“I think I do.” She sniffled, wiped her nose and eyes. “And you’re wrong. We may both hate, but I don’t hate myself. I know who I am. I’m not evil. I don’t hurt people. You…you’re a monster. You hate yourself more than you could ever hate anyone else.”
I swallowed hard suddenly, wanting my mask, needing it. She saw me, she saw right through me, and she said the words I was too fucking afraid of, too much of a coward to say myself. The words I was too weak to own.
I stood and kicked the chair out from behind me, sending it crashing against the far wall, making her jump, making her lean away from me.
“Turn around.” I ordered.
She eyed the crop, and I saw her tremble as her red, puffy eyes searched mine.
“Turn the fuck around.” Quieter now. Had she realized yet I was at my deadliest when I grew calm? I watched her think. I studied this girl who desperately needed humbling. This girl who burrowed too deep under my fucking skin.
Her eyes darted to the crop once more, and I set it aside. I didn’t need that. There were other punishments. Pain wasn’t the worst I could do.
Her throat worked as she swallowed, but slowly, she turned to face away from me. Her hair had come partially out of the braid. I reached to pull the elastic holding it together out. Gia startled but held her position. I ruffled the braid I’d so carefully pleated until her long hair hung down her back. I picked up the mass of it and set it over one shoulder. She remained tense, shoulders high, arms tight by her sides as I squatted down to trace my fingertips down the length of her spine. Her skin was so soft, her body slender, the lines long and straight, her narrow waist giving way to rounded hips. Her arms were toned, like I’d noticed her legs were. Apart from the bruising and that branding scar, she was flawless. Perfect.
I pulled my hand away like I’d been burned and stood.
“Put your forehead on the floor and raise your hips.” My voice held a different tone, quieter, darker. My cock throbbed to life, hard and ready and wanting.
Wanting her.
She turned her head, just glancing behind her but not quite able to hold my gaze.
“Do it.”
I didn’t know what I would do. I could anticipate what she expected, why her face had twisted, and why she remained silent as she slowly leaned forward, her bound hands sliding along the floor, creating a cushion for her forehead as she did as she was told.
I waited, taking her in, slight and frightened and so fucking erotic. I wanted her. I wanted her surrender, her submission, but more than that. I wanted her in a way that was different. Not like the others. Not like the women before—in my former life.
She raised her hips slowly, and I sucked in a breath.
I’d seen her naked. I’d cleaned her. I’d touched her. I’d tasted her. But this, this presenting of herself to me, even if it was under duress, it felt different. And some part of me, it longed for her. Longed to have her. Possess her. Break her and own her.
It longed for this surrender, for her submission, to be real.
I don’t know how long we stayed like that, her quiet and obedient, me in some trance, under this strange spell, watching like this was the first woman I’d seen like this. Wanting like I’d never wanted before. Feeling something almost pure wash over me, at least momentarily, before she sniffled, and I knew she was crying. Quietly crying. Afraid.
No.
Terrified.
Overpowered.
Breaking.
I took a step back, seeing as if for the first time this filthy floor in this filthy room. This terrible place where I would break her, break this beautiful, perfect creature and make her less. I would take everything away from her. That was what I did. What I had done to so many others.
I stumbled backward some more, misstepped, and caught myself.
Pure. I’d felt something pure washing over me. What a joke. What a sick, fucking joke.
I turned on my heel and walked out the door, slamming it shut behind me, locking it, locking her in. I grabbed my jacket and keys and stalked out of the cabin, breaking my own rule and leaving her behind. I climbed into my truck and drove through the narrow passage in the woods and out onto the open road. I didn’t stop at the nearest town like I would have in the past. I didn’t want a woman. And I didn’t want whiskey. I just wanted to be out of my head. Out of my skin. I wanted to be someone else. Anyone else. Because the lowest scum of the earth had to be better than the filth that was me. Than the aberration that was me. This hateful monster who hurt, who broke, who took beauty that did not belong to him and destroyed it.
