debatably. Breathing and functioning, that’s as good as it’s going to get for me.

  But not for Kelsie. Sure, we share similar circumstances at the moment, but she’s different. For her, being battered isn’t broken, and I envy that about her. I’d give anything to be happy despite all the crap in my life.

  Addie believes she’s not coming back, just when I was starting to like her.

  My jealous thoughts lack malevolence. I wish no ill will on her, but I’m sorry she left before I could learn how to smile from her. Crazy how I notice every time I smile because the movement is so unfamiliar. She did it with ease, a random smile there and a small burst of laughter after, not at all like any of the women sheltered at the center. Here, happiness is either a thing of the past or a goal in life, none of us possess it. All of us want it though, and we seek it in the wrong places.

  Guess Addie was right about one thing: Kelsie’s not like the rest of us. She identifies with us because we sport the same colors on our skin—black and blue, with splashes of red—but for us, those bruises aren’t skin-deep. They seep through our muscles and heal from the outside in, like a stitched-up wound. Compared to many of the women here, Kelsie’s wounds were superficial, she admitted that herself. One part of her life is bad, and she’s trapped in a situation she doesn’t want to be in, but she has fight left, hope, and something to live for.

  That’s more than most of us.

  I came here empty. Long before meeting Breaker Beneventi, I had nothing, not even a true identity. He took all my nothings and hollowed me out. He scooped and discarded my insides, marked me with his kindness, and carved his name onto my skin, then lit me up inside, like a Halloween pumpkin—glowing in the darkness, but a carcass nonetheless. Eventually it rots or dries out.

  I was nothing more than a prop, a pastime to bypass the mundane moments of his criminal life. Maybe I did romanticize my monster. Turned him into a tortured soul, rather than someone to run from. Not that I had the option of running, but even if I did, would I have taken it if it were him chasing me and not The Butcher?

  It’s awfully sad to admit, and a whole lot depressing, but probably not. I’m not accustomed to making choices. For me, my decisions came down to three questions: which is cheaper, which is safer, and which is faster? All my adult life, I’ve been grateful for the option of worse or worst. The difference kept me alive, but even then, I struggled to survive.

  I guess that’s another reason Kelsie and I were different. Even if she hadn’t told us about her family’s wealth, she exuded it. Her shitty rags—as she called them—were worth more than my whole wardrobe. Shit, probably worth more than a life’s worth of wardrobes, considering I have more digits on my hands and feet than articles of clothing.

  Before Breaker, my ‘designer’ jeans shared the same name as the grocery store, and they were found exclusively on the discount rack. I owned two dresses, and they were skintight and flimsy material, requirements of working in places which paid under the table. Those were the jobs where a uniform was required. Usually, the establishments I worked in were even worse than the humiliation of taking my clothes off for a bunch of drunk men, who were waiting for the bouncer to turn around in order for them to cop a feel. Those disturbing, awful times, when my breasts were palmed and fingers were slipped in places not even mine had been, were the worst and best times of my adulthood, because they tipped me for those inappropriate slips.

  Twenty bucks at the dollar store bought me twenty things. Twenty crappy things, but essential: toothpaste, water, canned food, tampons, and sometimes, toilet paper. More often than not, I stole the toilet paper from public bathrooms, but I only did it because the choice came down to wiping my ass or satisfying my growling hunger. When I was really hard up for cash and starving, washing up at gas stations and pounding the pavement in search of a job, I’d say yes to the occasional date if they offered to buy me a drink or food.

 
; Then I’d skip out on the restaurant halfway or come up with some stupid excuse about having my wallet stolen on the train over. Some of those guys were actually really nice, and maybe in a different life—a life not on the run—I could have meant something to them. The other men, usually older and touchy right off the bat, wanted to dine and get a bang for their buck.

  They ended up waiting for me in the bathroom for dessert. I slipped out for a pretend smoke and got the hell out before they could find me. I don’t feel bad for not satiating their sweet tooth, but using someone else’s vice to survive sucked, especially when trying to retain my dignity. Dating men to eat was far better than having men tonguing my ear and touching themselves while they told me what they would do to me if we just went across the street.

