My neck slams against the wall and I suddenly feel an electrical shock of pain down my spine as he squeezes my throat, crushing my windpipe. A gust of his breath, stinking of alcohol, blows across my face.
“Say it again, bitch. I fucking dare you.”
My eyes slide to his and I fight the impulse to smile as my broken body screams with pain that I can only dimly feel. My ribs are probably fractured and I might have a slight concussion, but I don’t feel a fucking thing.
This is the best you can do, you piece of human garbage?
I want to say it again, just to prove to the asshole that he can’t wear me down. I’m Jack Vittorio’s daughter and, yeah, I might be a little bit of a spoiled bitch, but no one treats me like this.
My limbs tremble against the wall and an ache pounds through my ribs, spreading agony through my torso, but I don’t say a word. It’s okay to let my ego take a blow for now. He’ll get what’s coming to him.
“I expect you to lead me to the cash tomorrow,” he says, his face finally smoothing over.
His fingers unstick from my throat, and I collapse like a stone to the ground, crumpling into a heap at his feet. Rafael’s cold laughter brings another surge of fury to my heart, but I force myself to calm down.
Don’t let him see.
The fridge opens and I hear the clinking sound of bottles. Dread sinks my stomach as the telltale hiss of a bottle opening catches my attention. He’s going to get drunk and stupid again, if he isn’t already. I pick myself off the floor and limp toward the bathroom, hoping that he’ll stay in the living room and zone out in front of the television. A vision of myself confronting him with a weapon burns my mind.
I’m going to die. Sooner or later, he’s going to kill me—whether by accident or on purpose. I could see him kicking me one too many times and breaking my neck.
The bathroom door closes behind me and I twist the lock, wincing at the sudden beams of light overhead. The mirror reflects the image of a broken woman. Her dark-brown hair hangs like a nest around her face, which looks like a disaster. Swollen cheeks and blood in her left eye, whose eyelid is sunken over. Busted lip. I lift up my shirt, revealing a large, angry red mark on my abdomen.
I don’t recognize the girl in the mirror. She looks like those women you feel sorry for—the ones who keep going back to their abusive partners, over and over again.
When did it get this bad?
There were little things. Signs. A disrespectful comment here and there. Then, finally, he hit me. He slapped me across the face when I disagreed with him about something. My dad was still alive then. He was overcome with remorse. Please don’t tell your dad! I remember well how he cried and blubbered like a baby. At the time, it touched me how strong his remorse was, and I decided to forgive him.
Now I know that I was just a moron. He wasn’t fucking sorry. He was piss-scared that I was going to tell my dad, who would have gutted him, and he would have been absolutely right to do it.
Any idiot could have seen through him, but I actually thought I loved him. He was the guy brave enough to ask me out, before asking my father for permission. In the beginning, he made me feel special.
The horror in the mirror reflects only a few months of abuse. What do you think he’ll do in a few more? Coldness slowly freezes my veins like liquid nitrogen.
If I went back to Vincent, maybe he’d be able to help.
And maybe he wouldn’t.
Raf told me he’d kill me if I went back to his boss. Christ, my own sister won’t even help me. How pathetic is that? What should I do?
You need to get him before he gets you.
Simply running away won’t work. Raf is psycho enough to follow me wherever I go. No, I need help.
You have a hundred grand buried in the backyard at Mom’s house. Dad showed you where he buried it because he trusted you above everyone else.
My insides freeze, my mouth suddenly dry. I’m horrified by the cold voice in my head, but it keeps talking.
You could hire someone to take care of him. Someone who might understand your situation.
Hire someone to kill Rafael? I swallow hard, studying the cuts and bruises on my face. Am I willing to walk down that road?
This is life or death. Yours or his. Choose.
Mine, I reply to the voice automatically. A twinge of guilt stirs in my chest at how quick my reply was. Going to the police is not an option. My dad went to the police, and look what they did to him.
