Doll Face: A Doll Face Novel (The Doll Face Series Book 1)

by Sadie Grubor

  "Can you still run them?" Saint asks.

  I pull at my arm, my heart racing and lungs constricting. They can't run my prints. I'm in the system. All foster kids are. I'll be found.

  Lashing out with my free arm, I jab Saint in the ribs, the need to get out of here becoming overwhelming. The surprise of my action makes him drop my arm and cough, and I use that distraction, pushing up with my legs and jumping the back of the couch.

  "Not so fast," Sketch yells, grabbing my ankle mid-air, and I fall awkwardly along the back of the sofa, my lungs seizing as the air is knocked out of me. I can't even scream.

  Large hands clamp on my arms, and the familiar feel of his callouses against my skin is unmistakable. While Sketch's wrongness may call to the darkness inside me, Saint's touch unleashes it. Battling the urge to surrender to him, I twist my hips and kick back. Blocking my leg, he kneels on the couch. Gripping his hands into my hips, he pulls my back to his chest, wraps his arms around my body, and seats us so we face the man who will unleash my personal hell.

  "She's feisty," Sketch says on a laugh. "And limber as fuck."

  Trailing one finger over my knee, he runs it up my thigh.

  "Your talents kept you alive before," Saint growls over my head, "but if you continue to touch her, I'll finish what I started years ago."

  Sketch's eyes widen for the briefest moment. Removing his fingers, he gives a small tilt to his head as a grin slides over his face, reminding me of a cartoon villain I saw once.

  "That's not like you," he says, his tone teasing.

  Saint says nothing, but his body tightens around mine.

  "Perhaps when you're through with your toy…" Sketch shrugs.

  "She's mine," Saint rumbles low, deep, animalistic.

  His hand slides over my chest, collaring my neck. Fear would be the rational response, but the flex of his fingers at my neck excites me.

  Sketch stares at us for a moment, gives a nod, and turns back to his equipment. He reaches for my bare hand, but I slip them under my thighs. Gripping my forearm, he easily brings my hand to his face.

  "How the fuck did you accomplish this?" There's awe in his words as he runs his fingers over the damage I regularly inflict on myself. I curl my fingers into my palm, breaking his focus. Half grinning, he squeezes and twists my wrist, eliciting a sharp cry as my hand falls open. Without wasting another second, Sketch presses it to a flat pad, placing his hand over mine and holding it in place.

  I attempt to squirm away, but Saint stills me by tightening his arms.

  "Got it," Sketch confirms, releasing me. "Though, I'm not sure what we'll get off those fucked prints." He nods to my hands in my lap.

  Balling them into tight fists, my anger rises and survival instinct flares to life. I jab out, catching his arm, then kick out with my free leg, finding his rib.

  "Fuck," he shouts, grabbing his side.

  "You won't get a damn thing from them," I say on a humorless laugh.

  Sketch's eyes come to me, flashing with rage. Grabbing my face in his hand, he leans in close enough for me to feel his breath. "Be careful which monsters you provoke, dead girl," he warns, and a whimper slips past my lips at the bite of his fingers on my jaw. His fingers flinch before falling away as Saint holds his wrist until I hear a snap. Sketch groans, pain contorting his face.

  "Next time," Saint drops the arm, "I'll rip it from your fucking body," he threatens, pushing from the couch with me still in his arms. Sketch follows our movement, scowling.

  "How long for results?"

  "We may need to do dental records," Sketch says, rubbing his wrist.

  Unable to hold back, my lip twitches. They'd have no luck with that either. Sketch doesn't miss my self-satisfied look.

  "Even if you had them changed, doll Face, there will be records," he states arrogantly.

  Maybe it's the nickname. Maybe it's the fact that these men, men who think they can unveil the shroud I've carefully placed over myself, aren't going to get what they want unless I give it to them. Whatever the reason, the power is heady and shifts something inside me.

  "You would think that," I taunt, and his eyes narrow.

  Saint pulls me to face him, his eyes roaming my face.

  After long minutes of silence, he asks, "What does that mean?"

  Pulling from his grip, I take a step back and snort.

