Covet (Beautiful Sinner Series Book 2)

by Elena M. Reyes

  His eyes, which have remained on the floor, meet mine and they are a horrified blue on my light green ones. They’re terrified—almost accepting of his fate—but a small speckle of hope still peeks through. One which I hold no qualms about stomping out.

  He thinks I have a soft side when it comes to his daughters because of their young ages.

  It’s almost sad. Almost.

  Otto doesn’t say anything as I tower above him, bare chested—the black ink on my skin bold against my flesh—and with a smirk on my lips. Not as I take in his near naked and bruised form. Not even as I wrinkle my nose in disgust at his stench; a combination of sweat and piss hits my nostrils.

  My eyes leave him, and I take in the small tray beside his body with an empty plate and cup. There’s a tiny piece of tomato and lettuce on the all-white dish and a crumb here or there. It’s evidence to just how far my mercy goes; he’s been fed, the room is at a cool temperature, and the leash around his neck has enough leeway that he can move about a bit.

  I’ve become the bloody saint of all demons.

  “You’ve disappointed me.”

  5

  “MR. JAMESON, I—”

  “Silence.” Taking a step back, I look over my shoulder toward Callum, who comes forward. He takes my place as I walk over to the wall on the left, stretching out my limbs with my back to Otto. The sound of his restraints meeting the hard concrete floor come a second later followed by the grunts of pain as he tries to stand.

  “Am I being forgiven?” the wanker asks, a slight tremble in his tone.

  “Mr. Jameson has granted you the privilege of fighting for your life. You’ll have—”

  “I said I was sorry. That I swear to pay off every single quid...fuck!” I turn my head slightly at his yell, barely catching the movement of Callum’s strike and then him resuming his stance.

  “Interrupt me again and the boss won’t begrudge me a few minutes of fun. Understood?” There’s a moment of silence, then an almost too-low-to-hear whimper that my cousin lets slide. “Good. Now, as I was saying...” footsteps move about, almost pacing “...you will have ten minutes to either knock out or subdue Mr. Jameson and then walk out a free man. No repercussions or debts. A clean slate.”

  “May I ask—”

  “You will have your choice of weapon from those we provide. Choose wisely, Otto, because you get one choice.”

  “Guns?”

  Callum chuckles. “No guns are allowed.”

  “Unless he manages to make it upstairs and takes my Colt from the desk.” Turning to face them, I lean back on the brick wall with my knee slightly bent. Both men look at me with different expressions on their faces: one amusement and the other palpable fear. They also watch me as I pull out a knife and run my finger down the blade, slicing my thumb. It’s a nice little cut—deep enough that blood drips down my hand and onto my wrist, showing the ungrateful arsehole just how sharp this blade is. “It’s the only way to make sure I don’t change my mind.”

  Otto looks at Callum, who just shrugs. “His rules, mate.”

  “Is there any other—”

  “No.” As I say this, Jeffrey, a guard, walks toward a small area behind the stairs and pulls out a cart. He brings it toward us, stopping before Otto, and lifts the sheet covering the few items it holds: an assortment of knives, a pair of brass knuckles, a baseball bat, and crowbar. “Pick.”

  “I…please…can’t we—”

  “Choose, or I’ll do so for you. You have ten seconds.” I snarl, lip curling over my teeth while my hand clenches around the silver handle as I slip my thumb within the circular hole at the end. For now, I’ll only use one. That’s all I’ll need.

  His hand trembles as he reaches out toward the assortment I’ve provided. They hover over the crowbar for a second, fingers almost skimming the iron, but then changes his mind at the last moment. For some reason, Otto picks up the aluminum bat, weighing it in his hands, and then takes a step back.

  “Is that your choice?” At my question, Otto nods and my men retake their place by the stairs. The cart goes with them, and a harsh pounding begins to fill the room. It’s an abrasive beat. An angry guitar riff that clears my head—flows through me as I give him my back. “The first strike is yours—make it count—there won’t be another chance out of here.”

