“Fair enough,” he said. He gestured for me to stand beside him near the glass, and I hesitated. A part of me wanted the answers, but another part of me wanted to tell this motherfucker he could fuck right off for using me.
What did I do? I went to him. I stood beside him. I saw how the bouncers below still boxed Carter in. Everyone else in the club sat at their tables, acting as if nothing was wrong, as if this was just tonight’s business.
And maybe it was. Maybe this was just another night at a DeLuca business. Who was I to say? I had no idea about any of this stuff; I still didn’t know how things worked. For the longest time, I’d been so blind to the dark underbelly of this city because I’d spent all of my time going out to clubs and getting taken home by my prey. There was so much more going on here.
It must’ve been obvious that I stared down at Carter, for Tony broke his silence to say, “He doesn’t know I’m here. All he knows is that someone wanted to talk to you, and he was not invited to the conversation.” Tony’s shoulders shook with a chuckle. “Although, it doesn’t look like he’s fighting hard to be at your side. It looks like he couldn’t care less about you and what happens behind closed doors.”
I knew what Tony was insinuating, and I fought the way his words made my anger flare up.
“Now, if your talent manager would’ve been Sylvester or Maddox, I have no doubt they would’ve pulled out their guns and flashed steel to get to your side,” he went on, dividing his time between staring at me and Carter down below. “It’s a good thing they’re not here.”
“I’ll say,” I muttered. “If they were here, you’d be nothing but a bloody pulp on the floor, bleeding out from a dozen gunshots.” I felt bold in my statement, for I knew it was true. If they saw Tony’s face at a DeLuca club, assumptions would be made, the same assumptions that danced in my head.
Tony didn’t think I was funny. The way he currently stared daggers at me nearly made me laugh. A stare like that might disarm some people, make others uncomfortable, but me? I was past the point of feeling those things. Right now, all I wanted was the truth, and I’d get it from Tony regardless of how long it took.
“I don’t know about that,” he muttered. “There’s about thirty other people here who would gladly put an end to the Luciano sons.” He took a step closer to me, his gaze dropping to take in my dress, the way it hugged my body. It wasn’t the first time he’d eaten up my appearance, but this time it felt different. This time it felt wrong. “I do have to thank you, Lola, for what you did. You killed Mario. You made all of this possible. Without you, the city would still think the Lucianos were at their best—but we all know they’re not.”
Me? How the hell could he give me credit for all of that?
He reached for me, running a hand down my arm, his bare fingers anything but pleasurable on my skin. Once he reached the gloves, that hand moved to my waist, holding onto me in a way that made my heart beat rapidly in my chest in all the wrong ways. “I’m not allowed to tell you everything, which kind of sucks, because I am dying to see the look on your face when you find out the truth.”
I gritted my jaw. “Then why are you here, Tony?” Every muscle in my body told me to sidestep him, to get away from him, but I knew there would be no running. There were just some things you knew deep down, and whatever would happen here was one of them.
Oh, there were objects in the office I could use as a weapon, but what good would that do me? It wouldn’t change the fact there were thirty people out there who would kill me with no hesitation whatsoever. Carter could take a few of them down, but we were far too outnumbered. Even assuming I could best Tony and grab the gun he held on his waist… it still wouldn’t be enough.
No, unfortunately for me, tonight wouldn’t be a repeat of my nights as the Night Slayer.
“I’m here to keep you occupied, to separate you from Carter,” he said, and as he spoke, I watched Carter reach for his phone in his pocket—though I could hardly see past the huge bouncers surrounding him. He answered the call. “Now, you’re probably wondering what all that’s about.” When Tony let out a laugh again, it was an ugly, sick sound that made goosebumps appear on my flesh. “Let’s just call tonight a three-pronged attack, shall we?”
Three… what the fuck was Tony going on about?
“If I had to guess, I’d say that’s Roman on the other line. Tonight, his girl was working. Just so happened tonight was also the night that three DeLuca agents stormed the Dollhouse and shot it up to hell.” Tony shook his head, a vicious smile on his face unlike any I’d ever seen. “Wonder if Zoey caught a bullet? Ah, well. Doesn’t matter, not to you, not to me.”
