Sinful Torment: A Romantic Suspense Novel

by Tia Lewis

  “Nah,”

  “What’s wrong with it? I hope you don’t think I that…”

  “It’s just old pipes.”

  Minutes later, I came out from under the sink and flushed the toilet.

  “Fixed.”

  “Thanks,” she said, as she twisted a blond strand of her hair around her finger.

  I brushed past Wendy and made my way back to my bedroom. I plopped back down on my bed and rested my arm behind my head as I listened to her pee and wash her hands in the bathroom sink. She emerged from the bathroom and sat at the end of my bed next to my feet. She deeply sighed and stared at the ground.

  “Liam?”

  “Yes?”

  “You don’t even know my real name,” she kept her eyes averted like her words were embarrassing.

  “Okay,” I shrugged. I’d been around plenty of women whose names I didn’t know.

  “My name isn’t Wendy,” she said. “It’s Tess, Tess Britton. I’m from Epsom in London. I’m nineteen-years-old. I went to Oxford University last year and studied psychology.”

  I laughed. “How the fuck does a college student from England get pulled into Russian shit in Boston?”

  “Try to pretend to be a little sympathetic please.”

  “Well, tell me everything then.”

  I waited in silence.

  She sighed. “I had a boyfriend who had a lot of money,” she went on. “He was Russian and went to Oxford as a foreign-exchange student. Well, I admit I was a little star-struck with all the money and the glamor of it all. I got into Oxford on a scholarship. My mother died when I was twelve, and my father left way before then. So, I was sent to live with my sick grandmother, and she didn’t have much money. We basically struggled to make ends meet.

  “So, I worked incredibly hard in school and eventually got accepted to Oxford. But the other students at the University...” she shook her head. “Some of them really hated me. Pure hatred. Like I was their worst enemy because I didn’t come from money, I guess. Since I wasn’t raised with a silver spoon in my mouth, I was treated like an outcast. The constant torment lured me into a deep depression.”

  She looked at me, hoping for a shoulder rub, a hug, or whatever it was men were supposed to do when women started off like this. But I had never been the hugging type, and I didn’t know how to comfort her, so I just nodded for her to continue.

  “But Dmitri, my boyfriend, was not like that. At first, he was the most non-judgmental, caring, and charming man you ever met. He liked me for me, you know? He took me to fancy restaurants and treated me like a princess. I admit that I was taken away with it all. I mean what girl wouldn’t be? Swept off my feet,” she laughed bitterly. “I was gullible; I see that now… Anyway, Dmitri asked me to leave Oxford and visit him in Boston, so I came. I was so ready to leave England and the torment from the students at Oxford behind and start a new adventure. I’ve heard wonderful things about the States so I thought why not travel the world?

  “This was around eight months ago. He bought me my apartment—the one you went to—but after a month he took me to this lavish penthouse in the suburbs and… It’s hard to talk about it.”

  “I need to know everything… Tess.”

  She took a deep breath. “He took me to this luxurious penthouse and… sold me…” She fiddled with her thumbs. “He sold me to this fat, disgusting Russian man who had so many tattoos you couldn’t tell where one ended, and another began.”

  “Sold you?”

  “Yes,” she shivered. “I say ‘sold me’ like it was something which happened voluntarily and naturally. But it wasn’t. It was dreadful and scary to be treated like a piece of property.”

  “How did he sell you exactly?”

  “I was sitting at a dinner table with Dmitri and the fat Russian man. Come to find out it was his father,” she paused. “One minute I was eating a gourmet meal, the next minute two men crashed through the door and were dragging me up the stairs. I kicked, punched, and clawed them and fought for my life. I kicked so hard I knocked paintings off the walls. The glass frames smashed against the marble staircase and made loud shattering noises. I remember thinking somebody would save me. Someone must have heard the sound. But nobody did, and nobody saved me. I screamed for help, wrestled and bit the men and I tried to break free, but they were too strong. Then they threw me into a room—a cell. He had a cell in his penthouse, Liam. I was held captive for over seven months which felt like years.

