Chapter 16
“You can stop glaring at me, Lottie.” Beaumont was entirely bland, bored even, with her glower. He saw her work her jaw and smirked. “It’s a man’s place to protect his wife. ‘Bout time you started to learn that.”
“You owe me an apology, Beau,” Charlie growled, tempted to rip the glass of whiskey out of her mentor’s hand. “Since you opened your mouth my life has gone to Hell.”
“You should be thankin’ me.” Radcliffe’s smirk grew far more arrogant. “I’m doin’ you a favor.”
“By betraying me? By ruining the only good thing I have ever had going?” That’s it, she was gonna hit him. “I was happy!”
Raising a brow at her burst of temper, Beau looked her dead in the eye, and offered advice. “You say you love that man. Well marriage won’t last if you kept up as you were—sneaking around instead of telling the truth.”
Charlie rolled her eyes. “Like you tell Martha everything?”
Swirling the whiskey in his glass, Beau crossed an ankle over his knee before sipping. “She knows where every last body is buried, where every last, hard cent is hidden.”
Charlie downed her drink and rudely held out her glass so it might get refilled.
Beau’s fine crystal decanter was drained to the last drop. “Aren’t you going to say anything?”
Murder was in those baby-blues. “Who hired Roy?”
“I told you. I don’t know.”
Gritting her teeth to keep from shrieking, Charlie leaned nearer. “I know this is somehow my fault. I know you’re all lying to me. What’s Matthew told you? Why do you insist I stay at your house instead of the Drake? Why did you personally pick me up at the station? Did he call you? What’d he say?”
“You’re being a bit dramatic, Lottie...”
Her lower lip shook. “If someone kills him, you’re going to answer for it, goddamn it!”
Beaumont only laughed, opening his coat to pull out a small silver case. Placing a fresh cigarette between his lips, he gave her that look—the playful and dangerous look of an amused evil man.
They sat in silence, Charlie nursing her drink and wounded ego, Radcliffe smoking like he didn’t have a care in the world. When the quiet got boring, Charlie sighed, leaned back defeated, and grumbled, “I have been seeing a lot of Tommy’s ugly mug in the papers. Your boy’s getting pretty notorious—very cocky.”
“Tommy’s down at state line. I got him taking in shipments from the crackers he hates so much. Another week or two of hard labor, and he’ll remember his place.”
“Careful with him, Beau.” Head fuzzy, Charlie watched her friend between narrowed lashes. “That prick sees himself as greatness in the making.”
Beaumont shrugged and sipped his drink. “He’s smarter than some… Smart enough to know what I would do to him should he step out of line.”
“He ain’t that smart.”
* * *
Martha was a bit wiser in her handling of the melancholy girl. She had Charlie all to herself for once, and used the time to offer endless distractions. In the mornings, it was Martha who burst in to wake her, Martha directing her maid to fluff, style, girdle, and paint her little protégé, Martha who had each day fully mapped out for them.
Charlie let her have her way, trying to smile, trying to keep up. She kept quiet, she didn’t curse. There was plenty to distract her: shows, restaurants, shopping, museums… it never ended. It was only at night, sitting in the parlor after dinner, that Charlie had a moment’s peace. Three days of it; three long days of trying to be the socialite—a dim flicker next to Martha’s bright flame—had done its job. Charlie hardly had time to think on Matthew.
Everywhere they went, Beaumont’s men were near. If Charlie sneezed, half the room came out of the woodwork to see if she needed a hanky. The morning of the so-called ‘small’ bridal shower, Charlie found the entire restaurant booked, flowers everywhere. Every woman of influence in the city was in attendance. Complete strangers wished her happiness in marriage, offered opulent gifts, and embraced her as if they had been friends for life. The entire thing was absolutely ridiculous.
It was as Martha said, business, a required show—a necessary way for Martha to build bridges and establish who was loyal. Charlie paid attention, watched the subtle communications amongst the females, marveling at just what was really going on. A lifetime with men had left her with hardly a clue as to how women managed in groups. In one day it was clear females were territorial, far more than the men were, and social events forged alliances and defined boundaries.