As Tony spoke, his hand snaked around my lower back, and we stood side by side, staring down at the club. Carter was on the phone for only a few moments, and then his phone was back in his pocket as he pushed past the bouncers—not to try to get to me, but to get out, to leave the Gilded Rose and, I assumed, go to the Dollhouse, where his girl might be injured.
And that left me here, alone, surrounded by people who would kill me with no qualms. What a night, eh?
“You said three-pronged,” I spoke, tearing my gaze away from the club below and moving it to Tony. There was no one else down there of interest, not to me. Now that Carter was gone and I was alone here, the only person who garnered my interest was the traitorous asshole beside me. The handsy one. “I’m assuming this is another. What’s the third?”
Did I even want to know what else the DeLucas had planned for tonight?
The corners of his mouth quirked into a sly grin. “The Milano apartment, of course. Viper and Big Mike are two of the best men the Lucianos have left. Take them out of the equation, and I’d say it’s only a matter of time until the DeLucas stamp out the rest of them. That’s where you come in—but that’s not my story to tell.”
He might’ve said more, but I was too lost in my own head. The Milano apartment. Viper and Mike. The DeLucas were there, possibly killing them, shooting them up in their sleep or torturing them to send a message to Daddy Luciano.
Why? Why tonight? And why the fuck did Tony say he owed it all to me?
Tony flicked his free wrist, glancing at a watch. Its golden rim sparkled in the dim light of the office, and it told him all he needed to know. “The car is coming at eleven. That leaves us with thirty minutes to kill.” He moved closer to me, pressing his body against mine, pinning me to the glass.
I didn’t move, barely even breathed. I averted my eyes, not wanting to see the face of the man I thought I knew. What a giant joke it must’ve all been to him. All this time, Tony was just along for the ride. The way he talked, how uncaring he was about Viper and Mike—he didn’t just turn. He’d been a double-agent this whole time and we were all too blind to see it.
And now? Now it was too late. Viper and Mike might be dead. Carter’s girl—and also Roman’s—might be hurt or dead, too. All because of me.
Me. Me, me, me. It was almost funny how strange this all was. How I barely felt like I was inside my own body. It was one shock after another, and the numbness that had followed me out of the Harding house was back in full force. After all, it was so much easier to be numb to it all.
There was no getting out of this. There was no turning back. If Viper and Mike were dead, Maddox and Sylvester would want me dead. If Carter and Roman’s girl was hurt, they’d want me dead, too. It was a lose-lose situation for me now, thanks to Tony and the wonderful DeLucas.
“I know exactly what we can do to kill the time,” Tony’s voice was in my ear, and though my eyes were open, though I stared up at the ceiling of the office, I felt everything fade away. The feeling. The hate. The shock and the confusion.
Could you be unconscious while still awake? Was something like that even possible? I didn’t know, but it didn’t matter. None of it mattered, in the end.
As his hands started tugging at my dress, I closed my eyes.
Chapter Twelve – Lola
Stifling and suffocating, hands
that should not be there but were anyways. Hands that gave me so much pain, filled me with a dreaded coldness that refused to go away. I couldn’t scream. I couldn’t fight. I could do nothing but stare up at the ceiling in my room and wait for it to be over.
Because it always was. Eventually.
Just live through it. Just get through it. Live to see another day. Maybe then my parents’ eyes would be open. Maybe then they would realize how their beautiful baby boy was slowly killing their little girl.
But they wouldn’t. Their eyes would never be open, and what was the point of living to see another day when all another day held was more of the same? More pain, more hate, more numbness. This was not the life I should’ve had. This was not right, but my voice… it was never strong enough. I could never cut through the silence, could never dare hope to see the light at the end of the tunnel.
My tunnel was nothing but an eternal blackness that roamed forever. No end, no beginning. Even in hell, this would be my torture—because surely that’s where I would go when I stopped drawing breath. Someone like me didn’t get to go to heaven.
