Doll Face

by Sadie Grubor

  "Evgeni," I suggest.

  "Fuck," Felix breathes out the word, rubbing his bottom lip with his thumb. "Why the fuck would he believe us?"

  I give a shrug. "A father's love? I'm sure he would need proof, but that's where DNA comes in."

  "What if I don't want to be his son?" Felix tosses the words like a challenge. "What if he doesn't want a son?"

  "Then we find another way," I state, letting him know I'll stand behind his decision. Then I continue, "You aren't the only one with reasons."

  Tilting his head to the right, he lifts his brows in a silent question.

  "My mother and father," I remind him of the other two lives Angelo coerced me into taking on the false charge of traitor.

  "Fuck," the word whooshes from his mouth. "He had you…" Felix doesn't finish, choosing another direction instead. "He's a fucking piece of work, isn't he?" Felix asks. "Screwing with people's kids for whatever sick reason he had."

  "My mother belonged to Angelo before my father married her."

  "Belonged, as in…?" he presses.

  "As in she was his mistress," I explain. and continue, "After marrying Rosario, she laid down the law."

  "She made him give up his mistress?"

  I nod.

  "But she's very aware of Nina. I don't understand," he says, disbelief in his words.

  "He loved my mother, and Rosario knew she was second to her," I clarify. "It was pure jealousy."

  "And your father just swooped right in for his brother's leftovers? That doesn't sound like Uncle Don."

  "Angelo forced my mother onto him," I snort, because what comes next ultimately sets the stage for how Angelo would operate for years to come.

  "But why would—"

  "My mother had caught Evgeni's attention during sit downs she would attend with Angelo. So, once she was released from Angelo's side, a place she apparently didn't get to by choice, he knew Evgeni could push his advance. To prevent that, he ordered my father to take her on," I continue. "But he didn't count on my parents falling in love."

  "Fucking hell, Dante, how many times did you have to run this through your head before it stopped sounding like those damn daytime soap operas Nonna used to watch?" He asks.

  "It still sounds like one, but it doesn't change the fact that Angelo has fucked with our lives since before we were born," I remind him.

  "So, you think your mother and father were working with mine?"

  Giving another shrug, I tell him, "I can only assume they found out about your real bloodline and were working with your father against Angelo. I'm pretty sure your mother was sheltered from all of it."

  "Why not just have them taken out quietly? Why the big show of killing them?"

  "His power hunger started years ago," I remind. "And what better way to assert and show off his power than to have their own children kill them."

  Felix shakes his head.

  I continue. "I was and still am his killer, his butcher. He's pulled my strings for far too long, thinking he's got control of his creature, but," I pause, smirking, "he's not immune to the fear I invoke or the vengeance I seek."

  "Don't give me your I want to see what your insides look like glare," he growls. "Your point is made."

  "I'm taking him down, Felix," I say, revealing my plan.

  He focuses on the table, silent and unmoving, for five long minutes.

  With a nod, he asks, "Are we sure it's not Angelo taking everyone out?" His eyes come to mine. "I mean, if he's picking off people one by one, it could be him clearing out anyone he feels is a threat to his secrets. That means we could very well be next on his list."

  "No." I shake my head. "I considered that, but things are pointing in another direction."

  "What direction?"

  "You won't like the answer."

  Felix squints his eyes in thought before the wrinkles smooth out and he grins. "Not this fucking Geisha Assassin bullshit again," he says, astounded.

  "You're so quick to discount it?"

  "Okay, say I believe one woman is doing all this, have you found anything on this Geisha?"

  "Not enough," I admit, "But I do know she has ties to the Yakuza I can't explain yet."

  "So, it is a she?"

  "More like a collection, I believe," I reveal. "My research makes it difficult to believe the murder of our men is a single person, and the conversations in Japan are of a group called the Jōshitai."

  "So, there isn't a Geisha, per say?" He assumes wrong.

  "Oh no, there is definite mention of a Yakuza hitwoman who is referred to as The Geisha," I correct.

  "She's their leader?"