  "You think dentists don't visit strip clubs? That there aren't plenty of dirty old men with dental degrees willing to provide services to someone willing to fulfill their depraved fantasies?" I can't keep the disgust out of my words.

  Remembering the full weekend of the little girl performance I put on for a man old enough to be my grandfather makes my skin crawl. The way he made me call him daddy and treated his “little girl” stuck with me for months, bringing terrible nightmares and memories with it. But, in the end, it got my teeth reconstructed.

  Saint's eyes narrow, his lips forming a thin line.

  "Christ," Sketch voices his disbelief. "Who the fuck are you?"

  At his question, I meet his eyes. "No one. I'm absolutely no one."

  The words are so true, more honest than I ever realized. For a moment, a long lost part of me – the real me – screams to be set free.

  Saint's broad chest blocks my view of Sketch and I raise my eyes to him.

  "What else can be done?" he asks without taking his eyes from me.

  "Fuck, man," Sketch sighs. "Maybe face recognition," he offers, then adds, "unless she's fucked favors from a plastic surgeon too."

  "Fuck you," I growl, leaning around Saint to deliver the words to the asshole behind him. I shouldn't feel insulted, but I do.

  "I'll gladly add myself to your bedpost notches," he sneers.

  "Enough," Saint growls, crossing his arms over his chest.

  "Just let me leave town," I try once again. "I don't give a fuck about—"

  "No," Saint interrupts.

  "Why can't you—"

  My question is cut off by the arrival of two men. It's the same men from my apartment building. They have my bags as well two cardboard boxes.

  "Take them to her room," Saint instructs.

  Snapping my head back to him, I furrow my brow.

  "Follow me," he orders, turning and walking.

  When I don't fall into step behind him, he turns back to me and commands, "Now."

  "Run along, doll Face," Sketch taunts, moving two fingers in a mock running motion.

  "Mei," Saint's use of the name pulls my scowl off Sketch. "Follow me," he orders once more.

  The way he growls the command pushes me into motion. He watches every step I take until I'm a foot from the archway, then he turns, leading the way into an adjoining room.

  Before disappearing into the space, but keeping my eyes on Saint's wide back, I lift my right arm out behind me and flip Sketch my middle finger.

  Sketch's bark of laughter causes Saint to look back over his shoulder, and I drop my arm, scurrying behind him to catch up. He studies my face. Not finding the answer he seeks, he leads me to a staircase.

  Cold realization wraps around my neck, making it difficult to breathe. If I go up these stairs, I'm signing my death certificate. Instead of taking the first step, I inch back, contemplating the likelihood of making it to the elevator before being caught or shot. Deciding to take the risk, I spin around and land into a chest.

  "Not so fast, doll face," Sketch's hands shackle my biceps, guiding me backward. The back of my heels meet the base of the staircase and he releases me. The room tilts as I start to fall back. Reaching out, I claw at the material covering his chest, but can't grip. Before I fall, a large muscular hand hooks me at the waist. Saint hauls me up until only my toes touch the floor.

  Sketch offers another cartoon villain smile as I'm dragged up the stairs by the man I'm sure will be my executioner.

  Saint

  While I pride myself on self-control, where Mei is concerned, I can only take so much.

  Just thinking about ho
w possessive I feel over someone I barely know makes my blood boil. Meissa Winters is dead and this creature struggling against me every step of the way is a complete fucking blank space. Not knowing is a risk I can't allow in my life. Lack of control, of information, will end a man like me. I'm too close to my ultimate goal for this doll-faced girl to disrupt my carefully constructed plans.

  My cell phone vibrates against my leg as I reach the second floor of my penthouse. A floor full of extra rooms, including the one I set up for the dead girl in my arms.

  Walking down the hallway, through an extra room, and then into another, I drop her onto the wrought iron bed. She lands in the thick light blue blanket with an oomph.

  "Your things are there," I motion to two bags and three boxes piled beside the walk-in closet.

  Her eyes move to everything my men collected from her apartment.

  "That's not mine," she rushes out, and the panic in her voice draws me to the items.