Heaven was for angels, and me? My parents might’ve called me an angel. I might’ve had a voice for the ages and a talent on the piano that came naturally… but I was no angel. It had taken me years to see, and a few more years to accept it, but I was no goddamned angel.
I was a devil.
The next time I opened my eyes—or, rather, the next time I remembered opening my eyes—I found I was no longer in the club. I was in a car. A limo. Tony was nowhere to be found, which was good. I didn’t want him to be here, didn’t want to see that fucking face again. If I did… it was hard to think about what I’d do, because at the same time, I was trying to push it all away.
It was a bizarre thing, you know, feeling like you lost it. Going insane and being aware of it was not something most people did, I think. Maybe I was just lucky to feel my sanity slipping away.
These past few weeks… learning to live with the Lucianos and enjoying myself with them, it had all been a joke. A farce. A lie. No one could ever truly care for me. I should’ve known that by now. Feelings weren’t involved. Only bodies. Only carnal needs that, once released, were gone. Nothing more.
Silly, silly Lola Harding.
Silly me.
Stupid me.
I sat in the back of the limo, all by myself, no guards around. The limo had stopped beside a rather impressive house, one that was unfamiliar to me. The driver was a man who was also unrecognized to me, and he got out and moved around the limo, holding the door open for me. I guess I was to go inside?
Slowly I got out, and once I stood straight, I ran my hands down my dress. It was wrinkled, greasy handprints on it from past use. I wished I didn’t know how my dress had gotten like this, but I did.
Hands. It always came down to hands that weren’t mine. Hands and cocks. Hmm. Maybe I should start cutting them off, give the Night Slayer a new M.O. All hands and cocks must go!
The driver led me to the front door, also opening it for me. I barely glanced at him, too busy gazing around at the immaculate house. Finer than the Luciano house, definitely, not that I ever thought I’d find myself in a similarly-fancy place. This one almost put my childhood home to shame.
How would mommy and daddy dearest feel if they found out a crime family had a nicer house than them? I bet my parents would’ve died in fright and embarrassment, if they weren’t already dead.
The driver said nothing as he led me through the house. He brought me into what must be a sitting room, gesturing for me to sit on one of the gaudy couches decorating it, so I did. He disappeared again, leaving me alone.
Alone, but not alone—for how could you ever truly be alone when your mind had so many conflicting thoughts? How could you be alone when your memories kept rushing to the surface of your mind and threatening the life you thought you had built? Here’s a hint: you weren’t. You were never alone. Those fucking memories were always with you, no matter what you did.
I used to think I was strong. I used to think I’d moved on, but I was wrong. I was only lying to myself. A pity. I put on a hell of a good show, didn’t I?
Wait. Don’t answer that. I preferred to live my life in ignorance now, for as long as my life would be—which probably wouldn’t be too long, now that I’d gotten myself entangled in a war between two big wig crime families.
Who the fuck knew how long I sat there, memorizing the hideous wallpaper, when the driver reappeared with a tray. A tray of tea, oddly enough. He set it down on the end table near the couch I sat on, bowing his head to me and saying, “Ms. DeLuca will be with you shortly.” He said nothing else, leaving the room momentarily.
Ms. DeLuca? Well, what would you know? I was about to meet the heir to the DeLuca throne. Didn’t know what that meant for Carl DeLuca, but I supposed in the end it didn’t much matter. You know what they said: girls ran the world. I’d meet his daughter, the Bloody Princess everyone was so scared of, and maybe I’d actually be impressed. You never knew.
I liked to think I wasn’t easily impressed, since I was a serial killer of my own.
Alone in the sitting room, I did not reach for the tea on the tray. Tea was so not my thing. I’d take pop, energy drinks, hell, even orange juice—but not fucking tea. No offense to anyone who liked to gulp down that stuff, but the taste just wasn’t for me.
And, yes, I was aware there was more than one type of tea. Still a no from me, thanks.
My eyes fell to my hands, which rested in my lap. My palms were up, fingers slightly uncurled. They were not calloused hands, nor were they the hands of someone who’d done an ounce of hard work in their life, though I would argue with you that killing could sometimes be hard work. But that was of my own design, I guess. They were the hands born to a rich family.