  "Mostly she's mentioned as a revered hitwoman in service to the Yakuza, but, as I stated, I don't have enough information. Though, you are correct about one thing."

  "And that would be?"

  "We could be next on the hit list." It's true, and he needs to understand Angelo isn't the only place to focus.

  "I feel like my life has just been shot to hell," Felix admits, rubbing his hands over his face.

  "I need to know where you stand, Felix," I say, every word a warning.

  "He really is a twisted asshole," he breathes out.

  "I killed my mother just to hide his secrets and perpetuate his desire for power," I say aloud, grabbing Felix's full attention. "He lied to me, used me. The only traitorous thing she did was not love or want him. Then he had me hunt down my father, like a fucking animal. I've been used as his death bringer for the last fucking time."

  Standing from my chair, Felix's eyes follow me.

  "I know what I am and what I do, but it won't be by his control again," I declare.

  Felix nods, a murderous expression forming on his face.

  "What's your plan?"

  "We need to find allies," I confess.

  "I know a few," he divulges.

  At my look, he gives a one shoulder shrug. "You aren't the only one who knows it's time to dethrone our tyrant."

  Mei

  Two days.

  Two nights.

  No Saint.

  During the morning routine I'd started, I sit on the tiles of the shower floor, letting the tears of realization fall from my eyes.

  I surrendered to him, handed myself over on a blood-stained platter. And now that he's gotten what he wants, the thrill of the chase, or the challenge, is no longer there. Any fight I once had has been demolished. Now, I need to resign myself to this gilded cage. The life of a mistress, plaything—an afterthought.

  Pressing the heel of my palms into my eyes, a guttural cry escapes me. I rub my hands over my face before lifting it to the stream of water.

  Descending the stairs, I overhear Sketch having a one-sided conversation. Curious for any information about Saint, his whereabouts, or anything beyond this apartment, I stop before rounding the corner to the open living, dining, and kitchen area.

  "He's fucking with you," Sketch barks. "You can't tell me he wasn't behind getting Giuliana and her family involved," he continues.

  Giuliana. It's not the first time I've heard her name. After studying the men who came to the strip club, I'm well aware most of them have wives, mistresses, and other affairs. I'm also not so naïve that I don't believe Giuliana is most likely Saint's wife. He's been with her these past two days.

  "When are her parents leaving?" he asks, pausing. "Because we got another special delivery for your little toy upstairs," he informs.

  At the mention of a special delivery, I step around the corner. Eyes searching, I locate the brown paper and twine wrapped box sitting on the sleek black dining table. My chest constricts at the familiarity.

  Uncaring if they know I'm there or what seeing inside the box will do to my mental state, I take long strides to the table.

  "Someone's awake," Jacob announces.

  Over the past two days, Jacob has been my solace. Conversations and showing me the exercise room where he works on boxing techniques with me, he's the only real source of company I've had.
<
br />   Lost in my own thoughts, the weight of both their stares still registers, but doesn't take mine from the brown box.

  "Fuck," Sketch exclaims. "You need to fucking get here."

  Placing my hands on the package, I curl my fingers into the paper and tear through it.

  "Stop," Sketch shouts. "You don't fucking know what's in there!"

  He approaches, but I maneuver myself and the box around the table. Ripping the top off, I cover my mouth and step back. The green eyes and blue hair are the first things I recognize.

  "The mermaid," I whisper through my fingers.

  Jacob's massive presence fills my right side as Sketch reaches inside the box.

  "What the hell—" Jacob begins.

  "You will swim with mermaids," Sketch reads out loud, cutting Jacob off. Sketch's eyes come to mine, and he finishes, "He didn't keep his word, but I will. I promise."

  Bending at the waist, I grip the edge of the table and take deep breaths, attempting to stop the bile from rising into my throat.

  "What is this?" Jacob asks, reaching out for the doll.

  "Don't touch it," I say in a rush.

  "Who the fuck sent this sick shit?" Sketch grabs my arm, pulling me away from the table.

  "Sketch," Jacob warns, taking my other arm in his hand. "You should probably call Dante," he instructs, pulling me toward him.

