Dornan tore out of the parking lot and I had to hold on tight to make sure I didn’t fall off the back of the bike. The man liked to go fast.
Seeing Dornan had sated me, but the closer we got to the clubhouse, the more anxious I became. It was always the same fucking shit with these people, and after nine years I was growing weary of it all. I wondered how much longer Emilio planned to keep me around.
I wondered if he’d ever decide that I’d paid my father’s debt and was free to leave.
Ha. When hell froze over, I’m sure. I knew deep down that he never had any intention of letting me leave.
Ten minutes later, we were pulling up at the Gypsy Brothers clubhouse. One of the young prospects manning the entrance waved us in, and Dornan steered his bike through the razorwire-topped gates, parking in the lot.
I climbed off the bike, smoothing my black dress down. I’d already checked my make-up in the mirror and made sure my cleavage was on display. See, I didn’t want any attention, but more than that, I needed it. I needed to appear non-threatening. When I’d first started work in the cartel, processing accounts and siphoning money offshore for Emilio and his counterparts, I’d dressed plainly to avoid roving eyes. I thought it was the best course of action, to blend in, to be invisible. But I’d quickly learned that the prettier I looked, the less suspicious people were of me. It was a lesson I’d learned from my predecessor, Bella. She’d been the cartel’s chief accountant before me, and she’d ended up in landfill somewhere, a bullet in her head and a swathe of stolen cash to her name. Collateral damage, Dornan had called it.
I had vowed not to meet the same fate.
She wasn’t all that good at embezzling – creating fake receipts and paying ghost vendors twice. When Emilio had tasked me with investigating the shoddy paper trail Bella had left in her dim-witted wake, I’d encountered a mess the cartel should have noticed a lot earlier.
I was much smarter with the way I stole from them.
Technically, it wasn’t even stealing; it was keeping my options open. Because although I loved Dornan, there was still the ever-present possibility that one day my existence would become too much of a liability and I’d be snuffed out. So I kept my own collateral in the form of offshore accounts. Nobody ever needed to know that I was a required co-signatory on most of them, not unless it came down to a situation where my life was at stake and I needed a bargaining chip. It wasn’t even about the money. It was about being smart, about realising my gig with the Il Sangue Cartel and their offshoot branch, the Gypsy Brothers MC, could be terminated at any moment. Because although Dornan had shepherded me away from his father and Il Sangue, the reality was that the Gypsy Brothers weren’t exactly any safer.
The Gypsy Brothers weren’t even a one-percenter club.
They were worse. They were the one percent of the one percent, a toxic wasteland that chewed up and spat out everything they touched.
They’d chewed me up nine years ago, when I was taken from my family.
I was still waiting for them to spit me out: kill me, sell me, destroy me.
In the office, I sat in my chair, rigid, as Emilio circled around behind me. I flinched minutely as he sifted his hands through my long ponytail, tugging lightly on the ends.
His touch – his very presence – was nauseating.
Across from me, Christopher Murphy, one-time federal air marshal and now a top-ranking DEA agent, was smirking as he held my gaze with his cold blue eyes. In another person’s skull that hue might have been beautiful, but in his, it was freakish. He’d barely changed in nine years – tall and built like a weed, with shaggy brown hair he’d cut a little shorter and an imposing stature. Someone, somewhere, found him attractive enough to date, because he’d backed off from all the eye-fucking he’d been giving me since we met. Not me, though. I couldn’t get past the fact that he was a total fucking psychopath.
‘The figures are up this week,’ Emilio murmured, tracing light fingers across my shoulders and down each of my bare arms. I swallowed thickly, not daring to move, not daring to recoil from his touch. I’d done that once, back in the early days, pulled away when he reached out. That earned me two black eyes, a face full of cuts and a bruised ego, since he’d beaten me to a bloody pulp while Murphy sat and watched with a cruel smile. And then probably went home and jerked off to the image, knowing him. Sick fuck.
