Twisted Bitch (Sick and Twisted Book 2)

by Jaci J

  “You love me,” London says, like it’s some revelation. I’ve been dishonest about a lot of things, but my love for her was never a lie.

  “Always have and I always will.”

  “Yeah, well, I kinda love you too,” she teases.

  “You must because you’re still here, after everything that’s happened, you’re here with me in the end.”

  ~~~~~

  London fell asleep hours ago, peacefully, and soundly with her body draped over mine. Touching every inch of her body, I take my time to soak her in, appreciating all she is as I watch her sleep, counting each breath.

  My obsessive tendencies seem to get worse when I’m touching her. I always have to be closer. I need it like I need air, and the more she gives in, the more it grows out of control.

  I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of her. I don’t think I want to. That is what love is to me―needing someone more than you need air. Loving someone more than yourself. London is the end, the period at the end of a long life sentence. She is where my life began and she is where it will end.

  ~~~~~

  I’m woken from a dead sleep. I’m now standing in the hallway outside the bedroom door, listening to Vinn and Carmine give me a play by play of what’s happening. I’m not happy, but it doesn’t show. No, I’m a happy motherfucker right now, smiling and agreeing on the outside. London loves me right at this moment as she sleeps in our bed, and everything is perfect. I’m going to focus on that and not on the urge to put someone’s head through a goddamn wall, but on the inside, I’m cracking skulls.

  “He brought a few guys with him.” I’m sure the dumbfuck did.

  “Did he now?” I ask, smiling. It looks like I’m scaring the boys because I never smile, other than at London. He brought guys, huh? An army couldn’t rip London away from me. They’re going to have to be more creative than that. I don’t know what kind of game these assholes are playing, but they’re going to see what a sad attempt they’ve made.

  Jesus Christ, her father is like a fucking infection. No matter what I do, he just won’t go away, and I just can’t seem to find a cure for him. I ran him out of the country into hiding, and with the ‘Ndrangheta looking for his ass, I figured that was that. Apparently, he’s dumber than I initially thought.

  At first I wanted London’s family business because it’s a good fucking company. Superb contracts, contacts, and clients came along with a solidly built corporation. I’d take it over and gain some goddamn allies and a hefty payday, originally. I wanted it for my own selfish reasons. I wanted the contracts her grandfather held, knowing I could turn that company into something bigger and the money would never stop coming in.

  Now it’s fucking personal. I want it so it will ruin her father. I want it to show her Grandfather that he made a mistake by thinking he could use me to get Alfonso out of the picture for him, then trying to set me up for the fall. She doesn’t know this, and she’ doesn’t need to. I want it to help master my goddamn empire, and I want the company for London. I want it for her because I know it makes her happy, and I want London to be happy. I’ll be that man who will protect her and see her flourish in this company that she loves so much.

  “Run him out of town.” Seems easy enough. He’s just stupid and keeps coming back. “And be very persuasive.”

  “We tried. I even offered him money. I think this is no longer about the business,” Cam tells me. Of course it’s not. No, he wants London, the business, and me, gone.

  “Then kill him.” We’ve tried nice and subtle, so now we’ll try mean and permanent.

  “Just kill him? Won’t that upset the little princess in there?” Cam asks, motioning towards the door. I’m sure she won’t love it, but it’s her or him, and I’m not picking him, that’s for fucking sure.

  “Are you suggesting I kill London instead?”

  “Well, no. Just figured the death of her father by the hands of her … well, whatever the hell you are to her, wouldn’t make her super happy. Chicks are touchy that way.” Chicks are also safer without their greedy, murderous fathers around.

  “Kill him, and don’t ask me again. Do it and do it quick.” There, my good deed is done for the day. A quick death is more than he deserves, but it’s for London’s sake. Little does she know he plans to take her out, so I won’t let that happen.

  “Can I shoot him through the head, or are we talking open casket death?”

  “I don’t fucking care. Make it quick, mercy style.”

  “Fucking mercy style,” Cam grumbles at a frowning Vinn. These deranged degenerates.

  “Kill him and do it quick.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” I don’t have time for this. I gave my order.