  Sketch looks at his forgotten cell, releases my arm, and curses. His phone has multiple missed calls. Tapping the screen, he inhales, blows out the breath and puts the phone to his ear.

  "Don't fucking start with me, Saint. I can't help it that your fucking pet lost her shit," he exclaims minutes later.

  "Yeah, it's another one," he answers.

  He glares at me.

  "The message is different this time." His hard eyes stay on me. "It's extra fucking creepy. That's what it is." Dropping his head back, he sighs at the ceiling.

  "You can't do shit unless you get your goddamn pet to talk."

  I stiffen at his words and pull myself out of Jacob's hold. Moving closer to the table, I steel my resolve, tear away the rest of the packaging, and study the doll.

  Her hair is matted in different spots. Where her white shell top used to sparkle, it's dull and scuffed. The green shimmer tale is faded and worn. Reaching out, I run two fingers over her smooth face and close my eyes.

  Unbidden, each doll flashes in my mind. Annie, my beloved rag doll. Sarah, my treasured china doll. Now, the mermaid. But it's not the child's toys I remember with such fondness, it's the real dolls. The greatest gifts my father would bestow upon me. Tea parties, brushing their hair, dancing for them, cherishing and loving them. A sick, twisted warmth settles in my chest.

  Shoving the morbid feelings down deep, I lick my dry lips, and whisper, "I never got to swim with her."

  "What did you say?" Jacob asks, shock saturating his question.

  Removing my hand, I wrap my arms around all the pieces of me and hold them together. My eyes fall on the notecard, focusing on one terrifying sentence.

  He didn't keep his word, but I will.

  Hugging myself tighter, I slowly turn and walk away.

  "Mei?" Jacob calls at my back. "Where are you going?"

  "Who the hell is sending them?" Sketch demands.

  Rounding the corner to the stairs, I hear Jacob say, "Let her go."

  Back in Saint's room, I sit against the headboard with a pillow over my bent-up knees. Burying my face into Egyptian cotton, I unleash all my pent-up tears.

  Warmth travels along my cheek and down my neck, curling around. Blinking awake, a dark blur lies next to me on the bed. Panic grips my chest, locking all my muscles. Preparing to shove away, the warmth at my neck tightens, fisting the hair at the nape.

  "Relax," he says, and my body instantly obeys Saint's order. Each muscle loosens, settling back into the side position I lay.

  He tears the pillow I'd been cuddling out from between us and pulls me against his chest. I expect him to demand answers, sex, or anything else, but he just holds me.

  "You need to eat," he says against the side of my head. "Jacob tells me you haven't all day."

  "What time is it?" I rasp, my throat dry and unused.

  "After seven," he answers.

  "I've never slept this long," I say absently.

  When I push away to climb off the bed, he allows it. On my way to the bathroom, I stop briefly to stare at a tray of food on top of a dresser.

  "Jacob," is his explanation.

  Not hungry, I continue to handle my business, then stare at myself in the mirror.

  "Hello, stranger," I say to the grown-up version of the little girl I used to be. "It's been a very long time." For the briefest of moments, I see a shadow in the mirror, but I blink and it's gone. A trick of my warped mind. A mind slowly but surely slipping into madness.

  I take note my bruise is starting to fade to greens and yellow before everything comes rushing back. Saint's absence, most likely with his wife and family, the dolls, the memories…the message on the card.

  Washing my face, I rub my hands over it hard enough to make me wince. It does nothing to scrub away the chaos in my mind. Exiting the bathroom, I turn for the bedroom door instead of the bed and leave Saint behind.

  "Mei," he shouts, but I walk faster, able to reach the first floor of the penthouse before he catches up.

  "Where are you going?" His question draws Sketch's attention. His eyes are on us the moment we enter the room.

  Keeping my emotions in check, I tell him, "I want to leave."

  My arm is captured and he spins me to face him.

  "You aren't going anywhere," he demands, the words a promise.

  "Let me leave," I ask in a low voice, pulling away.

