Doll Face

by Sadie Grubor

  "What happened?" he asks, turning right onto the next street.

  I know what he's really asking, and it's taking everything in me not to gut the fucker.

  "Someone took her," I divulge.

  "Who would do that?" he presses, keeping his eyes on the road.

  "I don't know, but I will find out," I declare, my words an oath. "And they will suffer at the hands of every demon I have."

  Smart enough to keep his mouth shut, Jacob focuses on getting us home without drawing attention from passing law officers and emergency vehicles.

  "Once I reclaim what belongs to me, we will be discussing your interests in Mei."

  "You're fucked," Sketch rasps, coughing around the words.

  Twisting in the passenger seat, I glance down at him.

  "My chest," he barely gets the words out.

  "Don't try to speak," Jacob instructs. "You could have a collapsed lung."

  "Tell me you can track her," I say, though it sounds more like a plea.

  Sketch's eyes snap to mine and widen.

  "She's gone?" He grimaces.

  "Stop talking," Jacob warns.

  At my silence, he nods.

  Turning back around, my hand comes to my chest and finds nothing. Then I remember Mei removed my knife during our confrontation with The Geisha.

  Fisting the lapel of my suit jacket, I close my eyes and take a deep breath.

  "We'll find her," Jacob reassures.

  "I'll find her," I correct, my jaw clenching. "You will stay the fuck away from her."

  "Jesus, you really think—"

  "Another time," I cut him off.

  Pulling out my cell, I begin to make necessary calls.

  "He needs a hospital, not to be playing on an iPad," the doctor groans.

  "I have," Sketch inhales, "to work," he finishes, planting his palm to his chest.

  The doctor's eyes move to me.

  "His lung was partially collapsed," he reminds me. "It's going to collapse again if he doesn't rest and let his body heal."

  I want to agree with him, but Mei's also been gone for roughly forty-five minutes and I need the information he can provide.

  "Here," Sketch grunts, holding the tablet out.

  Grabbing it from him, I look at the screen. He settles back into the guest room bed.

  "She's," he breathes out, cringing, "almost an hour," he pauses, "outside the city."

  "They're headed south on Interstate fifty-five," I finish, glancing to his face.

  He gives a nod.

  "The range." He takes a breath. "They're taking," another breath, "her out of range."

  "Fuck," I grumble, tucking the tablet under my arm. Before exiting the room, I turn around and say, "Keep him in bed. Tie him down if you have to."

  Sketch's long arm comes up to flip his middle finger in my direction.

  When I reach the first floor, Russ, Vincent, and four other men look at me expectantly.

  "We need to move," I instruct.

  "We have a problem." Jacob's statement draws my attention.

  He holds up the security feed on his own tablet.

  Two uniformed officers are in the lobby of my building.

  "They're waiting to come up and speak with you about an incident." Jacob lifts his brows.

  "I swept that car and lit it up," Russ states.

  "It's the restaurant," I groan, running a hand over my face. "Show them up," I instruct.

  Removing the tablet from under my arm, I glance down at the dot moving along I-55 South. It blinks once, twice, enrapturing me in its hypnotic wink before disappearing. The glass groans in protest to my grip.

  "Mr. Ruggiano, Officers—" Jacob begins to introduce.

  "No," I rasp, shaking the tablet, like it will magically make the dot appear.

  "What do you—?"

  "NO!" I shout, flinging the useless piece of technology across the room.

  Dropping my head, I gnash my teeth together and breathe slowly through my nose.

  There's a crack of glass and a crash of metal on the floor.

  "She's gone," I say through clenched teeth.

  "Who's gone, Mr. Ruggiano?" one of the officers asks.

  Blind rage courses through my veins. The creature unleashed, I draw both my guns, holding them on the officers in my penthouse. The rush of blood pounds between my ears and pressure builds behind my eyes.

  "Dante," Jacob yells, putting a hand up.

  "Sir," Vincent exclaims, placing a firm hand on my shoulder.

  The officers pull their own weapons.