  I take three steps forward and close my eyes. In that moment the room stills, and I focus on the movement inside the room. How Otto lets out a long shuddering breath and then lets out a heavy grunt while rising the bat above his head, holding it there as his fear wages against the need to survive.

  It’s a natural reaction. We all have the need to protect ourselves at all cost. To kill if it means we get to head home and be the same useless bastard we were the day prior.

  Because this isn’t about his family. His wife and kids.

  Not in the least.

  His gambling addiction is his downfall. The reason he’s in this room and minutes from death. He’s lost money—owes someone that wanted my shipment as repayment—and he agreed with a little compensation on top. Stupidity overruled common sense.

  Like now; if he were smarter, he’d keep his noises down to a minimum. He wouldn’t shift his weight from foot to foot, dragging his feet on the cold concrete and kicking the chain that was his leash.

  He also wouldn’t take so long to make a decision. To strike.

  But then again, I expect this. It’s why I’m good at what I do.

  Over the years, since I was a young bloke, my father taught me to rely on more than just what’s in front of me. To pay attention. To focus.

  It doesn’t matter if you’re inside a packed stadium, the mind has a way to block out distractions. To pick apart movement and keep track of a threat. Use that. Hone it.

  Kill without mercy, kid.

  That’s why when his arm lowers, bringing the aluminum bat with it, I duck out of the way, letting it barely graze my shoulder as I shift. I follow his action with a counter of my own, turning with my karambit’s blade open and in his direction while lowering toward my target. The cut is across the back of his knee—I feel every second in slow motion as the knife slices through flesh and ligaments—leaving an almost surgically precise line while his upper body follows the movement of a missed swing. It’s a bloody thing of beauty how he falls.

  How the blood rushes out through the open wound.

  How he cries out in pain, unable to stand.

  How his eyes snap to mine, full of horror.

  I’m behind him with my hand in his hair and yanking his head back before the scum can even think to try and crawl away. His life’s essence seeps from the deep wound, pooling around him and staining my boots—boots that I use to stomp down on his left ankle. Once. Twice. I don’t stop.

  Not until I hear the bone crack. Not until it’s broken and at an awkward angle.

  “Please!”

  “Please what, arsehole?” I sneer, ready to end the dumb fuck. He owes me for much more than a missing shipment. For stealing from me. “Tell me why I should let you go?”

  His eyes, wide and full of panic, settle on mine. “It was a mistake…it’ll never happen again, Mr. Jameson. Just please. My kids.”

  His kids. His kids.

  Bending at the waist, I place my lips near his ear and bring my blade to his left nipple, digging the tip in. “Did you stop when you smacked Melinda around? When you beat her in front of the girls?”

  “I’ve never—”

  “What about when you walked out on them two weeks ago to fuck a whore?”

  “That’s not—”

  “Liar.” In one swift move, I slice down, leaving a deep wound in the exact same place he kicked her a few weeks ago. It’s not lost on him either as he chokes on his mistake. It’s another rule of mine he broke: we take care of our family. “What was the first thing I told you after taking you in? After giving you the help you asked for?”

  “To never…fuck!” My blade slips lower, opening the area over his ribs.
I can feel each one. It’s almost like playing a xylophone. “No more. I can’t take any more.”

  “You’ll take what I give you.” To punctuate my point, I turn the curved tip of my karambit and follow the path to his belly button. With a slow cut, I take my time parting his flesh and then embedding the four-inch blade within.

  I let him bleed while his body fights to coil into itself—to move away from my hold.

  And because I’m a generous bloke, I release his head after a few minutes and remove my blade. “Don’t move.” His reply comes in the form of a whimper and then a nod; his body’s sweating profusely. “Callum?”

  “Yes, Boss?”

  “Bring our guest a glass of water.”

  “Of course.” Behind me there’s movement, the footsteps of more than one man as things are put into place. Jeffrey brings a file with him as Callum offers my guest a drink. Both are put in his line of sight—given to him—yet he doesn’t move.