I never knew exactly where Il Sangue’s money came from, and I kind of preferred it that way. I knew they dealt in coke and weapons, but I didn’t see the particular transactions, didn’t know what was what. A hundred grand here, twenty grand there. Sometimes it came in as cash. Sometimes as numbers on a statement, deposited into the bank accounts of any number of front businesses the cartel controlled. I didn’t like the cash. Often it was marked with cocaine, or blood. Sometimes both. I didn’t enjoy peeling apart and drying what was, quite literally, blood money. The smell always reminded me of death.
Mostly I just did my part, funnelled the majority of Emilio’s funds out of the United States and into offshore accounts. Kept my mouth shut and my head down. I managed Murphy’s money as well, made sure it didn’t look suspicious when he was living a caviar lifestyle on a government agent’s salary. Needless to say, Murphy had some very generous fictitious relatives.
I hated that part more than anything, the fact that I was enabling the two people I despised the most in the world to live lives of affluence and grandeur. I spent many an afternoon daydreaming about making their cash disappear and burning their houses down.
It was better than the alternative. Better than being dead in the ground.
Most of the time.
Moments like this, I wasn’t so sure.
‘You’re doing an excellent job, Mariana,’ Emilio murmured, placing his hands on my breasts and squeezing them. It hurt, so much that my eyes watered and I had to bite down on my tongue to keep from crying out, but I didn’t move. Fighting was futile. Besides, it would be over soon. It would be over, and then I could be with Dornan again. And everything would be okay until the next week, when we’d go through this all over again.
‘Thank you,’ I replied, my gaze matching Murphy’s, my gut twisting with impatience. Hurry, I wanted to say. Just get this over with so I can wash my hands of the fucking filth you two make me feel.
‘Alright,’ Emilio said, taking his hands away and motioning for me to move. ‘Get up. We’ll keep going now.’
‘See you next week, Annie,’ Murphy crowed as I passed him on my way out.
The first time Murphy had called me Annie, nine years ago, he’d been trying to hold me down and rape me on my dining room floor. The only reason he hadn’t succeeded was thanks to John and Dornan arriving at my apartment unexpectedly and kicking the living shit out of him. Dornan had almost killed Murphy, would have if John hadn’t stopped him.
I swallowed down my disgust and eyed the sharp butcher’s knife in Murphy’s hand, the one I’d been silly enough to think I had a chance of using on him that day.
He flashed a wide smile and pointed to his pants. ‘Well then,’ he said, tipping his head to one side and fixing those weird blue eyes on me, ‘I suggest you get on the floor and get naked.’
I gritted my teeth and stared as he squeezed his cock through his pants, then started to stroke it slowly, as much as the material would allow. He didn’t take his eyes from mine the entire time.
He looked at me in mock despair, using his free hand to gesture down to his hard-on. ‘Well, come on,’ he said. ‘I don’t think it’s going to suck itself, Annie.’
My skin crawled as I was thrown headfirst into the memory of him on top of me, his insistent hands grabbing at my thighs, his gaze pinning me along with his arms that he’d used to cage me in. Annie. His mouth curled up a little on one side. I knew he was thinking about the exact same thing as me, only he was clearly enjoying the memory. He wrinkled his nose up and smiled, winking.
Rage and nausea bubbled up in my stomach, but I swallowed them down. I didn�
��t bother replying. It wouldn’t make a difference, it never had. I’d already used my daily dose of polite on Emilio, and nobody ever seemed to care if I was nice to Murphy or not. So he didn’t even get my wasted breath on a snarky comeback or a meaningless goodbye.
Sunday afternoons were like rituals. Dornan would talk business with his men – sometimes I heard shouting, sometimes laughter – and then he’d finish, find me in the rabbit warren of rooms that made up the Gypsy Brothers HQ, take me home and fuck the life out of me.
I had my own responsibilities to attend to while the Gypsy Brothers convened in the great room at the front of the clubhouse. While they spoke business and made plans, I was tasked with a meeting of my own.
With Emilio. And Murphy.
Every single Sunday.