She was right. Salvatore had been right.
I was a monster.
I was the worst kind of monster.
6
Gia
He’d left the blanket behind. After washing my face and hands, I grabbed it and wrapped it over my shoulders, not caring how dirty it was, not caring about the stains or the smell. I just held it to me and climbed onto the bed and lay on my side, shivering, knees pulled in to my chest, clutching this foul blanket to me. And no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t make the tears stop. I wept like I had when I’d watched Mateo die. How could there be tears left inside me? How could more come, how could I not be dead of dehydration after all this fucking crying?
They’d shot him in the back of the head after they’d cut out his tongue. They’d made me watch it all. Watch him as he set his face before the block—a fucking tree stump stained with the dried blood of how many others? I’d watched as he had laid his tongue on the stump, his eyes wide, trying hard not to show his fear. Failing. I’d seen Victor’s nod in my periphery, giving the order. Watched the ax come down and blood pour and Mateo fall over, a garbled scream coming from him. From my brother. My vital, loving, crazy brother whom I loved so, so fucking much.
He’d done it to save me. To spare me. He’d made Victor promise. He’d made the deal. He’d offered his tongue in exchange for my life.
And then, after, was it a mercy then that they’d hauled him up to his knees and pressed his head back onto the block until he held it there, chin cushioned in his own dismembered tongue, in the pool of his own blood seeping into the stump of the tree. He’d looked at me once more before closing his eyes. That was the moment he’d given up hope. I knew it. I saw it. Victor pushed the barrel of the gun to the back of his head then. This time, the scream was mine.
There had been so much blood, an impossible amount. My brother’s blood covered me as he fell over, gone, his savaged, beaten body murdered, his life stolen before my eyes, just inches from me while I stood powerless to save him.
He’d made Victor promise he wouldn’t kill me. That was the deal. They’d have cut his tongue out anyway, but maybe they’d have done it after he’d died. Or maybe they’d force him. I didn’t know. I didn’t care. All I knew was that I’d never forget the sound of the ax coming down, the look on Mateo’s face, in his eyes. And then that final, deafening sound of the gun being fired.
I’d read that in real life—as opposed to the movies—it sounded like a pop, but this was no pop. It was an explosion, an ear piercing, deafening explosion. Louder than anything I’d ever heard before. More horrible than anything I’d seen.
I’d never forget that day. I’d never forget what they did to him. And it was the one thing that kept me together now. The thing that had me gathering the pieces of myself. Because if I gave in now, then Mateo’s death was for nothing. Victor thought he’d won. That Mateo and I were finished. But he was wrong. I had vowed vengeance for what he’d done. I had promised it silently to Mateo, to myself. And I needed to pull myself together, to collect my strength, because I knew now that I had a chance. I knew it.
I had fully expected Death to rape me. I thought…I thought what else could he want? I had taunted him—hell, maybe I wanted him to kill me, to end it all, to make the decision and take the responsibility of vengeance away from me. But that was weak. I knew that now. Hell, I’d known it then. And he, this man I called D
eath, he surprised me. He unwittingly gave me hope.
I was different to him. He wanted me. I could see it in his face, his eyes. He’d made a mistake, taking off that mask. He should never have done that. He didn’t know me. He didn’t know I would stop at nothing to avenge my brother.
Although he was right about one thing. There was one area where we were alike. We both hated. We’d both been hurt—no, we’d been battered. But neither he nor I had broken, and I wouldn’t break now. He wanted to break me. It was his job. I had a suspicion, though, that that wasn’t wholly true. His own conflicting emotions weakened him. But it would be good to remember that those exact things made him dangerous. They made him volatile and unpredictable. I needed to control him. I didn’t need to search for a how. I knew how. I just had to come to terms with the fact that the idea of it didn’t repel me like it should. The thought of his hands on me, his mouth on me, his cock inside me, it didn’t turn my stomach. The opposite, actually. And that was what made me sick. That made me question who I was. How I could feel these things, feel this way. How I could not abhor this man.