  Walking back into the bedroom, London is asleep on her side, one long leg is snaked out from under the white sheet and one plump ass cheek covered in black lace shows. She’s a fucking vision. A goddamn dream.

  Sitting on the edge of the bed, I smile at the mess in the room. On the floor is her ripped dress, a pair of black heels and her purse lay carelessly next to it. Pillows, sheet, blankets are tossed everywhere.

  I love her and that is my downfall. London is everything I could ever want. She’s perfect for me and I will never give her up. I was put on this earth to love her, and I will until I take my last breath.

  Sixteen

  Miss Unfortunate

  London

  Sitting next to Dante, I lean my back against his side as he slings his arm protectively around my shoulders. Twisting a strand of my hair around his finger, he fidgets with it, wrapping it and unwrapping it around his finger. I listen to him talk on his cell with Cam. They’re bickering back and forth good-naturedly over the speakerphone about work.

  “You’re damn lucky you’re in the other car or I’d shove this contract up your ass.”

  “Shut up.”

  In the backseat of the Escalade, I fiddle with Dante’s watch, twisting it around his wrist while staring out the window, watching the city blur by in a stream of bright lights. We’ve been here for four magical days, and Dante’s been nothing but attentive, loving, and sweet. I’m happy. He’s happy. We’re both so happy.

  On our way home from a day of sightseeing, then dinner and dancing at the Eiffel tower, I relax. Today was perfect.

  He finally finishes his conversation and puts his phone away. “Sorry about that. I’m all yours now.” He places a kiss on my forehead. This is what I’ve always wanted with Dante. I always want it to be like this.

  “Are you sure?” I tease him.

  “It is the only thing I’m sure about, baby. I’m yours until the day I die.” Dante and his extreme declarations of love. I smile to myself. For the first time in a long time, I’m just so happy.

  “We’re going to be okay,” I tell him, settling in against his warm body. I’m done trying to run, trying to hurt him, trying to deny the love I feel for him. I’m happiest when I’m with him.

  “We will. With you, everything is perfect.”

  I couldn’t have stopped it if I tried. There was nothing any one of us could have done and it’s so gut-wrenching. One minute everything is perfect, and in a split second, all my hopes and dreams are shattered. My heart is smashed into tiny, broken pieces on the streets of Paris.

  Gunshots, loud and deafening, burst through the windows and glass shatters all over the inside of the car. Someone yells. The car swerves. More gunshots ring out. The car careens to one side, flipping, rolling, and sliding down the road. Tires squeal and metal grinds on pavement while glass shards fly everywhere.

  “Dante!” I scramble and I reach for him.

  Thrown to the side of the car, my body lands on the passenger window, then flips onto the ceiling as the car continues to roll. Everything is blurry. It’s so loud, but so silent at the same time. My heart pounds heavily in my ears.

  The car slides and rolls for what seems like hours while my body gets tossed around like a ragdoll. Blindly, I try grasping for anything stable, anything to stop t
he spinning.

  As fast as it happened, it’s over. The Escalade lurches to a metal grinding halt. Absolute silence engulfs the mangled remains on the black SUV. The only noise I can hear is the roaring beat of my petrified heart. It’s pitch black inside the car and I can’t see anything.

  Everything hurts. I’m dizzy and confused. Terrified to move, I listen for any signs of life, anything.

  “Dante?” I whisper into the darkness. “Please, Dante.” Why won’t he answer me? Feeling around in the dark, my hands shake with uncertainty.

  “Dante, please answer me,” I choke out.

  “London.” My heart bursts with relief. A painful throb in my head overwhelms me with the release of pent-up adrenaline. Dizzy, I scoot on my ass across the ceiling towards his voice, too afraid to try and stand up.

  “I-I can’t see you.” I start to panic.

  “My phone. Breast pocket,” Dante wheezes. Why is he wheezing? What’s wrong with him?

  Reaching my hands out, I search blindly until my hands find his body across the car, damn near in the front. Reaching into his jacket, he hisses when my hands bump his chest.

  “Shit,” I whimper.