I shut my eyes and think hard, trying to remember any friends of Dad’s who might be able to help. Sometimes there would be visitors from out of town at the house. A man—the boss in Montreal—was close with my dad. He spoke with an Italian-French accent, and was always friendly to me.
It’s a desperate move.
I don’t really have anywhere else to go.
* * *
I don’t sleep all night. My body curls on the side of the bed, facing the blank wall. Everything inside me is like a coiled spring, ready to bounce the moment the coast is clear. In my head, I think about where everything is—my passport, the duffel bags, my clothes, shoes, and most importantly, the cash in the backyard.
Rafael’s hand lies on my shoulder heavily. “Hey, what’s wrong with you?”
I hope that he can’t see my face in the dark, because if he did, he’d be offended by the disgust curling my lip. “I’m in pain.”
It’s not untrue. My whole fucking body aches, especially my head. The two aspirin I took didn’t make a fucking dent.
The bed shifts with his weight and the pressure on my shoulder increases so that I lie flat on my back. A moan shakes from my lips as the pounding ache in my abdomen doubles. He hangs over me in a black t-shirt, the alcohol finally purged from his bloodshot eyes. His face bends lower and I flinch from his closeness. He pauses.
“I’m sorry, babe. I shouldn’t have laid a hand on you—should never.” He stops for a moment to swallow. “I love you.”
The words sound so empty. Once, I believed them.
How many times must we go through this? The beatings, the apologies, the gradual buildup, the beatings.
I knew the moment that fuckface hit me that he was no good, but I couldn’t leave him. It was the first time he left a bruise. When it happened, I stayed at my mom’s house. He marched over there with flowers and sweet-talked my mother into agreeing with him that I should “give him another chance” and then I really had no choice but to follow him back to his apartment.
“I love you, too.”
His fingers lightly stroke my cheek. “You just make me so pissed off sometimes.”
Fuck you.
“I’m sorry.” I hate myself for apologizing to him, but it’s necessary.
Kill or be killed.
“I forgive you.”
Fuck your forgiveness.
He says it with a slight smile on his face, and I try not to make my smile a grimace. God, I’m so pissed off that I’m praying he doesn’t notice anything. I hope he’s too blinded by his own arrogance to notice that I hate his fucking guts.
“Elena, I love you.” He repeats it again as his lips fall on my bruised ones. I turn my head away with a cry of pain, but he continues kissing me in that passionate, possessive way that used to thrill me.
Everything he does hurts me. His weight presses into mine, and he’s either oblivious to my injuries or doesn’t care. His cock grinds into my thigh, painfully digging into me like yet another weapon he uses against me.
Oh God, no. Not now. I can’t handle this.
My thoughts get more and more hysterical as he gropes his way down my body, and then his cell phone vibrates on the nightstand. He lifts his head, stopping for a moment. It rattles noisily on the wood.
“Fucking hell.”
I swallow my sigh of relief as he rolls off me and snatches the phone, pressing it to his ear. “Yeah? All right, I’ll be there.”
Profound relief almost makes me throw up right then and there. Raf tosses the p
hone back on the table and rips back the covers, swearing.
“Fucking Nicky always has the worst timing.” He stands up and pulls a suit from the closet, quickly getting dressed as I pull the covers back over myself, feigning sleep.
When he shrugs on his jacket, he moves to my side of the bed and leans over, kissing my cheek.
“I’ll be back for supper.”
Good. Gives me plenty time to escape.
“Make something nice for dinner, something with meat. See you later, hon.”
I take a good look at him as he turns around, whistling a merry tune. As his shoes flash around the corner, I realize that I’m not sorry to see the back of him.
Hopefully, I’ll never see you again.
* * *
Elena, where are you?
I found the empty drawers. Where the FUCK are you? What makes you think you can just leave me?
CALL ME BACK RIGHT FKING NOW YOU STUPID BITCH!
How about I visit ur mother? I bet she’ll tell me where you are…
Sickened, I click on all the texts and hit the delete button. The vague threat toward my mother has me worried, but I hope that Vincent keeps an eye out for her. She won’t hesitate to complain to him if Rafael gives her any shit.