  “It’s rude to not take what’s being offered,” I say, taking the file from Jeffrey while giving him a nod. Silently, he moves away and retakes his place while my cousin and I watch the crying cunt. “Take it.”

  “Casper, I—”

  Callum strikes him, a closed-fist punch to the face that snaps Otto’s head to the side. “He’s Mr. Jameson to you.”

  “Relax,” I say, tossing the file on the floor in front of him. Its contents spill out: photos, a bank statement, and the deed to a new home. They show a life he will never live with those he claims to love. Their future. Their security. Their peace. “Hurts, doesn’t it?”

  “What’s this?” Otto eyes the picture of his wife and kids, his loss of blood making it hard to move. To raise his hand. “Where’s my wife?”

  “Safe.” In the first picture his wife and girls are smiling, sitting out on the back porch while eating ice cream. In the next, she’s taking them to a new school. A private and very expensive one. “Building a better life.”

  “They need me.” It comes out low as his body sways a bit.

  Walking behind him, I yank his head back once more and force his eyes to mine. I want to be the last thing he sees. I am his end. “No. They don’t.” With that I bring my karambit to his neck and slice his throat clean from one side to the other. Blood splutters and stains my skin, while Otto chokes on his last breath. Releasing my hold, I let his lifeless form buckle and hit the ground while I take the glass of water from Callum. I pour a bit onto my hand over his body to wash the blood off. “Did he show up?”

  “Yes.” He chuckles and passes me a small towel. “We have eyes on them as they talk near the hotel’s elevator bank. I’ll forward you the pictures now.”

  “Good.” Taking the cotton, I clean off as much as I can. “I expected as much.”

  “Is that why you didn’t ask him about Boston? About the sale?”

  “It’s not necessary when I already have what I need.” Stepping over the dead, I walk to the stairs as my men move to the side. “Clean it up and burn the body.”

  “Yes, sir,” they say in unison as I take the stairs up with Callum following close behind. I know he has questions. “Spit it out.”

  “Did you know about—?”

  “Doesn’t matter to me.”

  “It’s a problem, cousin.”

  I nod, a cocky smirk on my lips. “This problem is mine.”

  6

  “THAT’S FUNNY COMING from an absent father.”

  “You know it wasn’t like that. I had no choice—”

  “There’s always a choice. We just weren’t yours,” I spit out, clenching my hands into tight fists as I turn, leaving him alone in front of the hotel’s entrance.

  “For the love of God, Aurora.” It’s a hiss, low and heavy with a warning I ignore from behind me. His footsteps match mine, entering the almost-empty lobby a second or two after, and following close as I make a beeline for the elevator bank. “We need to talk. Where were you last night? Who dropped you off?”

  What he fails to understand—accept—is that I’m not in the mood for this. That I’m not a little girl he can control. That I just don’t have it in me to explain why his predicament means nothing to me.

  Especially while I’m riding a rollercoaster of emotions that I’ve yet to understand.

  My mind is still on him.

  His scent surrounds me.

  How it bothers me that he just sent me away without another word.

  Casper Jameson.

  “None of your concern. And no, we don’t need to talk,” I throw over my shoulder. Besides, these conversations always lead back down the same hurtful path: he abandoned us. We meant nothing to him when push came to shove. “You made your decision a long time ago, Matteo. Leave me out of your future endeavors.”

  “Don’t call me that. I’m your father and—”

  “You didn’t raise me. Don’t give yourself a title you haven’t earned.” I’m but a step or two from the up button, and just as I lift a hand to press it, I’m whirled around to face him. The eyes that bore into me are the same shade as mine. My father’s hold isn’t threatening or hard, but his expression is full of anger mixed with regret, a sadness that makes my brows furrow and chest clench.

  It also causes me to look away, surveying the room to make sure we aren’t attracting attention. That, and to compose myself. To not show him that I care.

  Because I’ve never seen this man be anything but the hardcore criminal he is: the head of the biggest mob in Boston with connections all across the US and South America, Brazil being his biggest suppliers.

  That, or the cocky and shrewd real estate mogul.

