Blood & Lies (A Twisted Duet Book 1)

by Bella J

  She bit her bottom lip in silence, then dropped her gaze to the items in my hand. “What is that?”

  I placed it on the bed. “Your reward.”

  “My reward for what?”

  I walked up to her and took her chin in my hand. Leaning in, I placed a chaste kiss on her cheek before pushing my lips against her ears, smelling the citrusy scent of my shampoo on her.

  “For being such a good pet.”

  She sucked in a wild breath, and I turned around walking out of the room. With every step I took I fought the urge to turn around, to walk back to her. My body felt like it was being torn in two by walking away from her.

  I’ve done some wicked things with women before, things that were downright perverted and fucked up. But what just happened between Tatum and I, even though tame in comparison to what I was capable of, it was the most intense and the best goddamn sexual experience of my fucking life. And as the door closed behind me, separating me from her, I knew that no matter what was to come, that wouldn’t be the last time I took Tatum Linscott. Thinking that one fuck would be enough to satisfy the hunger stirring inside me was so damn wrong. All it did was aggravate my need for her more.

  There was another knock on the door.

  “Castello, are you in there?”

  Fucking Vico.

  I punched in the security code and the door clicked open. When I saw Vico, I knew something was up.

  “What?”

  “It’s William Linscott. He got the package.”

  I glanced at my wristwatch. How the fuck did I lose track of time? Oh that’s right, because I lost my cock inside the pussy of the one woman I couldn’t fucking have, yet had to claim.

  Silently cursing myself and buttoning my suit jacket, I walked out and closed the door before locking it with the code. When I turned around Vico was smiling from ear to ear.

  “What the fuck are you smiling about?”

  “This shit is about to get real, bro.”

  Having it up to my eyeballs with Vico’s arrogance and lack of understanding exactly how fucking serious this all was, I grabbed him by the collar and slammed him into the wall.

  “What the fuck, man?”

  “You listen to me, and you listen fucking good. There is nothing about any of this to smile about. Our brother is dead. Our father is dead. That woman in there”—I pushed him harder—“she’s going to die along with her father because of the goddamn faith that’s been shoved down our throats all these years teaching us that bullshit of an eye for an eye. So you wipe that smug smile off your motherfucking face before I wipe it off for you.”

  With a final shove against his chest, I let go. Vico didn’t take his eyes off me, his face red with what I could only assume was anger.

  “What the hell has gotten into you?” He stepped away from the wall.

  I lifted my hand and pointed at him, fighting the urge to take out every ounce of pent up fury I had surging through my veins. “You and that entourage of fuck-faces think that this is all a game, some fucking power trip. You’re right, this shit is real. This shit is more real than your tiny little brain will ever be able to understand. So why don’t you just go and follow Nicollo around like he’s the goddamn Anti-Christ, and leave the adulting to me.”

  Vico stepped up, straightening his shoulders, the challenge between us hanging like thick smoke. “I don’t know what the fuck happened to you, but do not think for one second that I’m going to just be a goddamn spectator when it comes to all of this. My brother died too, and so did my father. You think you’re the only one that’s suffering because you now have the responsibility of making this all right?” His dark eyes bore into mine. “You act like you’ve been cursed, burdened with all of this. I would sell my fucking soul to be able to do this, to be able to avenge Carlo and dad, to show the world that no one fucks with a Fattore and gets away with it.”

  I snorted, glancing to the floor before looking back up at him. “Believe me, brother, I’ve sold my soul, and from where I’m standing it’s not fucking worth it.”

  I turned my back on him and walked down the hall.

  “You’re turning into a coward,” Vico yelled after me. “Nicollo was right. You’ll never be the leader Dad was.”

  I let his words wash off me like oil on feathers. Nothing he said could make me feel worse than I already did. For the first time in my life I felt like I was drowning. I’m drowning in responsibilities I didn’t want, that I haven’t been prepared for like Carlo had been. Our father had taught him, primed him, groomed him for this role, but not me. I was never more than just another son, a son that would always follow and never lead. And I was totally okay with that—unlike Vico. I never wanted this. I’ve never felt like I wanted to sell my soul to lead—yet that’s exactly what I ended up doing.

  Images of Tatum’s naked body, sounds of her panting breaths haunted my mind while I walked toward the office. It had been months yet I still couldn’t refer to it as my office. That was the room I hated the most in this house.

  With a heavy sigh I opened the door and walked in, not in the least surprised to find my mother there, already waiting for me. What did surprise me was seeing Uncle Gino there, and by the way he stood with his back toward my mother pretending to stare out the window it was clear that these two had nothing to say to each other.

  “Madre,” I greeted when I closed the door behind me.

  She got up from her seat. “Everything is going according to plan?”

  “It seems so yes.” I made my way to the desk, opening my laptop. If William Linscott was following my instructions, there should be an email in a fake account I set up for exactly this purpose.

  My mother stood at the other side of the desk. “What is our next move?”

  I glanced up at her from under my lashes before returning my focus on the laptop. “Let’s just see if the Linscotts will play along.”

  “I have no doubt that they will. Their daughter’s life is at stake. If that man has an honorable bone in his body, he would give up his life for his daughter.”