But now that meeting was over, and I had another hundred and sixty-seven hours before I had to endure it again. Seven whole days before I had to endure Emilio’s touch and Murphy’s roving eyes. Today had been tame. Some weeks, the things Emilio did to me . . . He’d never actually held me down and raped me, but it had gotten close a few times. Who knew if the old bastard could still even get it up? Maybe that was the only saving grace that had stopped him from raping me. Or, like he said, maybe he just preferred blondes. Who knew? I wasn’t exactly dwelling on if or when he’d consummate our owner/slave relationship. Mostly, he just liked to threaten to hurt me. It was all part of his sick, twisted mind-fuckery.
I wandered down the long hallway that ran through the centre of the Gypsy Brothers clubhouse. It always made me nervous, being alone in there. Although Dornan was a formidable VP, and would no doubt kick the living shit out of anyone who dared touch me, it still didn’t feel right, being in this place. It was obvious the warehouse conversion was for men, and men only – no women graced its hallways, except the club whores. And me. Walking into the place was like disappearing down a dark hole, a hole that smelled like beer and gasoline. The slivers of sunlight that did manage to get in were framed by barred windows that you’d never be able to escape through in a fire.
I made a sharp right at an intersection in the hallway, turning into the large communal kitchen and dining area. The Gypsy Brothers had many, many members, and they demanded to be fed and watered and liquored to keep them tough and at the ready. The place was deserted, a sign that the club meeting hadn’t finished yet. I crossed the room briskly, my heels making sharp clicks on the polished concrete floor, threading through tables and chairs as I made my way to the fire escape. That was our place to convene, Dornan and I. Our safe haven, if only for a couple of hours.
‘Hey,’ a voice called out to me. I stopped in my tracks and turned slowly, looking for the source.
Caroline Portland, John’s wife, sat at one of the tables that was partially hidden from view by a half-wall. I hadn’t seen her when I entered the room, but I could see her now, and what a sight she was. Her hair stringy and dishevelled, she was wearing jeans and a checked shirt that swam on her emaciated figure. I hadn’t seen her in months, had counted myself lucky to avoid the displeasure of crossing her path, and now here she was in all her junkie glory.
I smiled thinly at her, but didn’t offer a response.
‘Where the fuck you think you’re going?’ she slurred, leaning her head in her hands as she slumped over the table. I was about to turn and walk away when I saw her teenage daughter walk out of the kitchen, a glass of water and some graham crackers in her hands.
Juliette didn’t notice me as she walked towards her mother. An image of my own father danced before my eyes as I watched the young girl try to rouse her mother from something that she was obviously in too deep to shake off.
‘Mom,’ she said softly, setting the water down in front of Caroline. But Caroline ignored her. She could hardly focus, her eyes were rolling around in her head so violently.
‘Mom!’ More forcefully this time. Caroline’s eyes fluttered shut completely and she sagged forward on the table.
The girl looked around, noticed me for the first time. ‘Do you know where my dad is?’ she asked quietly.
Something stabbed painfully in my chest. She was only a little older than my son, and I wondered if he would be taller than her, if he had his father’s dimples when he smiled.
I nodded. ‘I’ll get him.’
Walking towards the front of the clubhouse, I veered into the hallway and back out, a set of double doors in front of me not the only barrier to finding John. There were two club prospects eyeing me like I had an AK-47 in my hands and a belt full of ammo. Great.
‘Nobody goes in until they’re finished,’ the older of the two said. He must’ve been eighteen at most, his hand on the gun at his hip.
‘Get out of my way,’ I said, my voice saccharine sweet, ‘unless you want Dornan to shoot you in the face.’
‘You a Gypsy Brother?’
I stared down the younger one, his eyes squinting at me as he tried to appear larger than me. Which he was, easily, but for some reason he hunched when he stood. I, on the other hand, did not. I stood ramrod straight, looking him directly in the eye. I was the furthest thing from a Gypsy Brother. ‘Do I look like a Gypsy Brother to you, boy? Move.’
It worked. They both parted, looking at the ground as I opened the double doors and entered the sacred space reserved only for Gypsy Brothers.