  "Sir, put down the guns," one orders.

  She's gone! every one of my demons scream from within me.

  "I said put the guns down," he demands again.

  Snorting, my lip curls back. Lowering my weapons, I watch them relax.

  "Place your hands on your head and step—" My bullet in his chest cuts him off.

  A shot fills the air and a searing pain lances my left shoulder. Unblinking, I slightly pivot my torso and pull the trigger again. This bullet pierces his neck. His gun clangs to the hardwood, causing it to fire and catching him in the leg. The second shot knocks the dying man to the floor.

  "Damn it, Dante," Jacob screams. "Do you have any idea what you just—"

  When I move the gun to him, he shuts his mouth.

  In a voice that feels foreign and out of body, I order, "Call the cleaner and sort it out."

  Lowering the weapon, I don't spare a glance at the lifeless officers.

  "You're going to have every cop in Chicago targeting you for this," Jacob hisses.

  "Then I'll kill them all," I state, my voice still detached and cold.

  "What if they had families?" Jacob snaps, trying for guilt. I ignore him and turn to leave.

  "Killing them doesn't bring her back," he tosses out, his words stilling me.

  Spinning around, I level a glare at him. To his credit, he doesn't waver or back down.

  "I know this feeling is new for you, but it doesn't give you free reign to murder whoever you want," he reprimands.

  Lifting my brows, I stride into his personal space. Chest to chest, I bring my face close to his. The flash of worry in his eyes is the only sign of weakness I need. The creature feeds off the fear.

  "As head of the family," I stress, "I have reign to do as I please."

  "Then you're no better than Angelo," he sneers. "Like father, like son!"

  Balling my hands into fists, every muscle tenses.

  "Go ahead, Saint," he spits out my nickname like it tastes bad. "Murder me too."

  The realization of his words hits home. Unclenching my hands, I take a step back and look over at the dead officers.

  Unwilling to admit how right he is, I say, "Make sure their families are compensated."

  Turning away from the evidence of my breakdown, I drop my guns on the floor and exit the living space.

  At the liquor cabinet, I grab a full bottle of vodka, uncap it, and chug.

  An onslaught of pain, sorrow, and regret make me feel off kilter. Gripping the edge of the small bar, I drop to my knees and press my forehead against the dark wooden cabinet. The trembling starts in my hands before climbing up my arms and across my chest. When the first tear falls from my chin, it shocks all my emotions into submission.

  Reaching out, I touch the droplet, smearing it over the hard wood floor before lifting the finger in front of my face.

  "We'll find her," Jacob assures my back.

  Still captivated by the salty remnant of emotion, I say, "Call me what you want, Jacob, but…" I rub my finger and thumb together, "I will destroy every single person who played a part in taking her from me. And if they hurt her…" Balling my hand into a fist, I close my eyes. "I won't kill them. Not at first."

  Mei

  Reaching, stretching, I try to get to the surface, but something weighs heavy on my chest. Kicking my legs, I try to scream. Instead of noise coming out, I inhale deep. The pressure on my body lessens and moments of b
right flash before me. Pushing my body harder, I release my breath on a gasp and open my eyes.

  Blinking at a sudden invasion of continuous light, I attempt to bring my arms up to shield my face. They're so heavy and breathing takes too much effort.

  Is this dying?

  "She's waking." A female voice pings through my skull.

  I groan and try to roll to my side.

  Am I tied down? Trapped?

  A surge of adrenalin spikes my panic. Tremors move along my limbs as I gasp for breath I can't catch.

  "Calm down," she whispers. "You're fine."

  "What are you doing?" a man booms, causing my head to thump.

  "Calm down, Andy," she snaps. "I'm increasing the IV to flush out the drug."

  My body shakes and ice moves through my veins.

  "You gave her too much," he accuses. "I told you the second shot wasn't needed."

  "She was coming to in the van. I had to do something!"

  Each angry word beats between my temples.

  "Eeee…nou-nou-nough." My plea falls from chattering lips.

  "Shhh, Dahlia, you're safe," he softly coos.