  “So that is the plan?”

  Both my mother and I looked at Uncle Gino.

  “The plan is to trade her life for his? Set her free once he hands himself over to us?”

  My mother snorted, rolling her eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous, Gino. Of course not.”

  “But that’s what you just said, that he would give up his life for his daughter?” He narrowed his eyes at her, his suspicion shown in the way he frowned.

  My mother walked over to the couch and took a seat. “That’s what we want him to think.”

  “So what happens with the girl?”

  “She dies along with her father.”

  The way my heart stammered when she said those words, the way my chest tightened with an unexplainable urge to do whatever the fuck I can to stop that from happening, was terrifying.

  Leaning back in my chair I let this conversation run its course without intervening. After what Uncle Gino had told me last night, I decided to follow his example—stand back and observe from the outside.

  Uncle Gino swirled his glass of whiskey. “Well, yes. I’m struggling to grasp the fact that you’re luring William Linscott here under false pretenses.”

  My mother laughed. “Please, Gino, stop acting like you’re a goddamn saint.”

  “Says the one with the giant crucifix around her neck.”

  Mother glared, Uncle Gino glowered. The tension between these two was downright toxic. The look on my mother’s face was that of someone who would gladly stab someone to death—who in this case was Uncle Gino.

  She got up, shoulders squared, chin held high. “That bastard had my son killed, ultimately causing the death of my husband as well, yet you have the nerve to stand there and act like they are the victims in all this.”

  “Aren’t they?” He set his glass down on the table. “Are you not keeping his daughter hostage, blackmailing him, forcing him to trade his life for hers, then plan on doub
le crossing him by killing Tatum anyway?”

  “They killed my son and my husband.”

  “And you’re about to kill another woman’s daughter and husband. So let me tell you one thing, Loretta. If you think that you’re better than them…you’re not.”

  “You lowlife piece of shit. I always knew you were the weak link in this family. You would let your nephew’s, and your brother’s killers go free, without justice?”

  He shook his head. “This is not justice, Loretta.”

  “Of course it is,” she bit out. By the way my mother’s eyes flared up like the deepest pits of hell, her hand gripping the crucifix around her neck, I knew that I’ve allowed this conversation to go on long enough.

  I stood up from my chair. “That’s enough. Both of you.”

  Uncle Gino straightened his jacket, then stalked toward the door. “I will no longer be a part of this.” He turned his gaze to me. “My advice for you, Castello, is to not let other people define who you really are.”

  “Get out!” my mother yelled, tossing Uncle Gino’s empty glass at him. But he had already closed the door, the glass bursting into pieces, shattering on the floor.

  I’ve never seen my mother this angry, this infuriated. The way her veins bulged in the side of her neck and her heavy breathing provoked a kind of suspicion inside my head that if true, it would be soul shattering. Was my mother keeping something from me?

  “Madre?”

  She turned to me.

  “Is there something I need to know?”

  She tucked her hair behind her ear, taking a deep breath. “Of course not, Castello. Do not let an old man’s ramblings let you doubt what we have worked months on to achieve.”

  I cocked my head to the side. “It’s not his ramblings causing me to doubt it.”

  Dark eyes that mirrored my own studied me, glowered at me, and my suspicion just kept on growing.

  “Has Mr. Linscott responded yet?” she asked in a lame attempt to change the subject.

  I would let it slide, for now.

  Sitting back down, I checked the mail, glancing up at my mother every few seconds. She was pacing, pressing the crucifix against her lips.

  Just as I had suspected, William Linscott had followed my instructions. There was one email in the inbox sent from an unfamiliar address—as specified—with subject: Final Payment.

  I clicked on it and opened the email.

  Final payment will be made in forty-eight hours into the specified account as requested.

  It would be greatly appreciated if the product of purchase could be delivered in perfect condition…as per our new agreement.

  In other words, he was giving himself up, and wanted his little girl set free.

  I looked up at my mother. “He’s agreed to the trade.”

  She kissed the crucifix then smiled my way. “I didn’t doubt that he would.”

  After deleting the email, and closing the email account, I closed my laptop. There was something heavy in my gut, something unsettling.

  “There is still time, Madre.”

  “Time for what?”

  “To put a stop to this.”

  “What are you saying, son?”

  I sighed, placing my elbows on the table and leaning my chin against my fist. “I’m saying that there is still time to stop this from going any further.”

  She stopped pacing. “Are you saying you don’t want to go through with this, Castello?”

  “I’m saying that maybe we should reconsider.”

  “Excuse me?” She leaned with her hands on the desk

  “Killing him won’t bring Carlo or Dad back, and neither would killing Tatum.”

  “Tatum?” Her eyes narrowed. “Tatum? Are you and Miss Linscott on a first name basis now?”

  Exasperated I leaned back in my seat, slamming my hands against the desk. “That is not the point.”

  “That is exactly the point. My God, Castello, do not tell me that, that woman has managed to get her claws into you as well.”

  “Of course not.”

  “Good.” She stood up straight. “Then you will have no problem going ahead with what we planned.”