Mrs. Radcliffe was a powerful woman.
Reporters arrived and shot photos of the blushing bride for the front page, Martha at her side like a mother hen, offering direction on how to manage the crowd, and answering the press’ questions effortlessly and elusively before shooing them away.
Cake, covered in cream and piles of strawberries, was rolled in amidst the clapping and soft awes of Martha’s guests. It was good, as was all the champagne waiters kept pouring into Charlie’s glass. By the time the event ended, it was late evening. Tipsy, full of sweet things, Charlie was ordered home.
Beaumont’s men were at the door, Martha waving goodbye so she might stay behind and see all the gifts packed properly in another car.
For a moment everything seemed like it was going to be okay. Charlie even smiled as she stumbled into the back seat of the fancy ride prepared to take her back to the Radcliffe estate.
It wasn’t until the door closed, until the car lurched, that Charlie even realized someone sat beside her. A cloth soaked with chloroform was shoved at her face, Charlie able to do little more than claw Tommy’s arm all the long seconds it took for everything to go dark.
Chapter 17
It was the taste of something awful that woke Charlie. Smacking her lips, vision blurry, vertigo almost emptied her belly right there on the grubby floor her cheek smushed against.
Half her body was pins and needles, her fingers twitching and useless from how tightly her hands had been tied behind her back.
“Well, sleeping beauty looks like she’s starting to wake.”
That cocky drawl and Charlie forced her eyes open. The room may have spun when she rolled on her bound arms to see him, but that didn’t stop her from glaring at the cause of her discomfort.
Tommy Kennedy. The handsome man smiled down, crouched over her; he even had the nerve to brush a stray hair out of her eyes. “I gotta admit, Blackbird. I am a little disappointed. Snatching you was… easy.” One manicured finger traced the slope of her cheek, Tommy pulling back when she ineptly tried to bite. “Well, I guess no one lives up to their reputation these days.”
“What the fuck, Tommy?”
All at once that masculine beauty was marred by a sneer. “Fuck is exactly what this is. You… you, Blackbird, are one huge FUCK. As in the fucking way. You had your chance to make this easy—to have your pretty little life, with your pretty little place in it. Had you done as you were told, you might have even been content as my wife—once the rules were established, of course.” He pressed his thumb to the scar on her lower lip. “But no, you bitched to Radcliffe and fucked with my place in the gang. You fucked the redneck. Then you fucking killed the men I hired to fix the problem. They were only going to rough you up a little, nothing a whore’s daughter wouldn’t be able to shake off. I was even going to be the one to save you. Wouldn’t that have been nice?”
Nauseous, Charlie tried to push up from the ground. When hands came to help her, she was unsure what was worse: Lying vulnerable, or squatting on her knees so Tommy might tidy her dress to cover her thighs. “So you’re gonna crow, then kill me? Ain’t that cliché?”
“Oh no, Lottie. You’ve got value. All that press today… You’re a hit in Chicago, kid. Little Miss Charlotte Elliot, niece of Beaumont Radcliffe, preparing to walk down the aisle.”
How did any of it matter when it was clear torture was on the menu? Victims were not dragged to warehouses so pleasa
nt conversation might take place. They weren’t stuck in rooms where no one might hear them scream. “And the two burly strangers standing at your back?”
That charming smile was back, Tommy winking. “They’re going to hurt you.”
Charlie knew full well what was coming. “It’d be smarter to shoot me outright.” She smiled coldly. “Cause I swear to God, if I walk out of this room, I’ll slit your throat.”
Patting her on the head as if she were some cute pet, Tommy pretended she had not spoken at all. “Beaumont was an interesting boss—artistic. I learned a lot from the son of a bitch over the years. But imagine my surprise when I discovered that little Blackbird, his favorite runt of a scampering servant, was this woman kneeling pretty before me.” He took her neck, gripped her chin, and squeezed just enough to stop breath. “And then to find he was giving that scrawny little bastard of a whore recognition as his kin. He surprised me.” Tommy tutted when her face bloomed red and Charlie fought the rope at her wrists. “Not many men can surprise me these days.”