It took me hours to dig up the carefully wrapped rolls of hundred-dollar bills in the backyard and then replace all the dirt. I did it right under my mom’s nose, which probably bothers me the most. There wasn’t enough time to say goodbye.
It’s for her own good. If she knew where I’d gone, she would tell him, and then I’d be dead. The flashing blue light illuminating the depths of my purse sends another wave of sickness through my body. I end the call, but it’s no use. He just calls again. Voice mail after voice mail pops onto the screen, until finally I shut the damn thing off and settle into my seat.
“Any coffee, miss?” The train conductor tries to stifle a gasp at the look of my face. “Ma’am, are you all right?”
Not really.
Her face crinkles with sympathy as I just stare at her. “I fell down.” I’ve no energy to summon a less lame excuse. “Ice would be great.”
“Of course, yes.”
Stares from the other passengers just make me want to throw a hood over my face.
Montreal. I wonder what it’ll be like. I know French is the official language there, and I’m a bit worried about getting by. I place my hand against the windowpane, the cold stinging my skin. I’m probably not dressed for the harsh Canadian weather. I just grabbed whatever I had—a single wool coat, some shirts and jeans, panties, etc. No matter. With the money I have, I’ll be able to buy everything I need.
“Elena, honey. I’ve got something to show you.”
That gleam in Dad’s eyes sent a thrill of excitement through my chest. He always treated me differently than the other guys’ daughters. I was a bit rougher around the edges than Maria, a bit more tomboyish. Once, he brought me to the woods to shoot the new assault rifle he got as a gift. He taught me how to use it. Mom hated it. “She’s not a boy,” she’d say over and over.
I expected it would be something like that as I followed him outside. It was a crisp spring day. He placed both hands on my shoulders and squeezed them.
“I’m going to show you something that you need to keep secret. Don’t tell anyone, even your mother.”
I nodded my head rapidly, eyes wide. Whatever it was, it sounded important. He wrapped his arm around me and led me down the property. We passed the dying pomegranate bushes and stood over the red mulch, hidden by two evergreen trees.
“Underneath this mulch, between these two trees, I’ve got about a hundred grand buried. I want you to dig it up in case anything happens to me—”
My biggest fear slammed into my chest as if I’d been tackled. Without him, I was nothing. I knew that.
“Dad, what are you saying? Did something happen?”
He held up a hand, smiling. “No—I’m just telling you in case, you know, I get sent to the can. Or God forbid, I get killed—”
“Don’t say that!”
“This money is for you, Elena. You and your mom. Promise me, you’ll take it if something happens.”
Speechless, I watched his eyes crease as he squeezed my shoulders again.
“Promise!”
“Okay, Daddy.”
The whole time, he knew he was going away. He was already in talks with the FBI—they were going to relocate us, and then he was dead. Overnight I went from Mafia princess to Daughter of Miserable, Cock-sucking FBI Informant.
Dad filled me with so much hot air growing up that I never believed he could die. He was a boss. New York City fit into the palm of his hand. I went to many charity dinners with him, and even met the mayor and the chief of police. In the end, all of his connections weren’t enough to save him.
You’re fleeing to Montreal. Then what? Kill him, and you can never return to New York.
I can’t think of the future. All I can think of is right now, and the man lusting for my blood.
Eight hours into the ride, I turn the phone back on because I can’t take it anymore. There’s a stream of violent, expletive-laden texts. Only one makes my breath catch in my throat.
I know where you went, and I’m coming to get you. I’m going to fuck that cunt of yours until you bleed, and then I’ll kill you.
* * *
It’s a bluff. It has to be a bluff. I told no one where I was going, and used a fake name to book the hotel. Paid everything with cash. There’s no way he knows.
I walk the icy, crumbling Montreal streets, horribly underdressed in the freezing weather. It doesn’t matter. I block everything out. Cold? Who the fuck cares about cold? I have a psychopath hot for my blood, a spurned ex-lover who wants me dead. God, what if he found me with another man?