  I barely ate on the days when I worked in those places. It would’ve been a waste. I ended up puking most of it out every night. Holding back the tears got easier with every disgusting touch, and eventually, those establishments, strategically located next to hour motels, received complaints from the customers who didn’t find my dry humor—meaning it didn’t rain in my Sahara—appealing. Turns out, rejecting a few indecent proposals quickly transforms frequent customers into reasons for getting put out…for not putting out.

  Men, who’d spend their cash on sex and alcohol rather than on their wives and children, don’t really give a shit about dignity, and they sure as fuck don’t give a damn about morals.

  Morals are only valuable to the person who holds them. And Virgin Stripper definitely has a what-the-fuck ring to it. I could have screwed my way to a decent life or stolen a happy one, but I’d like to think I choose the worse choice, not the worst one.

  Seems like my life always comes down to choosing the best of two evils. Sleeping on a gross mattress with no sheets was far better than being homeless. Being groped by men for an extra hundred bucks beat getting violated on the street with all the druggies. Stealing identities and using them to live isn’t as awful as robbing someone at gunpoint. White lies about who I am are better than telling the truth and ending up in jail. Hurting myself is better than hurting the people I care for, like Addie.

  Expired canned food or dumpster diving.

  Breaker and The Butcher… Worse or Worst. Guess it was survival instinct.

  Scenes with Breaker play out in my head, primarily the first and last times we were together. Both of those marking moments had choices, and my monster yielded my weakness like a weapon. He thought I was someone else, but he saw right through me. He knew how to manipulate my reality, and use my instincts to create an illusion of control. All those times in between, when he’d talk to me about his life and share his secrets—he did it because he knew I wouldn’t live to tell anyone.

  And the sweet touches between the harsh thrusts, those weren’t signs of affection.

  His moans of satisfaction and the flashes of vulnerability were nothing more than tools of his trade, and when he emptied himself inside me, it was to possess me.

  How could I think he’d love his prey?

  Tears blur my eyes, and I bury my head into the pillow, trying to muffle the thoughts surfacing, but it’s no use. They break through, and like fire burning through the veil of illusion, one by one the thoughts act as flames, flickering over the false speculations and charring his version of reality.

  There was no connection, no sympathy, no human inside the cold eyes of Breaker Beneventi, but I don’t hate him.

  The silencing of my thoughts allows for a small moment of reflection, and my last sentence echoes in my head like evidence to what Addie was saying. Survival instinct. A lover’s victim. Mental responses.

  Justifiable, like Addie said. I justified his actions toward me, taking comfort in his leniency. He could have been worse—but he singled me out and chose me as his personal toy—I was Breaker’s real-life fuck doll with talking features. Someone he could keep in a shitty dollhouse and play with whenever he wanted. He didn’t even need to use fear to keep me tied up. I stopped fighting back because I wanted him to want me—to see me.

  God, I was so stupid. How could I justify the butchering of women, the harvesting of organs, and selling of babies? Even in my fucked-up world those things are awful, and here I am crying because the man in charge hurt my heart?

  I pound my fists into the comforter as wave after frustrated wave strikes my conscious. A deep, guttural-borne ache spreads through me, seizing my muscles. Frozen in pain, I slam my eyes shut and scream into the soft feathers, unleashing all my heart into the cushion and mourning the loss of something I never had. I ache in every crevice of my body, and if I do breathe, they are short and strangled, as if choked by the hands of truth.

  The pain is so intense it jumbles into one massive spasm, throbbing in unison with my heartbeat until it overtakes the sound and I feel—nothing. Not even myself.

  He obliterated me.

  With only the sunshine-colored walls to hear my pleas, I don’t know how long I stay a prisoner to my mind and numb to everything. It feels like days before my bladder twitches, signaling I have to pee. I lift myself off the bed and topple over, catching myself on the edge of the bed before I fall on my ass. I rest my back against the bed.

  The book on my nightstand, the one where I wrote my secret into, catches my attention.

  I stretch my hand toward it until it falls open on the floor beside me. Turning the page requires an effort, but I flip to where my own message is and trace the loops of my real name.