Because if I did hate him, if I were repelled by him, I would still do what I had to do, and I would hate myself a little less for it. But as it stood now, as I felt now, I knew I had to be some sort of monster to be able to feel attraction for my captor. To come under his tongue. To want it again.
I’d lied when I’d said what I’d said to him about it being physical. It wasn’t physical, not for me. It never could be.
He’d said he had two weeks to train me. To ready me for the auction. Well, I had two weeks, then. Two weeks to get under his skin, to burrow so deep he couldn’t let me go. He’d have no choice but to keep me. Perhaps even to help me.
No, that I could not expect. I would kill him as soon as I could. It would be good training for when the time came to kill Victor. Because killing was new to me. I may have been born into a family of foot soldiers, men who’d worked for various crime families for generations, but I’d never even touched a gun, never felt the weight of one in my hands. I would learn, though. Maybe I’d even learn how to wield an ax when it came time to take Victor down.
I let hate fuel me while I gathered my courage and pushed the blanket off. I walked into the bathroom and, with my hands bound, switched on the shower. I didn’t wait for the water to warm. Instead, I stepped into the tub and stood beneath a spray of icy water, not thinking about the dirt at my feet, the filth around me. I washed away my fear and willed myself to think of Mateo, of his strength right up until the end. I exchanged fear for strength and let the water wash away any weakness inside me. When I was finished, I returned to my room and waited there, ready for Death to come.
But he didn’t come back. Not for the space of six meals.
A few hours later—I wasn’t sure if it was hours, as time seemed to crawl by, so it could have been an hour or a day—when the door opened again, it wasn’t Death who entered.
All my resolve, all the courage I’d thought I’d gathered, all the strength and drive I had built up, dissolved when that door opened and another man entered.
The only sound was that of my gasp. He was almost as tall as Death but built differently, his body almost paunchy although still strong. He had dark hair and black spots for eyes, his skin tanned and leathery. I’d guess him to be in his late thirties but for the look in his eyes, which seemed ancient. I couldn’t see his face. He had a black bandanna draped over his nose and mouth.
I pulled the blanket to me.
“Don’t flatter yourself.” He stepped into the room and closed the door behind him, locking it and pocketing the key. He carried a tray of food and two bottles of water.
I started to salivate at the smell of rice and chicken wafting from the takeaway box. I sat up straighter, unable to drag my eyes away from it. My stomach growled, and the man chuckled. As he came closer, I inched away but stayed on the bed with the blanket covering me. His eyes remained hard as they watched me, and he set the tray down on the nightstand.
He then produced a fork. A real fork, not a plastic one. “You get one chance with this. If you think you can try to stab me with it or do anything else stupid, I’ll whip your ass and dump your next meal on the floor for you to lick it off, understand?”
I swallowed, wanting the food, my gaze locked on the man’s. I nodded.
He held the fork out to me. I hesitated, knowing this was a challenge from the way he raised an eyebrow.
I reached out, intending on grabbing the fork out of his hand without touching him, but he had other plans. As soon as I was close enough, he snatched my wrist and yanked me toward him, twisting my arm as he did.
I cried out in pain.
“I’m not playing fucking games, we clear on that?”
“Yes! You’re going to break my arm!”
He tugged once more, smiling as he yanked another cry from me, then released me and set the fork down on the tray.
“Eat it all,” he said. He turned around and walked back out the door like our exchange was the most casual thing in the world.
Once the door locked behind him, I picked up the box and fork and opened the lid. Chicken and rice and even a side of broccoli. How thoughtful to give me my veggies. It was bland but warm, and I ate every last rubbery bite, forcing myself to slow down so I wouldn’t throw it up. My body needed this fuel. I needed it if I had any hope of surviving.
The stranger threw me. Was Death gone? Had he quit? Could you do that in his line of work?