Sixteen pairs of eyes turned towards me as I looked past Dornan’s inquiring frown to John, sitting at the head of the long table, and waited to be addressed. Nobody spoke. John raised his eyebrows as if to say, What do you want?
‘You’re needed,’ I said to John. ‘Family business.’
Fifteen pairs of eyes averted as John stood, following me out of the room. I ignored the prospects as they closed the doors after us and resumed their spots. I’m fairly sure they were only there to keep them out of trouble. I mean, if someone really wanted to get through those doors, a couple of punk kids with revolvers tucked into their pants wasn’t going to stop much.
‘Is it Juliette?’ John asked, matching my stride as he followed me down the hallway.
We reached the kitchen/dining area and I stopped. I didn’t need to explain. It was all clear as day: his daughter, growing more frantic as she shook her mother, the puddle of vomit beside Caroline’s head on the table making a nauseating dripdripdrip as it cut a path from the tabletop onto the ground. Idiot. She had a husband, a child, a career and a life, and she did this so regularly, it was no longer shocking to see her almost at death’s door. Usually the kid wasn’t a part of it, though. That irritated me. If I had Luis, he’d never have to do anything like that for me. I would love him and take care of him and make him happy.
The fact that Caroline Portland eschewed her freedom while I fought for every minute of mine made me want to grab her by the hair and grind her face into the vomit.
‘You want me to call an ambulance?’ I asked John flatly, watching the scene unfold in front of me. Some might say that I had no empathy, but if it had been anyone else dying in front of me like Caroline was right now, I would have reacted differently. The problem was I’d seen it all before, and whether she lived or died was irrelevant to me. In fact, if she died it would only make life less difficult.
It’s funny how nine years in hell hardens you.
John was shaking Caroline when I felt a hand at my elbow. I whirled around, expecting to see Murphy’s freakish blue eyes staring back at me, but I softened when I saw Dornan.
‘What’d I miss out here?’ he asked, raking a hand through his dark hair, peppered with grey. He’d let it grow just long enough to have that perpetual mussed-up look, and it definitely suited him.
‘The usual.’ I spoke quietly enough so that John wouldn’t hear me. The poor bastard had it hard enough being married to that opiate-soaked waste of space, without hearing us pass judgement.
I don’t know why I hated her so fervently. Maybe because, even then, I sensed something about John. I saw his kindness, the very thing she rejected, and I seethed wi
th jealousy at their beautiful child. Mostly because mine existed as nothing more than a worn photograph and an image in my head that faded more each day. Sometimes I couldn’t remember what he looked like without looking at the photograph, and that frightened me.
But this whore had everything I would never have, everything I had always wanted, and she chose to space out on heroin every fucking day.
Yeah, that’s why I hated her.
‘Time for the cold water?’ I interjected. I’d had the delight of pouring water on the bitch to wake her up more than once.
John shook his head. ‘I’m taking her to the hospital. Her pulse is barely there.’
I turned to Dornan to tell him to help, but he was already stepping forward, car keys in hand, as John took Caroline in his arms. He looked back at me.
‘Can you . . . ?’ He jerked his head in his daughter’s direction.
I nodded. ‘Yeah, of course. Go. I’ll take her back to my place.’ I didn’t much care if Caroline met her maker, but I didn’t want John to suffer. We’d worked together for the better part of nine years. I spent more time with him than I did with anyone. I knew he was a good man. I knew he still carried my secret with him, and I believed he’d never divulged it, not even to Dornan, his best friend and VP. It’s funny – John hadn’t asked me about that crumpled baby photo he’d found in my apartment once in nine years. He’d never asked if the baby was my son. And I’d never volunteered the information. I’d already perfected a lie in case he did ask. I’d tell him, and anyone else that asked, that the baby was my brother. And if Murphy got involved and spilled the truth – that I had a son, who was now somewhere in Colombia with adoptive parents – well, I’d burn that bridge down if I ever arrived at its edge.
Dornan didn’t look at me again as he left, following after John. I knew he’d be disappointed. Angry. He hated Caroline at least as much as I did, and probably more.
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