  I like this name. I was happy with this name, until I went into foster care.

  Maybe I should just go to the police. There’s a statute of limitations for reporting things missing, right? And for arson? They can’t take me back to foster care now, and I’m tired of running. I want a real job; maybe if I came clean to Addie, she’d help me.

  I could leave out the identity stealing parts, or give on anonymous name and report The Farm. She would know what to do with all this information and maybe…just maybe…she would let me stay here and help her.

  That’s a whole lot of maybes that might get her killed. I shut the book with a snap and toss it on the bed. Slumping my shoulders, I glance out the window to find it’s still dark out. Maybe in the morning I will have a different perspective. I check the clock to see how long until morning and groan. 3:03 a.m.

  Great. I can’t even have an anxiety attack long enough to give me a decent night’s sleep.

  Shower. A much-needed cold shower to wash away thoughts of Breaker Beneventi ruining whatever shitty life I have is what I need. Besides, bringing him down now would be something I did out of spite and would be really foolish. I haven’t seen him in months, which is a good thing, even if my heart doesn’t believe it.

  I have to stop thinking of the distance as torture.

  He fucking kidnapped me. All he deserves is my hate, but I’m not him. I don’t know how to hate someone so much. Don’t know how to look someone in the eye, knowing I’d be one of the last people they’d see. He must do that often, wielding his power like God, deciding who gets to live and who should die.

  I loathe that about him, and I hate that it captivates me.

  But I will work on it. Anxiety attacks aside, I escaped. I lived, but not to tell the tale. I have reasons to stay alive and choose to be smart now. I’m connected to life in more ways than one. Addie has become my best friend, and I don’t want to leave her unguarded.

  If I ever cross paths with Breaker Beneventi and survive, I’d break him. The thought comforts me, but only because the idea of retaliation normally soothes a desperate mind.

  Now I just have to get up. Slowly, I drag myself into the shower and run a bath instead before heading back to the bedroom, stripping of my clothes in the process. I get as far as my jeans when the water suddenly shuts off.

  Steady breaths, my mind commands as I turn back around. I lock eyes with a figure looming in the dark. I freeze for a second, but my instinct kicks in, and I rush for the door, colliding into a sleek hunk
of muscle. A shriek escapes me before a rag is placed over my mouth and nose, stifling my cries. I inhale heavily, but the sweet pungent smell infiltrates my nostrils. The rag is damp, but not dripping.

  It’s a minute before I realize the rag is soaked in some sort of anesthetic, and I start thrashing around. If movies were right, I’ll be out within seconds, so I fight myself free to no avail. The man behind has an arm wrapped around my waist and the one in front of me keeps his distance. For a second I wonder if it could be Breaker, but if it were, I don’t think he’d go through all this trouble.

  The man speaks, “I can see why he likes her.”

  I change the direction of my aim and start aiming for his balls, but I’m getting light-headed, and there’s a little less power in my movements. The other guy comes forward as my eyes flicker, struggling to make out shapes before the images are blurred. I fail miserably.

  In the distance, I hear a shuffle and a voice demanding an explanation.

  Addie. My heart fights to stay awake but the man moves me to the side, pressing the rag harder against my mouth. I mumble something and swivel around, but then I feel the butt of metal smack against me, it doesn’t hurt…

  I’m too numb to feel.

  14

  Burning Water

  Breaker

  After twenty-three hours, there’s a knock on my office door. I sit behind my desk, swirling the ounces of untouched booze around in the glass, debating whether or not I’m ready for whoever is on the either side. 327, Lyla, Mercy, or whoever the fuck she is, has been keeping me up for almost three days now.

  It’s not that I can’t sleep, it’s I don’t want to close my eyes and wake up to another living nightmare. I want to put an end to this, to dampen the thoughts in my head and shut them up forever. Sleep deprivation has a way of stirring up all the irritable inner comments and increasing the anxiousness in my system. I’m pissed off every minute and exhausted every second I stay awake, but I need this. I need to deprive myself of something vital, so when I lay eyes on the indispensable, I can rid myself of it.