  But with him, there’s never an in-between. Criminal or unscrupulous businessman.

  Matteo Cancio is known for being a cruel and egotistical man with no patience, and yet, right now, he looks almost defeated. Almost hurt by my rejection.

  “Will you ever forgive me? Your mother did before she—”

  “How’s Samantha, by the way?” I cut him off, eyes snapping to his and narrowing at a man I barely know. My heart hardens all over again at his almost statement. At his reminder of what I lost. “Does she know you’re here and visiting your bastard child? That you’re offering me something that belongs to her son?”

  He flinches at my words but regains his composure quickly. “You know we’re divorced, Roe. And more importantly, it belongs to my firstborn…you.”

  “How quickly I’ve come to matter in the last few months. How easily you find me now that you want something from me.”

  “Why are we fighting?” he says, his fingers flexing on my arm as if he’s afraid the moment he lets go, I’ll bolt. “Aurora, I flew all the way out here because you promised to hear me out. You skipped dinner yesterday, and I sent you a message saying I’d be here at one.”

  “When did I confirm this?” I raise a brow.

  At least he has the decency to look away. “I waited in the lobby hoping to catch you.”

  “So, you’re stalking me?”

  “It’s not stalking when you agreed to hear me out,” he counters, nose flaring a bit in his annoyance. I also know he hates this, that he finds the begging beneath him and believes I should just fall into line, but it’s not happening. I’m not afraid of him. “And I’ve never done that to you. It’s the one promise I made to your mother and kept.”

  “Again, no.” I snort, the sound not attractive in the least as I ignore his last statement. His words hold no value to me. Not after years of being let down. This man is an unbelievable manipulator and nothing else. The poster child for give an inch and they’ll take a mile kind of personality. “That’s not how our conversation went at all, Father. I mentioned a vacation in Europe, and you decided to crash and make this about my duties as your child.”

  “I love you, Aurora. Please believe that if nothing else.”

  “Liar.” As soon as I turned twenty-one, his call came. He thinks now is the perfect time to create some kind of bull-crap bond after years of missin
g visits, important dates, and remembering that I existed all around. Our time together over the years has always been few and far between, his attention always on my mother’s life and never on me. I’m the forgotten one he now needs. “And quit avoiding my question. Samantha?”

  Releasing his hold, he takes a step back and runs an agitated hand through his hair. “You know we’re divorced.”

  “Because she cheated.”

  “Because we both made mistakes. Horrible ones.” His cell phone rings somewhere on him, but he chooses to ignore it. A first for him. “With her, it was never about love.”

  “And yet you married her anyways,” I sneer, my disdain for him and his actions clear to see. “This is your bed, and you will lie in it.”

  “Roe, I—”

  “Don’t. No excuses.” An older couple comes near us then, and I move to the side with a smile on my face. “Good morning.”

  “Morning,” they say in unison, looking between my father and me, noticing the tension—but choosing smartly not to comment. They mind their business while waiting for the elevator and then they enter, letting the doors close while avoiding our stares.

  “As you can see, this isn’t the best place for this type of conversation…” he tilts his head now in the direction of a crowd of what looks to be tourists that are gathering nearby “…why don’t we go to lunch after you clean up, instead? I’ll wait for you here and—”

  “No.” I take in a deep breath and let it out slowly, giving myself an extra minute to gather my thoughts. To come up with a better way to tell him to leave and never come back that doesn’t use my favorite four-letter word. “Listen, Dad…I’m trying here. Really trying to keep my composure, but your insistence is making this very difficult. I already told you, I’m not interested. My answer hasn’t changed. It’s the same as when we spoke in Chicago and Boston. You chose a marriage of convenience over my mother’s love. Over being my father. I owe you nothing.”

  As the last word slips past my lips, a man I’ve seen once, when I agreed to visit my father’s Boston office three months ago, reaches us while holding a phone out. He’s tall and handsome, but in that generic sort of way with dark hair and brown eyes in a black suit and shiny shoes. Too put together. Nothing about him is as effortless as the man I spent last night with.