by Rose Harper
Sweeping my gaze over the metal instruments lining the walls, I make for them again. Nausea swims in my gut, but it doesn’t stop me. The next time she comes down here, I’m going to be ready for her. I’m going to show her what it means to make such accusations against someone in my familia.
Gritting my teeth, I tilt forward on my toes and shimmy the chair once more. The scent of sewage leaks into my nose, burning. But that doesn’t stop me from progressing forward. Instead, I shimmy once more, bringing myself closer to the pegboard wall.
I haven’t decided how I’m going to release myself just yet, but it will come to me in time. The time it takes for me to trek myself in that direction, I can form a plan in my mind that will most certainly work with getting me out of this clusterfuck of a mess.
One twist sideways, then another, freedom is almost within my grasp. Only for me to hear the door to the basement swing open, the door bouncing off the wall with a hard thud. Her footsteps echo through the cavernous room, which should signal me to stop and retreat. But, I don’t. If anything I keep on moving toward the wall of torture devices. Sharp instruments that will set me free and flay the skin from her bones when I do.
“It’s never going to work, Mateo.” Huffing, she stops on the landing, shooting a satisfied smirk my direction.
I don’t pay her any attention as I continue moving my chair toward the wall. I’ve found out that indifference is the best revenge toward her. At least, until I’m released from this chair. Then all my cards will be on the table.
“Just give it up,” she groans, walking toward me.
I watch as she holds her breath when she gets within a few feet of me, before grasping the handles of the chair. Fury bubbles in my gut as the chair scrapes across the cement floor. It takes every bit of strength for her to move me, even though I can feel that I’ve lost weight by the way my pants—even with a belt—are sagging around my midsection.
If she thinks she’s getting out of her unscathed, she has another fucking thing coming. Only a goddamn newbie would get close to a dog that’s been known to bite.
Rearing back, I snap my head forward. The top of my forehead crushes against her nose, the sound of cartilage snapping reaches my ears. Her steps falter as a wail of pain leaves her parted lips, and her hands come up to cover her face. Faltering backward, a wheezing sound is prominent through the air, letting me know I succeeded in my quest of ruining her picture-perfect appearance.
Blood slides down the inside of her arms as she glares at me over her hands clasped in front of her face. I do nothing but smile back at her, throwing in a wink for good measure. That’ll really piss her off if she isn’t there already. Knowing that her bound captive got the best of her in our little dance of wills.
Her lips are now drenched in cascading blood from her broken nose, and she drops her arms down to her side. A serious calm washes over her as she slowly makes her way toward me. Something sinister glimmers in her eyes, and I can only hope she's had more than she can take and ends me right here and now.
Blazing sunlight streams in from the only window in the room. Its cracked glass with bars on the outside leads me to believe this isn’t the first captive this room has ever seen. Something about this room haunts me, threatens to unravel the secrets twisting around inside me. This is a place of torture, degradation, and pure unadulterated evil.
“Son of a bitch!” Rearing her hand back, she balls her fist up and lets it fly. The feel of her knuckles against the side of my face smarts for just a moment, before all too soon vanishing without a trace.
I smirk, licking the droplet of blood that buds at the apex of my lips. Collecting the half-crimson, half-saliva in my mouth, I spit it at her, nailing her right in the face. She furiously begins rubbing it from her skin, all the while growling and huffing. There’s no way I’m going to make this easy on her. I mean, hellfire, a slit like her should know better after all the time we spent together.
I’m a hardheaded motherfucker, and she will do well to remember that. I don’t care if there’s a knife pressed against my throat or a cocked gun against my temple, I will be who I am for the rest of my goddamn life. And what I am is a man who doesn’t cower against weak-minded little slits trying to play torturer when they don’t know the first thing about it.
“What is wrong with you?!” she screeches, angrily swiping the last remnants of spit off her face.
I cock a brow when her gaze lands on mine once more, unwavering hatred shining through her blazing crystal eyes. Blinking slowly, I continue to stare at her. She clearly has to be smoking something if she doesn’t know the answer to her own question. Jesus H. It’s a no-brainer. My actions and seething hatred toward her don’t take a genius to figure it all out.
She is what’s wrong with me. This entire fucked up circumstance is what is wrong with me. Yet, my supposedly soon-to-be killer wants to know what’s wrong with me. Like it isn't obvious. If I weren’t so pissed off right now, I’d probably laugh at the absurdity of all this. Of her acting like she’s this macho killer. Of being tied to a chair. Still. I’d probably laugh so long and so hard that I’d be second-guessing my own sanity.
“Just. Beg!” she yells, angrily swiping at me again. This time, her nails rake across my face, stinging as they break the top layer of skin.
I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help it. I have to know why she wants me to grovel for my life.
“Why is it so important I beseech my life? We both know that’s not going to happen. So, whatever you have planned, you may as well go ahead and do it. I’m done. Whatever you are doing here is done. Fucking kill me and get it over with or take your pussy ass on somewhere else.”