  Something in my expression widens his eyes. Whatever it is gives me the ability to pull my arm from his hand. Uncaring that I'm in a pair of jeans, a t-shirt, and barefoot, I turn and head for the elevators.

  "Vincent," Saint calls out, and the tall, dark-suited man moves into the hallway, blocking my path. No longer in control of the discord of my emotions, I fist my hands at my sides and spin around.

  "Let me go!" I cry.

  Straightening to his full height and crossing his arms over his chest, he makes a very imposing image. Even in sweatpants and a white t-shirt, the darkness of his deeds surround him like an aura of death and blood.

  And, because I'm a terrible, sick girl, my body fucking heats. My own demons writhe along my skin, wanting to bare their most fragile secrets to this creature before me.

  "No," he asserts.

  I open my mouth to argue, but he's not finished.

  "You want me to release you? Tell me who sends the dolls," he bargains, though we both know he won't—not until he's grown bored, or whatever.

  "Shouldn't you be home with your wife and family?" It sounds like jealousy, because it partly is, and that makes me even angrier with him. What should I care about his wife, his family? I'm well aware of how these men work, and so are their wives.

  His expression doesn't change, but my peripheral vision doesn't miss the way Sketch's head snaps to Saint.

  "Careful, doll," he warns.

  "I thought I was a dead girl," I retort.

  Dropping his arms, he comes for me. Fear zaps up my spine, tightening my muscles, in preparation to flee. Well, fuck that. Instead, I stand my ground and lift my chin.

  "You were a dead girl," he explains from a couple feet away.

  Closing the distance, his arm shoots out, grabbing me by the back of my head. Pulling me into his body, my hands come up and press against his heaving chest.

  "Now, you're my doll to do with as I please," he finishes.

  "I hate you," I growl, trying to turn my head from him, but his other hand comes up, capturing my chin. Unable to move, all I have left to shut him out are my eyes.

  "Dante," Jacob pleas from somewhere behind me.

  "You don't," he states, ignoring him.

  The beat of his he
art thuds against my palm, every heavy breath fans over my face, and the caress of his hand beneath my chin sparks my body to life.

  His mouth against mine, not caring about our audience, he says, "You belong to me."

  Fingers press into the flesh of my jaw, accentuating his claim, before he brushes his thumb along my skin. "And I belong to you."

  At his declaration, my eyes snap open, surprised by the honesty I find in the depths of his.

  Both of his hands move to palm the sides of my face, his forehead pressing to mine.

  "The ground will be littered with the bodies of those who have and would hurt you," he vows. "I will lay each one at your feet and carve your name into their flesh as a reminder to others."

  "Why?" I ask on a whisper.

  "You belong—"

  "To you," I finish with what I assume is the rest.

  I'm wrong.

  "With me," he corrects, running his thumbs over my cheek bones.

  One moment, he threatens to kill me. The next, I belong to him. And now, I have his complete devotion. This connection we share makes no sense and things are moving too fast for me to process. There's so much that could bring it crashing down around us, leaving a very bloody scene.

  "Sir," Jacob steps close to Saint, placing a hand on his tense shoulder. "We have a situation."

  He holds an iPad out and Saint yanks it from his hand. Sketch moves in quickly, looking over Saint's shoulder.

  "What the fuck do they want?" His question is directed at Jacob, not Saint.

  Jacob jerks his head toward me. "They're asking about Meissa Winters," he says. "Apparently, there's been a missing person's report filed."

  It's like being punched in the stomach. All the air rushes out of me and I frantically search my mind for someone who would miss me enough to file a report.

  Saint's hard eyes snap from the tablet to me, then shift to Sketch.

  "How'd you miss that?" His question is full of disgust as he slaps the iPad into Sketch's chest.

  "Sure, let's pretend for a fucking second that she," he motions to me, "doesn't have one goddamn relative, friend, or close connection, and have me add police reports for a fucking ghost to my list of things to do!"

  "You should've caught it," Saint growls.

  "We need to address the situation,” Jacob interjects, “and this isn't helping."