  “Get it,” he urges.

  Pulling out his phone, I slide it on, finding the flashlight app. My eyes sweep the car, even though I don’t want to see the mess. Blocking it out, I turn the light on Dante.

  “Oh my God!” He looks bad … so fucking bad. “Dante, you’re bleeding.” Everywhere. With a shaky hand, I touch him, looking for the source of the blood, frantically searching him everywhere. My hand trembles so hard that I drop the phone a few times.

  Lifting open his jacket, I find it. A small fist sized hole in his upper chest, towards his shoulder. This is so much worse than I expected. “Dante, Oh my God,” I cry. “What am I … what … oh fuck!” I scream out.

  Reaching out for me, Dante grabs my face, bringing me eyes level with his. Shaky blood-stained hands cradle my face. I can’t lose him. I refuse to. “Stop it,” he demands. I can’t. The tears won’t.

  Tears pool in my eyes, blurring my vision from the face I’m so fucking desperate to see. “Dante, baby,” I choke on a sob, holding my hand over the hole in his chest to try to stop the bleeding with all the pressure I can force down with. My heart hurts, beating frantically against my ribs. The smell of blood, gun powder, and gasoline cause my stomach to heave with a nauseous roll.

  “Shh. Its o-okay,” Dante soothes me. It’s not. It’s not okay. He’s been shot. Our car is upside down in the middle of a fucking road and we’re trapped inside with Dante bleeding everywhere.

  I can’t stop the blood from pumping out between my fingers and down my arm. Why won’t it stop?

  “You- you’re bleeding so bad. You’re not okay.”

  “I’m okay. It’s gonna take,” he coughs hard and blood shoots out of his mouth and onto his lips and face. No. No. No. “more than a bullet to stop me.” How can he say that? He’s been shot. This is real. This isn’t a joke.

  “Dante, I’m scared.” I tell him scooting closer to him. His chest heaves with his labored breaths. He’s shaking. His eyes are wild and his lips are bloodied.

  “No, no. It’s okay. I got you,” he whispers. “Don’t worry.” His voice is hoarse, strained with pain.

  “I’m worried about you, dammit. This isn’t a fucking joke.”

  “You’re bleeding, baby,” He says as he lets out a painful groan. He should be concerned for himself. I’ll be okay as long as he’s okay.

  “I’m fine.” I reassure him. I think I am anyways. I’m not so sure about him. Methodically, Dante’s thumb strokes my cheek, back and forth, slowly and adoringly. He smiles sadly. I wish he’d stop looking at me like that, like it’s the last time. It can’t be. I bite back the sob, trying desperately to be brave. Biting my lip, I hold in the tears.

  With one last stoke of his thumb, his hand drops away and my heart stops with it. Panic so raw attacks me. “No, Dante?” Terror rips through my body when he doesn’t answer. I search his face and his eyes are closed.

  “Dante?” I can’t control the shaking of my hands as I try desperately try to force more pressure to his wound. I need to fix him.

  “Shh.” He quiets me, never opening his eyes to look at me. He always looks at me. Why won’t he look at me?

  “Look at me,” I demand. “Dammit, I said look at me, please,” I choke on my words, letting the tears overwhelm me. Why? Why is this happening?

  Somewhere deep inside, I know this is the end. My brain won’t hear it, but my heart knows it. “I love you,” I sob.

  “I know,” he chokes out, coughing up more blood.

  “It’ll be okay.” I tell him, and myself. It has to be okay. He has to be okay. I pray. I start to send prayers to anyone willing to listen.

  Upside down, lying on the mangled ceiling, the door to my right is ripped open. I’m too scared to move. Play dead, my brain screams at me. Through the door, a little bit of light filters in, but I still can’t see much. The only thing I want to see holds my one hand limply while I still try to keep pressure on his chest. He doesn’t move when someone reaches inside for me. I don’t fight because I can’t.

  One minute I’m on crushed metal, and the next I’m being pulled out of the car, my body being drug roughly across wet pavement.

  I’m too numb to focus. Staring blankly, I lay on my side, the water from the road soaking into my clothes.