What is she waiting for? I think to myself, fuming. It’s not like my answer has changed since she took me. If anything, I’ve been steadfast in my disapproval for begging for my life. A goddamn king never stoops to the level of their servants. And that’s all she is to me. A servant—one wasn’t worth more than being a cum receptacle.
She knows that. I know that. So, what’s stopping her?
Weaving her fingers through the strands of my hair, she wrenches my head back on my shoulders. She forces me to meet her cold eyes. “That was my only stipulation before I killed you. I made sure my contractor knew it before coming in. I want you to beg; to apologize for not seeing me as the person you should have; to see the similarities we share. And I will get that from you before you knock on the devil’s rusty gates.”
Smirking, I reply, “I wouldn’t count on it, cunt. I owe you nothing. You’ve tried to kill me already with the tainted liquor. You lost your chance at anything that day.”
I’m fully ready to meet my ending. She has no idea the edge of crazy I’ve been teetering on since my mother died. The amount of time it took that doctor and me to make me sane enough to be around people.
For years, I hid in my room. I did nothing except replay the scene of my mother’s gruesome murder in my head over and over again. The way she smiled sweetly at us before it was frozen on her face and she dropped to the ground. The way her soulless, lifeless eyes met mine when her head tilted to the side.
I’m more fucked up than Camille can possibly imagine. I just hide it better than a lot of the people I know. Kind of a silent threat, so to speak.
The thing is, I know I’m not normal. When you look at people and get a snip of you slitting their throat or ramming your knife in their chest, so you can make it easier for your hand to tunnel inside to their heart—it’s not right. It took me years to get used to seeing that on a daily basis. To look at my family, knowing I love them more than anything, yet still craving their blood on my hands.
A tinge of regret knocks at my heart when Carina comes to mind. My new wife; the woman I could quite possibly see myself falling for. She was like a breath of fresh air to my dreary, dust-filled world. I treated her like absolute shit when she came to the house, and you want to know the reason? It’s because I was scared. So fucking terrified because I saw that glimmer
in her eyes that spoke of the future.
My mother always taught me if you can look into a woman’s eyes and see your future, she’s definitely your soul mate. That if you can look at her and everything else simply falls away—it was meant to be.
The first time I looked into Carina’s eyes, I saw everything. My future—kids, love, laughter, and blood. I saw a life I didn’t plan for, and a future I never thought would happen for someone like me.
It absolutely petrified me, caused me to turn into a monster instead of the man I truly am. I treated her like shit. Turned her into nothing more than a dog that wasn’t even important enough to lick my shoe. And how does she repay me? After everything that happened between us, she protected me when it was her job to take me out. She married me, solidifying that future I didn’t know I could ever possibly want.
It was because of Carina that I felt I could breathe, and now, because of my selfish actions, I’m never going to see her again. Never be able to tell her just how much she means to me. I’m never going to see her stomach swollen with my child. Never see her face bathed in a rosy glow of satisfaction after we make love. Never touch, kiss, or pull her softness against my body.
I’ve been married for seventy-two hours, and the woman I just realized I love is going to become a widow.
8
CARINA
I’m taking back what’s mine. I don’t care if it takes me seconds, minutes, days, weeks, or years—I will bring Mateo home. All these assholes are sitting here twiddling their dicks, expecting Mateo to fall in their laps. That’s not how it works. If you want something, you go out and get it. Nothing ever happens with just sitting around and waiting.
Taking the stairs two at a time, my feet land with a hard thud on the landing. Making my way past the large French doors that make up the back wall of the house, I grit my teeth and curse every goddamn one of them.
They want to go through the proper channels. Find out who it is they’re up against. Bull-fucking-shit. They can do that all they want, but I’m going to do me. I’ll bring Mateo back home, trudging through the deepest recesses of enemy territory if I have to. I don’t care. All I know is Mateo will be where he belongs, or all hell will break loose.
Shouldering through our door, a small smile graces my sadistic lips when I see the crimson stain at the foot of the bed. It spans most of the carpet, and even with the cleaners coming in and divesting it of any remnants of blood, there will always be a blatant reminder to everyone that you don’t fuck with me and expect to get away with it.
It makes me happy. Causes my cold little heart to flutter with joy and my body to buzz with awareness. I haven’t felt this much like myself in such a long time. Instead, I’ve been ambling around this home, trying to fit in with the masses.
I’ve come to find out, you can never fit in with anyone if you were born to stand out.
Kicking the door closed behind me, I make for the closet. Grabbing a duffle bag, I shove anything I possibly need while I’m on my mission to find my husband.
My husband. The term is still too new for any kind of reaction. But I can’t deny the little flutter in my heart over the endearment. It’s crazy, but it makes me feel warm inside, which is something I haven’t felt in so long. Whereas before coming here, I was nothing but a drone—a cold, calculating monster everyone feared.
But then I met him. Mateo. He didn’t look at me like that. He never gazed at me with anything but utter acceptance shining through his eyes. Even those times he was a complete and total ass to me, making me do things I didn’t want to and basically treating me like dirt. He still never treated as if I were nothing more than a castaway.