Showing teeth, Charlie exhausted the last of her breath to hiss, “That’s because you’re too fucking stupid to know what’s going on half the time.”
A backhand rocked her hard enough that Charlie crashed hard against cold ground. A foreign laugh sounded—the men in bad suits waiting by the door finding the show rather funny. They stared right back at her when she contorted her neck to measure their approach, both smiling at the sad picture she made splayed and struggling.
It was about to begin, but Charlie was not going down without one last jab. “You know why Beau wanted me to marry you, Tommy? He knew you couldn’t cut it—wanted me to take the reins.”
Standing over her, his shoe right by her skull, Tommy tapped her reddened cheek with his toe. “I’m sure that’s what he told you. You would have been a convenient little leash. But the truth is, Beaumont’s an old fool. Though I got to give it to him, he did have the right idea about one thing.”
“Oh, yeah? And what would that be?”
“That me marrying a Radcliffe would simplify my ascent to head of the gang and glorify my rise in the eyes of all Chicago.”
“You are delusional if you think Beau is gonna let this slide. He’ll fucking kill you, Tommy.”
“No need to worry your pretty little head. Beau’s already dead...”
Even if she’d seen it happen to other men a thousand times over, it could not be true. A man like Beau, someone so grand, could never have been brought down by swine like Tommy. But Charlie knew where they were. The building Tommy had stashed her in was coarse red brick. A place she’d skulked as a girl—the Radcliffe storage yard.
And if they were there… Tommy ruled the roost.
Charlie went pale, she swallowed. “And who’s gonna back you once those loyal to Beau call for your head? No outside men, no wanna be gangsters, are going to be able to hold a city like this. Chicago won’t bow to interlopers or pretty boy graspers. If Matthew don’t kill you, the Italians will!”
“The Italians and I… we have an understanding.”
“YOU FUCKING TRAITOR!”
Tommy crouched down to wipe a string of spittle from her lips. “And you should know, your redneck, his kin, were gunned down the moment they rolled into town this fine evening. That boy… Eli… hear tell he cried like a baby—just like you did when you got shot in the belly.”
The thought of Matthew lying dead... butchered. Her lip shook, and it felt all too real. “You’re lying.”
Tommy grabbed her by the hair so she might look him in the eye, the man whispering menacingly sweet. “Every last one of them died while you were swilling champagne with Martha. Your party was a great distraction, Beau’s best all there to babysit you while I gutted that bastard myself. So you see, ain’t no one coming to save you. Not Beaumont, not your hick.”
It felt like someone had scooped out her insides, but that didn’t change her nature. “I ain’t never needed saving.”
“We’ll see how you feel in a couple hours... If you beg, I might just listen.” Tommy’s next bark was for the men at the door. “Work her over, but no bruises can show for her big day tomorrow.” He slapped her cheek just hard enough to be annoying, talking with each tap. “Once you understand your place and learn what’s in store for you when you act up, we got an appointment at city hall, Lottie. I would prefer to see that pretty face intact when we pose for the papers. And don’t worry, I won’t touch you until I’m certain there’s no hick spawn in need of scraping from your belly.”
* * *
They’d ripped off her dress, leaving Charlie in a slip and bloomers. By the end of the first hour, the scraps were torn and bloody.
No matter the pain, her mouth wouldn’t quit. She hissed out every last curse she knew—threatened their mothers, their sisters—swore she’d chew off their cocks.
Another fist punched a kidney. She’d spit up and pretended she wasn’t crying.
Through it all, Tommy outlined a litany of rules. “You will obey, smile, and bat your eyelashes for the press, little wife. You will only speak when I tell you to speak.”
“F... fu... ck you.”
She was shoved down on her belly, her legs pulled taut before the crack of a belt hit her back in rapid succession. But it didn’t stop there. That biting leather traveled down her buttocks, over the length of her legs, and smacked with the greatest fury against the soles of her feet.