He doesn’t contact me for a week, and I spend the time hiding out in a hotel, nursing my injuries and working up the courage to meet the Montreal boss.
So much is riding on this meeting with Johnny that I instantly crush the doubts that keep floating to the surface. He has to do this for me. He will.
My life depends on it.
I open the door to Le Zinc. It’s a wonderful, posh place and I instantly feel uncomfortable and underdressed. The hostess immediately takes my ragged coat, but stops at the sight of my face.
“Miss, you need a hospital?” she asks in a thick French accent.
“No,” I say in a hurried voice, ignoring the looks thrown my way as I search the white tablecloths for Johnny. “I’m looking for Mr. Cravotta.”
He’s a young guy, and handsome, if I recall correctly. He should be here. My father always talked about meeting him at this place. Then I spot him surrounded by two other men, and I take a determined step forward.
“Miss, you need an appointment with Mr. Cravotta.”
“It’s urgent,” I bark at her.
“You need an—what the fuck?”
I shove her skinny ass aside and barrel toward the table. Two guys I didn’t even see suddenly take my arms and shove me back before I’m even five feet from the table.
“Mr. Cravotta, please! I need to speak with you!”
Johnny looks elegant in his pinstripe suit. Every aspect of his appearance is immaculate. His hair is slicked back into rolling waves, without a wayward strand. There’s not a single piece of lint on his suit, or a wrinkle, or anything that would mar his image of perfection. He stares at me with daggerlike eyes. It was hard meeting his gaze, even though he always treated me with respect.
But I don’t find it hard to look at him now. He can’t say anything that makes me feel worse than I already do.
“Mademoiselle, you need an appointment.”
The hostess appears at his side. “Excusez moi, Monsieur Cravotta. Elle a—”
“I saw the whole thing. Relax.” He gives her a flick of his hand, and the extremely harassed hostess returns back to the front, giving me a dirty look.
“Please, sir, it can’t wait
.”
The men surrounding him laugh as they look at my face, and amusement flashes over it briefly before a faint note of recognition finally glimmers in his eyes.
“You’re Jack’s kid.”
“Yes!”
He gives the others a meaningful look. “Tabarnak de câlisse.”
I have no idea what it means, but judging from the look on his face, it sounds like a swearword.
“Sit down. Guys, take a walk.”
They rise to their feet obediently and the brutes holding my arms finally let go. I nearly crumple to his feet, but I manage to sit across from the table. He eyes me with a burning curiosity.
“What are you doing all the way here?”
I open my mouth, but stop immediately when the waiter fills the glass in front of me with water. He moves away like a ghost.
“Running.”
“I can see that.”
His eyes linger on the ghastly green bruise on the side of my face, the one I had before I met with Vincent. I’m sure that my eye is still purple, too. Good lord.
“I need your help.” My voice squeaks out, and I take a long draw of water to quell my nerves.
Johnny seems to pull away suddenly, his lips curling unpleasantly. “Look, I don’t know what you expected from me, but you’re mistaken if you think I’m going to help—”
“I have fifty grand in cash, and I need you to put a hit on a man.”
Suddenly his demeanor completely shifts. He leans forward, smiling, clasping his hands together. “If you have business to discuss, that’s a different story. His name?”
This is the part I’m worried about.
“Rafael Costa.”
Please don’t say no.
He takes a small notepad and pen from his jacket, writes down the name, and frowns at it. He recognizes it.
Please, please don’t say no.
My hands grip the edge of the table. “Please, Mr. Cravotta. I’m desperate.”
“He’s a made man. Part of Nicky’s crew in New York.” He taps the pen against the notepad restlessly as he looks at me. “He’s your boyfriend?”
The frown on his face deepens and I clench my teeth as he shakes his head. “I’m sorry, sweetheart, but the answer is no. You belong to him, and he’s a made guy. If you were related to someone in the family, we could arrange something, but…”
Hitman's Bride (Bad Boy Empire) Page 24