  "Get the heating blanket," the woman orders, but much quieter.

  Focusing on inhaling and exhaling, I try to open my eyes once more. The light pierces my pupils like needles to skin and I immediately return to the darkness behind my lids.

  Something settles over my body and begins to warm. My limbs slowly go from jerking to twitching and a wave of exhaustion sweeps over me. Soon, I'm lost to sleep once again.

  Stretching my arms over my head, I try to work out the stiffness in my muscles. When I open my eyes, I inhale sharp, shove up in the bed, and scramble back against the headboard.

  "No," I whisper, taking in the softly lit room. "It can't be." I shake my head.

  The light pink walls, pink paisley valances, and thick gauzy sheers are suffocating. Glancing down at the bed, my bottom lip starts to tremble. My feet feel imprisoned in the soft white comforter with pink bows.

  He called me Dahlia.

  Closing my eyes, I try to block it all out, but I'm a twisted kind of person. The longing builds until I can't help but seek out the things I already know I'll find.

  Opening my eyes, a humorless laugh leaves my mouth.

  The ornate white shelves with green ivy trim.

  "Im-possible," I stutter. The police collected everything in my father's house. Every part of the home was evidence, so how did it all get here?

  So many glass and button eyes bore into me, their lifeless stare something I wish didn't feel so comforting and familiar. The urge to cradle each one and revel in the many secrets they carry is so powerful and inviting. Tightening my grip on the headboard, I look away from the shelves.

  My eyes fall to the white tea party table and floor-to-ceiling mirror. The glass calls to me like an old friend. The shadow. It makes no sense, now knowing it was just the imagination of a twisted child's mind. Still, I seek out the dark figure who kept me company during my solitude. My only link to social interaction, beside my father and his dolls.

  His dolls? They were just as much yours, a voice whispers at the back of my mind.

  Opening my mouth to protest, I find it clogged with fear, panic, and, as horrible as it makes me, relief. I'm home.

  Everything is exactly as I remember. The décor, the furniture, the location of the small bathroom, and the closet. It's closed, but I don't need to see inside. Even knowing, I swallow down the lump at the base in my throat and climb off the bed.

  Reaching the closet door, I slip my fingers over the knob and twist. Yanking the door open, I jump back.

  "No," I cry, backing away.

  Ruffles, bows, stripes, and polka dots, every little girl's fantasy dress hang like dead men from a noose. Above them, the decapitated heads of Styrofoam display wigs of yarn and real hair. All of them different from the next, an assortment of styles to please a doll maker.

  Shaking my head, I rush to the bedroom door. Trying the knob, I find it locked. Raising my fists, I pound against the polished white wood.

  Dread twisting my stomach, I head for the first of two windows and throw open the gauzy sheers. Tears burn the back of my eyes and the tip of my nose tingles when I find it boarded up. Conscious the other will be just the same, I can't not check, so I hurry and pull back the drapes.

  Stumbling away, I reach the ceiling high mirror and take in my appearance.

  "Oh God," I gasp.

  Dressed in a light blue baby doll dress, accented with white knee socks, apron, and wrist length lace gloves, my makeup has been removed and a blue bow adorns my head.

  Lifting one hand, I place it on the glass. I'm exactly what my father always wanted. But that's not the sickest part. No, it's how consoled I am in my costume.

  The tears break free, streaming over my flushed cheeks.

  He's dead. He's supposed to be dead.

  A sob bursts from my mouth and I drop to my knees. Wrapping my arms around myself, I try to hold myself together.

  "No," I shout, wiping the wetness from my face.

  The scratch of the lace infuriates me.

  "NO!" I rip the gloves from my hands.

  Tugging on the apron, two arms come around me.

  "It's okay," he hushes.

  The shock of his touch, his voice, stills me.

  "You're home now," he coos, running a hand over my hair.

  "No," I shout, crawling away.

  The thick pink carpet burns my bare knees.

  "This isn't my home," I protest.

  Reaching the wall, I climb to my feet and find a light switch. Flipping it, I turn to face this unknown man and jerk back.