  “I knew Dmitri loved money and flashy things, but I never knew his greed would involve… sex trafficking. He went from this incredible man to this ruthless… greedy demon. One day he tried to force me to give him numbers to my girlfriends back in England so that he could kidnap and sell them too. When I refused, he tried to beat me into submission. Somehow, I stayed strong. Both him and his father were fueled by pure greed. I can’t tell you how many girls I saw coming in and out of that penthouse and the horror I witnessed between the girls and all the men who…”

  Fresh tears slid down her cheeks. I had never been good with crying women, so I let her carry on at her own speed. That was all that I could do. Where I’d grown up if you hugged somebody or patted them on the shoulder or even said, ‘Cheer up, everything will work out’ you were considered weak, and that’s something I couldn’t afford to be. All my life, I’d had to be strong—heartless. So, although I wasn’t thrilled she was crying, I didn’t know how to do anything about it.

  So I waited.

  After two or three minutes, she got hold of herself.

  “When you found me I had just escaped from a car. He had his three men escort me to some type of event. That repulsive pig told me I was going to ‘entertain’ a group of his wealthy colleagues and I knew exactly what that meant. While in the car I knew it was my only chance to break free. So, at a stoplight, I darted out the car door and ran and ran screaming for help. His men caught up with me, and if you hadn't found me in the alley, they would’ve taken me to me the event… And the men would have…”

  “Tess, I found you, and those Russians have a nasty surprise coming their way if they think about coming to my spot and…”

  “That’s why I was dressed like that,” she wiped her eyes. “But that’s not all, Liam.”

  She paused.

  “I—I was that Russian man’s…”

  She coughed like sickness had just climbed up her throat.

  “His what?”

  “I guess… His mistress,” she said. “But he wasn’t like you. He wasn’t… nice.”

  "Oh?" I asked. I don't think I've really been all that nice, but I guess saving her that night did count for something.

  “He was hideous and sloppy, and when he looked at me, he didn’t turn me on at all,” she stopped like she just realized what she had just admitted. “Not that I’m saying you turn me on or anything,”

  I waved a hand; keep going.

  She shrugged. “There’s not much more to tell—not much more I can stomach saying. Now he’s looking for me and eventually I know he’ll find me. He’s just too powerful and will stop at nothing to get me back because that’s money lost. Zharkov…”

  “Zharkov?” I interrupted.

  “Yes. That’s his name. He’s one of the most violent pigs I have ever been around. He made my life hell!”

  “Why not go back to England? Contact your grandmother?”

  “I can’t. Zharkov has my passport and all my documents. I have nothing to prove who I am. More than that, he has friends in high places, really high places. He would threaten and tell me he has men who work for him all over, and they’ll always find me. I have nowhere to go, and I don’t feel safe having to watch my back every second… My grandmother is ill and in a nursing home. I wouldn’t dare to contact her and bring her worry… I have no one else to protect me.”

  I had heard of Zharkov, of course. What she said was true. He had a reputation for ruthless violence that came close to matching mine. The only difference between Zharkov a
nd me was for Zharkov, everyone was fair game. I’d once heard a story about the fat Russian fuck kicking a little girl in the head for no reason other than she ran into him by accident. When the mother complained, the sick pervert raped her.

  “He’s a fucked up guy, that’s for sure,” I said. “What was your plan after you got away? To hide out in your apartment?”

  “There was no plan. I just wanted to get away from him. Get away from his greasy fingers, pot belly, hairy chest and...” she shivered and started coughing, holding back her tears.

  There was an unopened water bottle at the corner of my nightstand, and I reached for it to give it to Tess.

  “Here. Drink this.”

  “Thanks,” she grabbed the water bottle and drank, taking in large gulps of water to quench her thirst. She stopped to take a breath and then broke down sobbing again. She got up from the bed and dropped her head onto my chest as continued to cry convulsively. I patted her on the back, awkward but gentle.

  My cell phone buzzed which startled Tess.

  “Hello?”