  My gaze found hers. Deep inside my gut I knew that I had no choice. Whether my mother’s motives could be questioned or not, I had no choice but to execute this plan—and execute Tatum along with her father. If I didn’t, I would face the wrath of the rest of the Fattore family. Risk being exiled or executed myself, and Tatum would still die. There were enough Fattore men who would happily step up to the challenge. Tatum was dead no matter what I did, what decision I made.

  With a heaviness inside my chest that I couldn’t explain, I nodded at my mother. “I will see this through, Madre.”

  “Promise me, Castello.” The same words she uttered at my brother and father’s graves. The same vow she demanded me to make.

  “I promise, Madre.”

  She walked around the desk, placing a gentle hand on my shoulder. “I trust that you are a man of your word, just like your father was.” She squeezed my shoulder. “Do not disappoint me, my son.”

  And then she left, the click of the door behind her resonating like a drum through the room. I was left alone with my thoughts, the ache of guilt, and the twinge of dread defeating me so damn easily.

  Glancing out the window my mind was a bloody warzone. Battles raged between my heart and my head, images of Tatum and what we did earlier the weapons of mass destruction threatening to destroy me.

  But unfortunately for her and me, my brother’s birthright had become my curse, and now I had to carry that curse up until the day I finally take my last breath. Freedom was no longer a luxury I could bask in, replaced by responsibilities I would ultimately drown in.

  No matter how hard I tried to fight it, the blood running through my veins had made this decision for me.

  I would kill Tatum Linscott.

  19

  TATUM

  I stared at the piece of black chalk and the stack of papers Castello had placed on the bed. My reward. Of everything he could have given me, food, water, luxuries I was denied during my time here, he had chosen paper and chalk. The only two things that would allow me any kind of escape, a way to leave this place even for just a few moments.

  If I was given the chance to choose my own reward, this would be exactly what I would have chosen.

  Taking the piece of chalk between my fingers, I softly rubbed it with my fingertips. The chalk felt rough, yet smooth at the same time, already whispering words of images it wanted me to draw. That’s the thing about art. Anyone who didn’t understand it, didn’t experience it thought that an artist chose what would be painted or drawn on the canvas. But they couldn’t be more wrong. An artist might have an idea of what he or she wanted to appear on the sheets of white, but in the end it’s only when we held that brush, that pencil…that piece of chalk that the true image started to take shape. In the end, most of the time, the end result was something you didn’t anticipate, didn’t plan…didn’t expect. Like most things in life, it hardly ever turned out the way you originally thought it would.

  After pulling on the black silk nightgown Castello had given me, I climbed onto the bed and crossed my knees beneath me. My stomach was fuller than it had been in days, my body still electrified from what Castello and I had done earlier. The cut on my thigh and the ache between my legs would be a constant reminder of that for a while.

  The second I put the piece of chalk to paper, I switched from prisoner to free-spirited artist. Lines and swirls of black took my mind far away from all of this. Away from the four walls casing me in. Away from the threat that was held against my throat like a sharp blade. And away from him.

  He was the man whose sole purpose was to destroy me, yet his touch made me feel like it was the only thing that could save me. So many contradictions, so many illogicalities, so many denials.

  My thoughts were whirlwinds of conflict and debates, my soul a giant ball of entwined feelings, knotted e
motions that I didn’t know how to sort through—which is why I drew.

  More lines, more shadowed corners and circles. Memories of my old life forced its way into my head, affecting the image in front of me. I was carried away with the reminiscences of the life I had before all this started. Even though it had only been days, it felt like years had passed.

  The chalk in my hand filled one sheet after the other, drawing my emotions out of me and onto paper. After every completed image I would toss it to the floor and immediately lose myself in the next one. Image after image, paper after paper…until finally my fingertips touched the soft sheet. There was no more chalk left for me to draw. I’ve used it all, just like Castello planned on using all of me. Once all of this is done there would be nothing left of me. The most nerve-wracking part of it all was even if I do survive this, I would never be the same again. He made of sure of that. His touch made sure of that.

  If I walk out of this alive, I’ll be haunted by this for the rest of life. Not because of the abuse, or by the fear of being kidnapped and kept against my will by people who wanted me dead. No. I’ll be haunted by him, by his wicked touch, how the slice of his blade gave me what I’ve searched for, for so long…freedom. Freedom by letting me embrace who I really was, what I really wanted.

  I was fucked. Whether I lived or died, I was screwed. If I had to die, it would be the bullet or the knife that took my life. If I had to live, it would be his touch, his kiss, his unmistakable dominion over my body that would take my life, my soul.

  Falling back onto the mattress I stared up at the ceiling, my jumbled thoughts making me wish I had more pencil or chalk to draw with. It was the only way I could sort through my emotions—always has been.

  I didn’t look at what I drew. I just left it there on the ground. No matter what images were displayed on those pieces of paper, there was no way it could help me now. It might help me sort through the wires that crossed inside my head, but it couldn’t save my life.

  I closed my eyes. Drawing had managed to bring me some sort of relief…enough to make me realize how much I needed to rest. And for the first time in days I drifted off to sleep with just the tiniest slither of peace settling over me.