  “She alive?” I hear a voice ask.

  “Dante,” I cough. My voice is hoarse and raw. They have to help him. “You have to help him.”

  I can’t leave him in there. With effort, I push myself up onto my hands and knees. My body hurts, my head is pounding and my limbs are shaky.

  A pair of blurry legs cross my line of vision, walking towards the car. “Get him,” I plead, my head sagging towards the pavement. “Please.”

  The man doesn’t help. He stands and stares at the car for a moment before raising a gun and firing at the SUV.

  “No!” I scream as the man shoots, bullet after bullet, one right after another. He doesn’t stop until the clip is empty. My stomach rolls and everything comes out, bile falling to the pavement between my wet and dirty hands.

  Silence falls as the man disappears. My vision is blurred from blood and tears. I feel like I’m dying, inside and out. I just want to die.

  Leaning on my elbows, I push myself up again, fighting with myself. I have to get up. I have to try. Before I can stand, the car bursts into flames. Bright red and glowing orange flames shoot out in every direction.

  I’m on my feet and racing to the car, fire be damned. Reaching out, the metal is burning hot. My hands start to burn and my skin peels from the heat. “Dante!” I scream at the car, trying desperately to get in there to him. I won’t let him be alone.

  “Dante! GET OUT!” I beg. I plead. “Please, don’t leave me like this. Please!” There is nothing I can do. He’s in there and I can’t help him. He’s going to die.

  Everything fades out. I lose my balance and fall to the ground, giving up too. I’d rather die with him than live without him.

  Dante

  I want to scream I’m sorry.

  I want to tell her everything.

  I want to explain myself.

  I want to beg for her forgiveness.

  I want to go back and do things right, the way she deserves.

  I want to hang on for her.

  I want a minute more with her.

  I want everything in the world with London, things that I don’t deserve.

  I want to do things right for her.

  I just want to love her a little longer.

  Seventeen

  Miss Lost and Alone

  London

  I’m so far from home. I’m scared and I’m heartbroken. I don’t speak the language and no one seems to be willing to speak mine. I’m at a loss.

  Sitting in a hospital room, I fidget in the bed they placed me on to clean up my cuts and b
andage my hands. I actually had one doctor who could speak English tell me that I have cuts and bruises to my face and other various places on my body, but have a gash along my forehead that needed twelve stitches that may or may not leave a scar. I also have second-degree burns on my inner hands from grabbing onto the hot door handle of the SUV and first degree around my hands and lower wrists. Fighting back the nausea and sobs, I wait for anyone to speak, trying to cling to any words I understand. I’m listening for something I can understand since the doctor left and hasn’t been seen since after patching me up.

  I have asked anyone who will listen for help, but no one will tell me anything and I’m starting to get desperate. Where is Dante? Is he okay? Alive? Is he even here in this fucking hospital?

  No one seems overly concerned about the American girl covered in bloody clothes and gauze wrapped around her hands and arms. No one gives a shit that I’m crying hysterically, rocking myself all alone in a fucking corner.

  I don’t know how I got here. The last thing I remember is bullets and flames. I remember a woman helping me into a cab. A few words of French were spoken along with the word hospital, and now I’m here alone, and fucking terrified for Dante.

  I have had all the waiting and bullshit I can take. Standing up, a wave of nausea and dizziness overwhelms me. Reaching out, I damn near fall onto a man who frowns at me and moves away. Jesus, what is wrong with these people?

  Walking carefully to the bathroom, I stand in front of the mirror, gaping at my appearance. I look terrible. Streaks of dried blood cover my face, the gash on my forehead is read and ugly, and my hair is a matted mess. I feel like I stepped out of the gym after Carrie went batshit crazy. Somehow I lost my shoes.

  Tears well up in my eyes because I just don’t care about what I look like, how I feel, or if I’m hurt. I just want Dante. I want him here yelling at me, bossing me around.

  I spend ten minutes alone and crying in the bathroom before I had to come back out, but this time I go to the waiting room to see if I can find out any information on what happened to the love of my life. Of course no one knows, but I just can’t give up hope.