by Celia Aaron
“Okay. I’ll just um, hang out then.”
“I’ll be out in a minute. Just be ready to take me to Serge. I want to get to work.”
“Sure thing.” His footsteps shuffled away.
I rinsed off and got out. Peter had wisely stocked the cabinet next to the wide silver sink with first aid supplies. I wrapped my hand and finally locked eyes with the man I barely knew. My eyes were the same except harder somehow. The rest of me was bigger, but I’d wanted it that way. Fear was my ally. The bigger I was, the more of it I could bring with me. But the man inside—I could stare in this fucking mirror for a year and not know who he was. Maybe because I was thrown into the prison system right when I should have spread my wings and become a man. Or maybe I was always going to end up stunted, missing pieces, a puzzle that would never be completed and eventually tossed in the garbage. Other than Peter, there was only one person who ever looked at me like I was more than a vicious brute. But she’d abandoned me after only a few fleeting hours together. God, I was pathetic to still even be thinking about her.
Get your shit together. I scowled and turned away.
It was time to go to work. I had to live up to the nickname I’d earned for myself in the pen.
As I walked away from the mirror, I knew the words reflected back to me. The ones stabbed into the flesh of my shoulder blades with a makeshift tattoo gun fashioned from the motor of an old Walkman. Prison tattoo artists were the height of creativity.
Today was a new beginning for me. A good bloodletting would be an excellent start to my career on the outside, and I was certain Serge Genoa had someone that needed punishment.
I was just the guy for the job. No one else could touch the depths of brutality I would willingly plumb.
After all, I was the Butcher.
9
Angel
A noise at my door pulled me out of my usual afternoon stupor.
Jorge strode in, his gaze disapproving as he surveyed my dark bedroom. “Your father wants to see you.”
I sat up and pulled my earbuds out. “Why?”
“Like I should know?” He finally met my gaze, his expression bored. “Get up.”
“I need to change.” I pulled the sheet up to my neck to hide the tank top and shorty shorts.
“I’ll wait.” He crossed his arms over his chest and stared. As Hector’s right-hand man, Jorge had free rein over the house, most of Hector’s operation, and me. Even so, he wasn’t allowed to harm me any more than Hector demanded. And making advances on me was totally forbidden. I thanked God for small miracles.
I wanted to protest, to order him out, but there was no point. He wouldn’t budge. He was an expert at leering even if he obeyed the rule and never touched me. He’d fucked me plenty of times with his eyes. Today was no different.
Tossing the sheets aside, I rose and hurried to my walk-in closet, then shut the doors behind me with a hard thunk. I allowed myself this tiny victory, but it wouldn’t last long. I rummaged past the pink, frilly dresses and the girlish outfits Hector preferred. Ever since he’d “adopted” me, he’d insisted on me dressing like a pedophile’s daydream. Short, fluffy skirts, Mary Janes, knee socks, pink eye shadow. He’d lick his lips as he forced me to eat oversized lollipops while sitting next to him at the dinner table, everyone in the room staring at me in my pigtails and ribbons. Sick. So fucking sick. But I’d managed to collect a few of my own outfits on my limited shopping trips—each of them with Jorge as my armed guard.
Instead of the baby girl bullshit, I chose a demure white blouse, skinny jeans, and a pair of black heels. Maybe I’d end up with more bruises at the end of the day, but it was worth it. This little rebellion kept a tiny piece of me intact—the piece I’d hidden away the day Hector Blanco came to claim me. Bruises, I could deal with, but a trip down the dark stairway that led past the wine cellar and deeper under the house… I shivered and pushed the thought away. Surely, this wouldn’t end with me down there.
Once I was dressed, I exited my closet—Jorge still staring—and went to my vanity.