  “Bar,” a man grunted and hung up.

  “I’ve got to go. Here.” I found my leather wallet on the bedside table, pulled out two hundred dollars, and handed it to her. “Order some food. I’m sure you can find a place that delivers groceries around here. I have an old laptop somewhere around here that should still work.”

  “You’re leaving? Now?” she cried incredulously.

  “When I’m called, I go. That’s part of my job. Lock the door. Order some food. Watch something on the television."

  I quickly pulled on a clean black T-shirt and jeans, leather jacket, boots and of course my two pistols.

  “Just… try and relax. I’ll be back soon.”

  She stared at me as I exited the bedroom.

  The bar I approached was called the Drunk Harpy, and it was the place Boss spent most of his time. The bar was frequented by dozens of hardened criminals who had become the only family I had known. It was a tight-knit, loyal, and talented crew of men and it was my second home. When I wasn’t on the job, I spent my days there boxing with the crew, testing out the latest weapons and guns and checking on my car. My classic beauty—a black 1970 Chevy Chevelle—was involved in a shootout and ended up decorated with bullet holes. I paid the mechanic good money to work his magic and fix her up brand spanking new. In the meantime, I was stuck roaming the streets like a loner. Then again, I guess that’s what I am.

  The streets were lit with the faint light of the street lamps and beams of blue moonlight. Every so often I would hear a car backfire, tires squealing or a man shouting. Drunk men stumbled through the streets, reeking of cigarettes and whiskey. Women in short skirts, drugged up faces and stripper heels which they could hardly walk in leaned against brick walls and smoked.

  I peeked around the back of the bar to see some vehicles were being repaired, dismantled, and painted, including my own car. The place never slept as it was a non-stop flurry of activity.

  I entered the bar.

  I nodded to Petey, Gunner, Smithie, Quick-Toes, Duster, and Samson as I headed toward the back office. I knocked on the door.

  “What?” one of Boss’s runners said.

  “It’s Liam.”

  “Alright.”

  I was led into what appeared to be a store cupboard, but when you shifted the cabinet it opened into a big, air-conditioned office. Boss sat behind a desk wearing a black business suit a size too small. The desk was big as his belly, and he held a wedge of crisp one hundred dollar bills in his hand which could’ve paid for most people’s houses. There were several of these wedges piled high all over the place, too many to keep in safes and banks. Boss nodded at his runner and then nodded for me to sit. His hands were folded in front of him, and a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and two glasses sat on the desk.

  “The Animal!” Boss shouted, flashing a sly smile full of teeth that had turned yellow from drugs, tobacco, and whiskey.

  “Boss,” I nodded.

  John Bianchi or Boss was in his late fifties and the head of the Bianchi Crime Family which dominated organized crime activities in Boston. They controlled the streets, and at its core, the crime family was only about one thing—money. There were secret rituals, complicated rules and tangled webs of family and loyalty but I never got into that. I simply did my job.

  Boss was a father figure to myself and the rest of the Drunk Harpy crew. He was a man who ate steak three times a week and despised all kinds of exercise. His plump belly always poked out of his business jacket, and his head was bald on top but had hairs on the side which always looked wet. A threadbare comb-over lay across the top of his head, his shiny scalp peeping through. His hands were thick, pudgy and his eyes were light green and sharp: they were the kind of eyes that penetrated into a person’s soul.

  I was a top earner for Boss and could get shit done, so he was never cruel to me as he was to some of the other fellas. When it came down to it, Boss was a decent enough man who cared only about money. That suited me fine. He paid me good money to do what I do, and I never complained.

  However, the rest of the crew greatly feared Boss due to his ruthlessness and willingness to take lives to exert his power and keep profits from his criminal endeavors high. Contract killing, money laundering, prostitution, drug trafficking, racketeering, extortion, you name it. If it involved dirty money and a steady cash flow you can bet Boss had his hands in it. Relentless greed and power fueled that man… the same man who I considered my father.