  "I told you she wasn't worth all this trouble," Caroline moves close to John's side, leaning her head on his shoulder. "She's been turned against her family," she continues. "A traitor!"

  "Enough," he shouts, his voice deep and authoritative. It's also too familiar. Too much like his.

  Shrugging her off him and taking a step toward me, he halts when I jerk back against the wall.

  "Why are you doing this?" I ask my former neighbors.

  "Why?" she asks, her question sounding more like a taunt.

  "We're your family," John reasons, placing a hand to his chest. "You should be with us."

  Shaking my head, I argue, "I'm not your family. I don't know what my father told you, but —"

  "Our father is of no matter now," he roars, closing the distance until there's only a foot between us.

  Caroline moves close to his back and sneers over John's shoulder. "We took care of him long ago," she informs.

  The words dance around my head, but only one thing sticks out.

  "Our father?" I ask in a whisper.

  John smiles.

  "You don't have to worry about him," he assures, lifting a hand to cup my face.

  The soft look in his eyes sends a chill up my spine. My skin prickles with awareness.

  "You're insane," I accuse.

  Sidestepping, I put distance between us.

  "I don't have a brother and sister."

  The moment the words fly from my lips, I remember what Saint said before.

  "If you didn't know your own mother was in the house, you can't be sure your father didn't have an accomplice, apprentice, or someone else in the house."

  "You would believe you were his only child," Caroline scoffs, stepping around John. "Sorry to disappoint you, little sister."

  "I never…" I search my mind for any clue or hint of them in my past.

  Eyes landing on my discarded glove, realization smacks me in the face.

  My room was always clean, but I never straightened it.

  My clothes were always neat, but I didn't launder them.

  Meals and snacks were always ready on time, but I never saw my father cook.

  "Oh, look, she's starting to believe us," she mocks, drawing my eyes back to her.

  Tilting her head, she sticks out her bottom lip.
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  "You," I nod, "you took care of me."

  Her cheeks flush and nostrils flare.

  "I was a servant," she shouts.

  "I didn't know," my voice cracks.

  "Of course not," she seethes, stepping closer. "We wouldn't dare speak or touch you," she exaggerates. "We weren't allowed."

  Blinking the tears from my eyes, nausea makes my mouth water. Swallowing, I shake my head.

  "I don't," I hiccup, and try again, "I don't understand."

  "Father forbade it," John states.

  There's a change in his stance, anger vibrating just beyond his eyes.

  "But why would—"

  "Because YOU were his precious little doll," she shouts, taking a step forward.

  John grabs her arm, holding her back.

  "Molly," he says in warning.

  My eyes widen, and she smirks, crossing her arms over her chest. "You thought our real names were Caroline and John?" With a snort, she glances over her shoulder. "She's dumber than I thought, Andy."

  Molly and Andy, my sister and brother. Not Caroline and John, the new neighbors in my apartment building.

  "Just like Mei is your real name," she taunts, rolling her eyes.

  "Enough." His order silences her.

  "Let me go," I plea.

  "Let you go?" His face contorts with anger.

  I take a step back, my thighs meeting the footboard of my childhood bed.

  "Let you go," he repeats on a shout. "You belong with your family."

  Clenching my teeth, I fight the protest at the tip of my tongue.

  "I've spent years looking for you," he informs.

  Closing the distance between us, he cups my face in both of his calloused hands.

  "I was so close all those years ago." His eyes search my face, lingering on my mouth. "But you ran from me."

  My body jerks at his admission, wanting to run now.

  "It was you?" I ask what I already know.

  The night my life forever changed from foster kid to runaway on the streets. It wasn't my father who came for me, but my brother.

  His face dips close.

  "You belong with me." His words warm my lips.

  The sudden memory of what I'd heard from my neighbor's apartment assaults me. Her moans and his grunts.

  "Your mother almost ruined everything. Our father thought he could take away what he promised," he continues, "but I took care of them both."

  "What?" Molly asks in a shout.