“He isn’t going to like that.” Jorge stepped toward me, his scarred face always in a semi-leer. “Those clothes aren’t—”
“Fuck off.” I threw on a little eye shadow, mascara, and lipstick, then brushed my long, dark hair. Appearances. That’s what mattered to Hector more than anything else. The closer Jorge loomed, the more I felt the consequences of my actions closing in. But I wouldn’t think about consequences. Not yet. Not until I found out why Hector wanted to see me. It was rare for me to get summoned to his office. I was usually only pulled off my shelf for the dog and pony shows like big events where I would hang on Hector’s arm, nod and smile, and refer to him as “Daddy” to anyone who asked. I was his little bobble head doll. Beautiful but hollow.
“Come on. Don’t keep him waiting.” Jorge strode through the door into the hall, and, as always, I followed.
I clasped my hands together in front of me as I walked. It was a habit I’d picked up, mainly because it hid the shake in my fingers. Funny, when I first woke up in this hell, I fought. I tried to escape, did everything I could to free myself. But after Hector instructed me on my place, after he took me down to the basement and … No. That was a dark road I couldn’t go down. If I did, the despair would drown me.
We descended the curved staircase, my heels tapping on the polished dark wood, and entered the grand foyer. Crystal sparkled overhead, and expensive art that no one truly appreciated decorated the walls. Gaudy and overdone, the house was a shrine to Hector Blanco’s one true love—money.
We passed a few of the cold, empty rooms along the front hallway before turning right and entering the bowels of the estate. Cigar smoke tinged the air with fragile masculinity, and I could hear low voices rumbling back and forth.
“Go.” Jorge took up position next to the open office doors and jerked his chin toward the room.
I forced my shoulders back, trying on some faux confidence for a change, and walked into the room. The voices died, and Hector peered at me from behind his heavy black desk. The scowl that set up shop in his eyes sent a wave of icy cold rushing straight to my heart.
I wanted to grab the doorframe for support. Instead, I walked to his side and gave him the required kiss on the cheek. “Daddy.” My gag reflex always tested me when I had to put on this little display, but I managed it and stood straight again.
“Here’s my little girl.” The restrained anger in his voice—a sheathed knife—had me clenching my eyes shut for a moment. “Sit here with Daddy.” He rolled his chair back and patted his knee.
I glanced to the sofa where I usually sat, but I didn’t dare disobey him. Not when I was already defying the dress code. Swallowing the bile that threatened to rise into my mouth, I perched on his bony knee. He wrapped his arms around me and pulled me closer, cradling me to his wide chest and round stomach. Hector was thirty years older than me, his fatherly act believable to anyone simply glancing at us. Except no twenty-year-old woman belonged on her father’s lap like this.
Turning my head, I finally caught sight of the other man in the room. I didn’t recognize him. He was short, his dark hair thinning at the temples, and his eyes had a singularly rodent-like quality, as if he was always calculating the quickest way to get the cheese.
“Lorenzo, this is my daughter, Angelica.”
Lorenzo tipped his chin down, but his eyes never left me. “A pleasure to meet you, Angelica.”
Hector slid his palm up my thigh.
The room seemed to grow smaller, everything pressing in on me. My breathing quickened, and it took every bit of iron I had not to bolt.
“My daughter is willful. It’s part of her charm, you see?” Hector squeezed my leg until I bit my lip to stop from screaming. “I’ve tried for years to tame her, but now I see the only one who can do that is her husband.”
Husband?
Lorenzo walked around to one of the chairs in front of Hector’s desk and sat down. “Seems like t
aming one like that is part of the fun, no?”
Hector laughed. “True. I’m certain you’re the right man for the job.”
My heartbeat almost deafened my thoughts, but I could still put the situation together. Hector had kept me for a reason, grooming me as his little bargaining chip. He’d never had any children, and he’d bought me from my father to serve as an asset. And now, it seemed, he was ready to sell me off. Whatever deal he was working with Lorenzo included me as part of the compensation. My skin went cold, sweat popping along my forehead as I shattered on the inside.
Hector released my thigh but grabbed a handful of my hair with his other hand. “She’ll be more fun than most, considering she’s still pure.”
Lorenzo’s dark, bushy brows rose. “You’ve managed to keep her a virgin?”
Color heated my cheeks, shame and hatred mixing to paint me in shades of red.