  "What?" I ask over my shoulder.

  "The small brown box." She visibly fights to stay calm.

  My cell vibrates again, but her reaction has me intrigued. Lifting the box, I flip the lid off and furrow my brow.

  "Get rid of it," she demands.

  Reaching inside, I fist the faded, dingy, tattered rag doll. The red yarn hair is frayed and one button eye is loose. Glancing from the worn doll to the box, I see a small white card.

  Frowning at the inscription, I turn to Mei, finding her on the bed. Back pressed to the swirling bars at the head, her eyes focus on the items in my hands.

  "Who gave this to you?" I ask, approaching her as she presses harder against the bars.

  "Why would someone send you an old doll?" I press, needing to understand the situation and her fear.

  "Just get rid of it," she begs on a strangled cry.

  "Tell me who sent it first, then—" My demand is cut off by a knock on the door. Without waiting for a response, Vincent leans inside. Narrowing my eyes at his intrusion, I watch him swallow hard.

  "Sorry, boss, but…" his eyes shift to Mei, then back to me, "you're being requested."

  The vibration of my cell punctuates his statement. Removing it from my pocket, I glance at the screen. Every muscle in my jaw tenses, grinding my teeth together.

  Keeping my eyes on Mei, I instruct Vincent, "Put Russ on her door. She doesn't leave this room."

  Her mouth presses into a thin line and anger lights her eyes. It's glorious, beautiful. I want her to rage against my orders. To fight me the way she does just before our darkness consumes us, mingling in a primitive joining.

  The cell vibrating once more pulls me from my haze.

  "We aren't finished here." I toss the doll on the bed and watch Mei recoil as it lands next to her.

  Leaving her with the doll, I exit the room with one last instruction to Vincent, "Have food brought up."

  "I don't like to be kept waiting, Dante," Angelo scolds from behind the ornate mahogany desk in his townhouse.

  "I had something to attend to," I explain in a bored tone.

  The man before me, the head of our syndicate, demands respect and loyalty, but lately, I find it far too difficult to give a fuck.

  "Yes...well, we have a situation." He places his elbows to the desk, linking his fingers, aside from the two forming a triangle against his mouth.

  His silence puts me on edge. I'll never show it, but it doesn't mean my nerves aren't firing warning shots of adrenalin through my body. There is too much at stake right now, and Felix has surely run to our uncle. I know him well enough to feel confident in assuming the bastard is crying disrespect, drawing Mei and me into the spotlight—his attempt to gain the favor Uncle Angelo bestows on me regularly.

  I'm not sure why he singled me out to receive his attention when I was just a child, instructing my mentor, his brother and my father, to teach me things no child should know, let alone see. The first time I saw a man killed, I was a six-year-old boy seated at Angelo's side.

  Flexing my fingers into the leather arm rests of the guest chair, I prepare to go to war. Typically, Felix's embarrassment and forcing him to run to Angelo are enough to entertain, making him look like a child. But even with my plans, I won't be so easily persuaded to concede where Mei is concerned.

  She's mine.

  "There have been a series of recent…incidents," Angelo finally breaks the silence.

  "The accidents," I confirm, relaxing my fingers at the unexpected direction of topic. Surprise flares in his eyes for short moment.

  "What do you know?" His question is cautious, but there's also a hint of pride.

  "That three of your major players have been met with unfortunate…accidents," I stress the final word.

  "And what do you make of them, Dante?" he presses, trying to vet me out.

  "That you may need a new cleaner," is all I offer.

  His jaw tenses and eyes narrow.

  The deaths of three bosses over the past month and a half caught my attention because I was an eye witness to the first. Of course, at the time, I'd assumed Angelo was taking care of a loose end by having the man stabbed, then covered it up in a gas leak explosion.

  When Sketch brought the second and third deaths to me, I paid closer attention. They both followed a similar pattern, except these two had a design carved into their flesh—a symbol Sketch identified as Japanese Kanji, one spelling out “geisha”, and the other, “daughter.”

  "Perhaps you're right," he concedes, dropping his hands and settling back into his large chair. "Or perhaps you've gone a bit rogue, taking matters into your own hands."