And God help her, but Charlie started screaming. Like all the others who had been tortured in that room over the years, no fucking soul could hear.
On it went. Hour after hour until she no longer had the strength to fight the rope cutting into her wrists, until she no longer made noise when kicked, punched, or whipped. She just stared forward and wondered why Matthew’s ghost hadn’t come to get her.
Probably cause she was going to burn in Lucifer’s pit...
A square of cloth dabbed under her eyes, Tommy gentle. “I don’t think you’re listening, Lottie.”
She wasn’t. All she heard was the ringing in her ears and the broken, overloud sound of each breath she could hardly suck in.
Tommy snapped his fingers before her eyes, saw her rapid blinks, and cooed, “Had enough, huh?” He cut one of Charlie’s hands free, leaving a coil still tied tight like a tether around the other. “All you gotta say is you’ll be a good little wife.”
Blood rushing back into her hand brought another new pain. Pins and needles set her fingers twitching.
“Kill me.”
“You’re no good to me dead. At least not yet.” Tommy smiled as he fingered her sweat-soaked hair. “Antonio, why don’t you show the girl your idea of a good time.”
Unseen hands flipped up her slip, her panties were yanked down, and like a shot, Charlie shrieked and began to fight like a rabid alley cat.
Everyone had their breaking point.
Antonino didn’t get her bloomers past her knees before Charlie started sobbing, reaching out her crooked fingers towards Tommy, “Please don’t let him.”
Tommy took her chin, turned up her tear stained face, and murmured, “There now, Lottie. I can be reasonable. You have something to say to me?”
Blubbering too badly to make sense, the only word understood was, ‘please’, over and over.
The collected, soft smile of her tormentor grew. “Don’t cry, sweetheart. So long as you obey, do as you’re told, and serve your husband as a good wife should, I won’t let my men touch you.” He cradled her bleeding body against his shoulder, the softness of his voice a lie. “But if you do disappoint, or use that tongue in any fashion that does not please me—next time after they beat you, I’ll let them fuck you in ways that won’t put a bastard in your belly.”
He wanted her to swear faithfulness, to watch her sell herself into servitude in exchange for reprieve. But the only thing he truly offered was a lifetime of Hell. She’d been momentarily weak... she’d faltered. But what difference was rape now versus rape later?
It took a moment for her head to clear, for vision to sharpen, and intention to turn razor sharp. There were only two broken words Charlie could offer. “Fufffufuuck yoouuu.”
Furious, shoving her back to the floor, Tommy roared, “Hurt her! Hurt her bad!”
She didn’t scream when dragged to her hands and knees, she said nothing when pawing hands began to poke between her legs. And thank God she didn’t, because if she had, she might have missed the sounds of distant deliverance.
Masses of gunfire.
Each cold pop was near enough to mean only one thing. “Sounds like not all of Beau’s men were keen on having a traitor play boss, Tommy. They’re comin’ for you.”
She got a kick in the head for her lip, a kick that dropped her.
There was sweet silence, the men far too busy scrambling at Tommy’s orders.
“Antonio, take care of her. Marco, you’re with me.”
One guard, one vengeful woman, and one piece of discarded rope wet with her blood hanging conveniently from her wrist...
Once they were alone, Antonio flipped her onto her welt covered back and tried to jam his cock between her thighs. All he got for his trouble was a garrote around his neck, twisted by a woman with nothing left to lose.
The Italian tried to fight back, slamming her down against the floor. All it did was tighten her grip. He went red, then purple, then blue, Charlie pulling hard enough her bound wrist dripped blood between them.
In a matter of minutes, the goon fell full upon her, eyes bulging. Even so, Charlie did not let up on the garrote’s hold until the bastard’s soul dropped straight down to Hell.
He was a heavy motherfucker, but she was past pain—past feeling.
Rolling him off, she took the revolver tucked into the bastard’s belt. She ignored the burn on the bottom of her feet, and scrambled as fast as unsteady legs could carry her.
A Shot in the Dark: A Trick of the Light Duet, Book Two Page 11