  I noticed Boss’ forehead begin to crease, and I immediately knew that something was up. This wasn’t a typical meeting. We sat in silence, and I could hear the Italian music play softly from a radio nearby.

  “After all the money I’ve paid you throughout the years, you still refuse to move out of that dump apartment.”

  “You know me, Boss. I only spend my money on simple things—food, clothes, gear, my car and rent.”

  “Not even a high-rise condo.”

  “Nah. I’ve never been one for fancy shit. I’m best suited where it’s dark and anonymous,” I said. “I’m not trying to bring attention to myself.”

  “Very well.” Boss said, patting the stack of money on his desk. “How’s your beauty coming along?”

  “It’s still in the shop. The mechanic is still working on sealing all the bullet holes and trying to restore it.”

  “That was a nasty shootout you were involved in a week ago.”

  “Yeah, it was,” I smirked.

  Boss flips over the glasses and pours two drinks.

  “Drink?”

  I take the glass filled with whiskey, and slam back the drink, swallowing it down in a single gulp. I coughed at the burn as the liquor went down my throat.

  “I remember when you were a young boy, Liam. I gave you a Glock 17 and your eyes went wide as the ocean.”

  I nodded and let out a soft laugh, trying to figure where all of this was going.

  “I remember I caught you shooting smiley faces as targets in my backyard. I said, ‘what did I tell you about shooting in the neighborhood?’

  “Or the time I told you about the man who stole the tip I left at my favorite restaurant. So, what did you do? You go grab an ice pick, hunt down the bastard and ram the pick into his brain through his ears. You were a young savage. Still are.”

  Boss chuckled as he reflected on the past. He had trained me from my youth to become a hitman. He taught me how to use unarmed combat, firearms, and tools like razor wire, knives, poisons, torture devices and the like. As much as this should’ve been a sentimental time I needed to cut to the chase.

  “Why did you call me down here?”

  Boss’ smile turned flat, and his forehead creased again. He grabbed the whiskey bottle, took a swig and let out an “ahh!”

  “The Bianchi family takes family, loyalty, and trust very seriously.”

  I nodded.

  “You’re my top-earner, Liam and I consider you a son. I’ve been paying
you for years, and you never disappointed me. You always fulfilled the contracts I sent to you, and you never gave me any problems. Come hell or high water... You got the job done.”

  Boss folded his hands on the desk, turned to his right and looked at the wall which featured a portrait of generations of the Bianchi family.

  “So, you should know how I feel when someone goes against the family,” he turned back to face me.

  I sat in stillness as if Boss was waiting for me to say something.

  “I trust you, Liam, which is why I want to appoint you as the capo bastone.”

  “Capo…” I said, puzzled.

  “The underboss. You’ll be my second in command to me and will take over the family if I go to prison, fall ill or get killed. You’ve worked you way up, and I trust nobody else but you.”

  “Boss,” I said, with wide eyes. “I’m just a contract killer. That’s all I know how to do, and yes, I take it very seriously. However, I don’t think I’m the right man to fill your shoes if something would ever happen to you.”

  “You’ve earned my respect and trust, Liam. Consider the decision final.”

  “Done,” I nodded, but still puzzled over this choice. I’m just a contract killer, I thought. I never got more involved with the Bianchi family other than to fulfill my contracts, get paid my money, and then go home. There was no saying “no” to Boss and what he says goes so that was the end of the discussion. If he felt that I’ve earned the position out of all the crew at the Drunk Harpy, then so be it. But why was he emphasizing “trust” so much?

  I was about to get up from my chair when Boss said: “I’ve been hearing stories about ‘The Animal’ roughing up Russians in South Boston. You know anything about this?”

  Boss stared intensely into my eyes, and I sat back in my chair finally realizing what all of this was about.

  “Yeah, it was me.” There was no point in lying. Lying to the Boss was a good way to end up with your head decapitated and buried under a bridge.

  Boss shook his head. “Why are you roughing up Russians, Liam? I heard something about that madman Zharkov losing some young whore or something. You’re not mixed up with that shit are you?”