  The words are said lightly, but the accusation is still there.

  "What would I have to gain?"

  Angelo grins. "When have you needed more than the thrill of spilling blood?" He pauses, sneering, "After all, you are The Saint."

  Heat crawls up my chest, and the creature stirs again, wanting to be released. Lifting the right corner of my mouth, I snort.

  "Easy prey aren't exactly my style," I remind him, and a full laugh escapes his mouth.

  "You're right, son." His jovial tone tells me the accusation was never serious. Still, at the label, I tense. My father wasn't a good man, nor loyal. In the end, his harsh lessons and training, along with his disloyalty, had catapulted me into my place in the family. It had made my rise as easy as pulling the trigger three times—three bullets and a cold-blooded killer delivering three targets instead of the two assigned.

  Clenching my teeth, I fight down the all too familiar feelings of anger and revulsion for the man before me. My own flesh and blood, my boss, my creator, my keeper.

  "Does your source have information you care to share?" I don't miss the abhorrence in his voice when he references his wife's nephew.

  Angelo's never trusted Sketch, given his skillset and ability to fall off the radar. And Sketch sealed his place with Angelo years ago when he stole from him, which brought me to his doorstep late one night.

  "Nothing more than you already know, I'm sure," I admit, and he nods.

  "I'm putting this on your plate," he says, eyes watching for my reaction.

  "What about Felix?" I ask.

  "What about your cousin?" he returns.

  I raise one brow in response. Angelo damn well knows about the power games Felix likes to put into play, and they often involve attempts to knock me from favor.

  "I love your cousin, Dante. He's family."

  I nod, knowing blood means everything.

  "But I've grown tired of his hunger for power."

  Internally, I snort. This greedy motherfucker has no room to talk.

  "I'll take this, but…" I purposely bate.

  "But?" Angelo presses.

  "I need Felix out of my affairs," I state.

  "Would these have anything to do with the little whore?"

  I'm not surprised he knows about Mei. If there is anything I know about Uncle Angelo, it's that he trusts no one. I've been followed by his spies since I was a young
boy, but it wasn't until recent years I realized he mostly follows me out of fear.

  "It doesn't matter what my affairs are," I counter.

  "Keep your plaything," he grants. "I doubt she'll last any longer than the others," he finishes with a sickening grin. "Besides, Giuliana will only put up with it for so long. Won't she?"

  I don't miss the taunting tone, the gleam in his eye or the way he licks his lips. The sick fucker in front of me hid his demon well enough, only a select few knew of the sick urges Angelo carries with him.

  Many fear the darkness I unleash and death I leave in my wake, but they should fear the secret evil in Angelo. And they don't even know it.

  "Is she still visiting with her sister?" he inquires. "Or has she returned to the house?"

  Gripping the brown leather of the chair, I work to loosen my clenched jaw.

  "She's home," I say, much calmer than I feel. "Her parents are visiting," I tack on, making sure he realizes she's not alone. I don't know what she ever did to garner his attention, and I'd thought his interest would wane as she grew older, but it hasn't.

  He rubs his chin, lost in thought it seems. The silence brings forth the memory of the day my fate was sealed.

  "Promise me, Dante," he coughs around the blood clogging his throat.

  "Hang on, AJ," I order, gripping under his armpits.

  Fisting the material of his blood-stained shirt, I drag him through the mayhem of gunfire and small explosions. Finding an overturned table, I jerk his body behind the makeshift shield, and he groans at the jostling.

  Glancing around the room, my gaze locks on Victor. The look on my face must tell him everything, because his eyes widen and he risks rushing through the crossfire to reach us.

  "Promise me," he repeats on a groan barely audible over the gunfire.

  AJ's fingers dig into my arm, pulling my attention back to his prone body.

  "Protect her, Dante. Protect her from him," he says, his plea a gargle.

  "There's no need for promises. You will protect her yourself," I state, flinching when Victor rips open AJ's shirt.

  Multiple bullet holes puncture his chest and stomach, but it's the one at his neck Victor focuses on.