Hands. Fucking hands.
But at least mine weren’t hands that hurt someone who didn’t deserve it. At least the hands attached to me were instruments of vengeance and not tools of abuse. These hands had been bloody more times than I could count, and yet staring down at them didn’t fill me with unease, because they were mine.
You know who I’d love to strangle with my hands? A few people came to mind, but right now one was in the forefront—at least temporarily. Tony. Tony, Tony, Tony. Tony had been a bad boy, and I hoped I’d see him somewhere alone, where I could teach him a lesson in manners.
After all, you didn’t take things that didn’t belong to you, and you sure as shit didn’t force women to take your dick.
Maybe Tony Torio would be the first in my hands and dick spree. Maybe I’d saw them off with a teeny, tiny scalpel, just to make the pain last, wrap the meat up in a box with some pretty tissue paper, and mail it to the police station. What a fun present that would be.
It was as I was imagining what I’d do with Tony when someone else walked into the room. I didn’t bother getting up, because I didn’t care about showing respect to Ms. DeLuca. Wearing a black skirt that hugged her legs to her knees and a matching shirt along with heels that even I was jealous of was a woman who seemed quite pleased to meet me.
“Dolly Queen,” Ms. DeLuca spoke, “or should I say, Lola Harding?”
I was about to say something smart back, but then I saw her face—and then I realized I’d met her before, at the Gilded Rose. She’d pulled me aside and had words with me. She’d worn a feather boa, carried herself so elegantly and haughtily. A woman in her forties, with short blonde hair that was slightly curled and eyes the color of amber.
This was the DeLuca heir? This was the Bloody Princess? Frankly, I might’ve been shocked at seeing her again, but I wasn’t impressed by her in the least… which was why I refused to stand and shake her hand.
She sat on the same couch as me, glancing at the tray of tea on the end table. Her features twisted into annoyance, and she muttered, “Always with the formality. I have to say, I’m not a huge fan of tea myself. Never was, as much as my father tried to force it down me.”<
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I said nothing, only staring at her. I could safely assume she knew everything about me, or at least everything Tony knew. I bet the traitor had run his mouth something fierce when I’d come onto the scene. How idiotic we’d all been, especially me. If I would’ve stayed true to my psychotic self and not let myself get carried away with the sexy, crazy Lucianos, I would be dead by now, and not in this mess.
“Where are my manners?” she asked, giving me a smile that felt warm but I knew was fake. “I’m Bianca DeLuca, Carl DeLuca’s last remaining heir. This is not the first time we’ve met, but if I recall correctly, I didn’t introduce myself to you that night at the Gilded Rose. I’m sure you can understand why, now.”
I said nothing, which caused her to say, “Oh, please, Lola, don’t be mute on my account. This whole conversation will go a lot smoother if you talk to me, ask me all of the questions you have. I’m sure Tony told you a bit, but I did instruct him not to tell you the whole story. I wanted that honor, you see.”
Tony. I could think of a lot of things I wanted to do to Tony.
My lips took their time in grinning. “Why am I here, Bianca—or should I call you the Bloody Princess?”
She let out a chuckle. “You have spirit in you. I knew I liked you.” After adjusting her legs, folding one ankle over the other—a very rigid and refined posture—she went on, “Bianca is fine, dear. And you are here for many reasons, as I’m sure you know.”
Even now, I didn’t see the whole story. “You and Tony were working together.” I didn’t speak it as a question, because that much I already knew. The way she spoke of Tony, how Tony had been already waiting up in that office in the club, before Carter and I arrived… it was the only thing that made sense.
Which meant, by extension, Bianca wanted her father dead.
“That we are,” she admitted. “I have to say, when he came to me, I was a bit apprehensive. The Torios haven’t been a big name in this city for decades now. I didn’t even know they were still around, frankly. But then he told me all about a pretty blonde girl who’d killed the youngest Luciano son, and I was intrigued. I knew I had to meet you. Anyone who’d take out a Luciano on their own is a friend of mine.”
Crooked Heart (A Death So Sweet Book 2) Page 19