I almost laughed at that last thought, drained the second bottle of water, and sat back, feeling better for having eaten. When was the last time I’d had something warm? How long had I been here, and how long had Victor kept me prisoner before turning me over to Death? How long ago had Mateo died?
For five more meals, the man with the beady black eyes came, checked that I’d eaten everything, took the trash and left me with new food. By the third delivery, I started to ask questions: what day it was, what time, where was Death? He never answered a single one. It seemed we were getting on a regular schedule, though, with the meals. Maybe two in a twenty-four-hour period? I couldn’t be sure, but I was starving between them.
The delivery of the seventh meal changed everything. Just as I was starting to get more comfortable, even considering using my fork to do the very thing he warned me not to do, everything changed.
That was when Death returned.
He came when I was sleeping. It was night. No sunlight penetrated the slats of wood over the windows. I woke to find him inside the room, standing at the foot of the bed, watching me. I startled, screamed, and scrambled as close to the top of the bed as I could, the blanket bunched up in my arms, a barrier between him and me.
He wore his mask again. It took me a minute, but I knew it was him. I knew it from his body, from the way he moved. It was as though he screamed power.
“Didn’t meant to startle you.”
His voice mocked me. He walked around the bed, and it took all I had not to scream again, not to run to the other side of the room to get away from him. He’d changed. He was different. He was cocky, a bastard, like in the very beginning.
“We’re changing how we do things.”
He took hold of the blanket and tugged it from me. I fell forward and had to release my hold on the one thing that gave me comfort. But maybe it was good he took it. It gave me a false sense of security. As if somehow, everything would be okay. It would never be okay. Nothing would ever be okay again. How could I ever think it would? How could I ever think I could seduce him? That I could somehow win him over, make him want me enough that he didn’t take me to the auction but would instead keep me for himself? That he would help me avenge my brother’s murder?
“I heard you’ve been eating, doing as you’re told.”
I didn’t answer, I couldn’t. I just watched him, my gaze glued to that fucking mask as he folded up the blanket and set it on the chair in the corner.
“And that you d
idn’t attack Leo with the fork.”
Leo. That was the other man’s name. What was Death’s name? And why the fuck was he wearing that mask again? It worked as a barrier, shielding him from me, keeping him separate from me. And looking at it terrified me.
“I don’t like the mask,” I said, my voice coming out small.
“Don’t you.” It wasn’t a question.
He unbuckled his belt and pulled it through the loops, holding it like he had that night he’d whipped me, with the buckle in his palm. He then raised his other hand and curled his finger, motioning for me to go to him.
“Kneel.” He pointed to the spot by his feet.
I watched him, beginning to tremble, unable to take my eyes off that terrible mask.
“Gia.”
“Take it off. Please, take it off.” I gripped the rungs of the headboard when he placed one knee on the bed as if he were going to come get me. “Please, just take it off.”
In an instant, he was on the bed, one hand fisting my hair and dragging me off and toward the floor.
“I said fucking kneel!” he roared.
I cowered at his feet, covering my ears as best as I could with my wrists still bound together, my heart hammering against my chest, tears spilling down my cheeks, screaming at the searing burn of the belt across my ass.
“When I say kneel, you fucking kneel!”
He lashed me twice more, his anger a palpable thing, his rage so real, so fucking terrifying, I did more than kneel. I crouched down at his feet, my forehead on the floor, then on his boot. I knew he was punishing me not only for disobeying his first command to kneel, but for the last time he was here, for what had happened then, for how he’d left, for his having stayed away. He was punishing me for his own weakness, his own sin.
When he stepped back, I kept my head down, whimpering, my chest heaving with heavy breath, my back and ass throbbing with the lashes he’d delivered.
“Up on hands and knees.”
I obeyed, moving as quickly as I could, not earning a stroke this time. He took two more steps away.
Dominic: a Dark Mafia Romance (Benedetti Brothers Book 2) Page 6