He treats me like I belong. Like I finally found my place in the world, even if I’m completely and totally screwed up. And that’s why I have to bring him home. I could deny all I want, but there’s something between us. I can’t quite put it into words, but it’s there, just lying beneath the surface.
Jerking clothes off hangers, I haphazardly throw them into the bag. Opening my drawers, I grab a handful of undergarments and shove them inside as well. Zipping it, I toss it over my shoulder, then grab the thickest jacket off the hook hanging next to the door. The moment I turn the light off and step out of the closet, my eyes roll so hard they threaten to fall out of my head.
“What do you want?”
“Where do you think you’re going?” Luca asks, stepping into the room.
“None of your goddamn business,” I fume, furrowing my brows. Like he deserves an explanation when he’s just as bad as the rest of the men in this house. Fuck that. I don’t owe him a damn thing.
“You’re not leaving this house, Carina. If you leave, we’ll just be worried about you, too.”
Growling, I take a step toward him in challenge. “I don’t believe I asked for your permission. You may be my brother, but you don’t get to tell me what to do. Since it seems I’m the only one with a set big enough, I’m going after him. By myself.”
“And go where? Where are you going to go? You have no idea where he is, or where she’s holding him—if it’s her, to begin with.” He doesn’t know about the tainted liquor she slipped inside his room before Vinny’s untimely death. Nor the way she manipulated him to see things her way. Do I know, without a doubt, it’s her? No. But that still doesn’t mean I’m not going to go after her. If I have to, I’ll kill everyone on my quest to bring him home.
Because there’s one you thing you never do to a coldhearted, sadistic queen, and that’s wronging her by taking her king.
“I have ways of finding out information; don’t doubt that.” The fucking nerve.
I’ve gotten through plenty of years without him being here. Went to hell and back multiple times, only relying on myself to pull me out of the darkness of blood, secrets, and torture no person could ever fathom. Yet, he wants to stand here demanding things of me. I don’t freaking think so. He may have his way with Father Avery and all the other nuns and priests at the mission, but he doesn’t have his way with me. He lost that right when he walked away without even so much as a backward glance.
“What if Mateo’s father shows up, huh? He will demand to see you.”
“I don’t give a shit what that son of a bitch wants. He can choke on a cock for all I care; it wouldn’t bother me one bit. My only focus is finding my husband before there’s nothing left of him to find. Now, get out of my way.” I shoulder past him, but his hand snaps out, halting my leave as he grabs the strap of my backpack.
“Remove your hand,” I grind out, jerking my bag away. His hand doesn’t fall away. Instead, he jerks me to him.
“You have some nerve, Carina. You act as if none of those men are looking for him. You, better than I, know they are at their wits’ end from searching so much. So, get off your high horse and help them. The only thing your silence is doing in that room is hindering their search. You want to help? Speak the fuck up!” His voice ends on a booming note. I can practically feel his fury wisp across the back of my neck as his breath runs across my skin.
He’s mad? He has no idea the emotions roaring through my body. I want to kill whoever thought they had the right to take my husband as if we would do nothing to retaliate. While all his familia is sitting on their hands, I plan to act. I’ve always been the type of person to go headstrong into something, never letting up until I get what I want. It’s what makes me good at what I do. That, and the fact I completely numb myself to any feeling whatsoever.
“You have no idea the things I let them get away with, Luca. If it had been me, I would be out there contacting any person I come across. Mateo is mine. I’ve never had that before. And the moment I get it, someone thinks they can take that away from me. Bullshit. I will get my pound of flesh, and I’ll do it without your help.”
Jerking once more, I’m relieved when his hand falls away from my bag. Making my way out of the room, I keep my head down and make my way to the top of the stairs. It isn’t until I’m getting ready to descend that I al
low my eyes to rise. I immediately stop in my tracks when I see the men gathered at the bottom. Most, if not all, are wearing masks of pure anger as they glare up at me.
Gavino looks like he could kill someone with eye contact alone. Giovanni, twiddling the knife between his fingers looks like he’s about to commit murder. Lucio, with his silent brooding nature, has his arms crossed over his chest and his feet shoulder width apart—his eyes almost demanding mine to submit to him.
“You are going nowhere,” Lucio growls, fuming.
“You honestly believe we would allow you to leave?” Giovanni asks, looking more morbid the longer I look at him.
“You’d have to kill me before I allow you to walk out that door,” Gavino barks, the scars making him appear even more menacing.
Movement from my right has my eyes leaving them to see my brother coming down the hallway. His eyes meet mine, before flicking to the trio down at the bottom of the stairs, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. His eyes reach mine once more, and I can almost see the words I told you so circling through his mind. I don’t give a shit what these assholes say; I’m leaving. I don’t need their help in tracking down Mateo. If there’s one thing I excel at—above all others—it’s the ability to find my prey and eradicate it.
“Don’t make me hurt you,” I murmur, making my threat perfectly clear.
Scoffing, Dom appears at the base of the stairs. His large body in nothing more than black military BDUs. They fit him snugly yet have just enough room in them for him to move around if the situation calls for it. Shitkickers rest on his feet, and he has his semi-long hair tied at the base of his head in a small ponytail. He looks lethal. Dangerous.