“I doubted she was at first, but after some—” He chuckled. “Some, let’s say, intense questioning, she admitted she’d never been with a man. I think I have the last virgin in Philly right here, sitting on my lap, and she can be yours.”
Lorenzo glanced down my body and licked his lips. “She’s certainly …”
“Beautiful?”
“From what I can see.” Lorenzo crossed his legs at the knee and leaned back.
I was caught in the middle of a negotiation, one where I was something Hector had used to sweeten the pot. I knew I’d never mattered to him beyond my use as a jewel on his arm or a perverse entertainment for his disgusting friends. But knowing all that didn’t prepare me for this—being sold off to another man.
“From what you can see, eh?” Hector snapped his fingers and Jorge appeared in the doorway.
“Sir?”
Hector pushed me from his lap. “Lorenzo doubts Angelica’s beauty, her fire.”
“I’m not saying—”
Hector held a hand up, cutting Lorenzo off with stark efficiency. “So let’s give him a demonstration.” He turned to me.
I stepped back and balled my hands into fists. No, no, NO.
Hector motioned Jorge over. “I know what’s been on your mind since you first saw her.”
Now it was Jorge’s turn to feel the sinking pit in his stomach. He shook his head. “No, boss. I wouldn’t—”
“I don’t care. You’ve been honorable and have respected my commands never to touch her.” Hector slid his gaze over to me, his dark eyes taking me in but never truly seeing me. “But now I want you to treat her the way you’d like.”
“Sir?” Jorge cocked his head to the side.
Hector waved a hand at me. “Take her. Right here. Show me what you want to do to her. All with my permission.”
Tears burned behind my eyes, and I edged toward the door. Maybe I could run. If I could just get past Jorge, get past the front door guard, and run out onto the estate, I could hide.
Jorge shifted his gaze toward me, raw hunger in his eyes. I stepped back and bumped into the side of a leather couch. With one more look at Hector—who nodded and waved in my direction again—Jorge pulled his pistol from his chest holster and placed it on Hector’s desk. Jorge’s eyes never left me, like a hawk eyeing its next meal. Lorenzo leaned over in his chair so he could see better.
Jorge pulled off his suit coat and draped it on the back of a chair. “Been waiting for this, Angel.” His sneer put me into motion.
I darted along the wall and almost made it to the door before his arms encircled me and yanked me back. My scream ripped from my lungs on a trail of fire.
“Shh.” He grabbed the hem of my shirt and yanked it.
“Get off me!” I struggled and fought, but he stripped me with ease, tearing the fabric as it came off. With a jerk, he ripped the clasp of my bra, the elastic stinging against my skin.
My shoes fell off as he dragged me back and shoved me to the rug in front of Hector’s desk. Tears overflowed as I fought him at the button of my jeans, but I couldn’t stop him. He ripped the button and the zipper, then pulled my jeans and my panties down my thighs.
“Stop!” I screamed and tried to turn over and crawl away, but he peeled my jeans and panties away, then wrestled me onto my back. “Please!” I beat at his chest as he shoved one knee between my thighs.
“No stopping now, little bitch.” He gripped my throat with one hand and reached between us with the other, the sound of his belt buckle like a death knell.
I raked my nails across his face on both sides. He yelled and used his free hand to slap me so hard my vision darkened for a moment. The taste of blood brought me back.
Jorge reached between us again, and I knew it was over. He was too heavy, too strong. But I kept fighting, grabbing a handful of his hair and yanking.
He growled and surged upward. Something hard pressed against my thigh, and I bared my teeth. I would use whatever I had to hurt him.
“Jorge.” Hector’s calm voice cut through our struggle, and Jorge froze.
“Sir?” He glared down at me, naked hunger and hatred in his eyes.
“That’s enough. Get up. Angelica, don’t move.”
“Yes, sir.” He rose slowly onto his knees and stared down at me as my chest heaved with each labored breath. My lungs were on fire, my throat sore where his hand had been. I wanted to cover myself, but I didn’t dare move after Hector’s command.
I closed my eyes and floated away to a different place. Somewhere safe. A warm night beneath a tree with a boy who would never hurt me like this. The last touch of kindness I’d ever felt. David. He’d never come for me, never tried to find out what happened that night when I disappeared. God, I’d wished and fantasized so many times about him bursting through the door to my room, guns blazing, here to rescue me. It never happened, no matter how fervently I desired it. But that didn’t matter right now. I didn’t care about him letting me go so easily. I needed the memory of that perfect night, the feel of him against me, his tender heart hidden beneath a layer of hardness that was blissfully easy for me to crack. I needed that single bit of happiness. It held me together like glue, even now when everything was so dark and devastating.
“You see, Lorenzo?” Hector’s voice was closer, and I sensed him kneeling next to me.
I jerked when his fingers brushed my hair, but I tried to stay in my bubble. David’s fingers in my hair. David’s voice in my ear.
“She’s got the soul of a fighter, the body of a porn star, and a pussy as pure as the whitest Colombian snow.” Hector stroked me again, forcing me out of my shelter.
I opened my eyes. Lorenzo stared down at me, his gaze full of the same hunger I’d seen in Jorge’s. He devoured my body with each flick of his rat-like eyes. Something tickled my ear, and I realized I was crying, the tears rolling down my temples.
“I see what you mean.” Lorenzo ran the heel of his hand down his crotch.
There was nowhere to go. My fleeting thought of escape vanished under the weight of Jorge’s body, and my dream of David was crushed to dust. This was my life, what little I had left of one. Stripped, battered, and on display for whatever cruel purpose Hector had in mind. A doll for him to play with, to abuse and show off to his friends.
Hector leaned down and whispered in my ear. “Dress appropriately from now on, Angelica, or next time I’ll let Jorge choke you with his cock. Do you understand?”
I nodded.
“Look me in the eyes and tell me, little girl.” He sat back and narrowed his gaze on me. “I want to hear it, and then you may go. Now, tell me, do you understand?”
I swallowed hard, acid coating the back of my tongue, and gave him the only answer he’d accept. “Yes, Daddy.”
10
David
Rain pelted on the windshield as Peter drove us down the highway toward the Genoa estate in the fancy suburb of Gladwyne. I’d never been out here. The only time Serge Genoa ever gave me orders, it was through an intermediary via phone or on a seedy sidewalk in my old neighborhood. Now, though, things had changed. I
was being welcomed into the inner circle right along with Peter.
“The house is huge. We’ll likely enter the front. Guard on that entrance inside and out. Then the foyer. We’ll keep right and walk down a hall—another guard along there—and take a right into Serge’s office. Usually, he has his second hanging around.”
“Who is it?”
“Vince Stanton.”
“Stanton? Doesn’t sound Italian to me.”
“It’s not.” He turned off onto the Gladwyne exit. “He’s some sort of mutt, but Serge has been grooming him for a while.”
“Prepping an outsider for the throne?” That was a new one on me. “What about Serge’s kid, Berty?” I called him a kid, but he was ten years older than me.
Peter shrugged. “I mean, he’s blood, but word is he’s a huge fuckup. Cokehead, whoremonger, you name it, that’s him. Serge keeps him close, but Berty isn’t able to close on business like Vince.”
“So, Vince is the right hand for now until Serge gets a little older and passes him over for his own blood.” No boss worked hard in this life without an eye to the future. Serge was building an empire for the Genoa name, no one else. And if this Vince guy didn’t realize that, he was an idiot who deserved to get his neck stomped beneath Berty’s boot.
“That’s probably a good guess.”
“Okay, I think I’ve got the layout. Anything else?”
“On top of Vince, sometimes that little shit Nate is hanging around.”
I wasn’t the sort of man who rolled his eyes. But if I had been, I would have done it right then. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
“Nope. He’s been running some games for Serge, low-level shit. I think the only reason they haven’t put a bullet in his smart mouth is because he’s tight with Conrad.”
That got my attention. “The hitman?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ve heard of him.”
Peter drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “I guess word gets around about the angel of death, even on the inside.”
