BOUND: A Dark Bad Boy Romance

by Leah Wilde

“What the…” he said, then he sighed again, withdrew a hand from his pocket, and swatted me across the face. I crumbled immediately under his blow, slamming into the pavement a yard away, my head cracking hard on the ground. Dizziness surged through my vision, blurring the lines of everything around me.

  The dealer didn’t look back at me. As I lay on the ground, blinking through the dull pain, an emaciated old lady staggered up to him, moaning something through her toothless gums. They began to argue back and forth, though I could hardly make out their words through the deafening tone ringing through my ears. Eventually, they settled on something. Drugs and money exchanged hands.

  I pushed myself to a seat, still reeling from the smack of my head on concrete. I watched while the dealer counted out the bills he’d received carefully, then pulled out a huge wad of cash from his back pocket and added the new ones to the roll. When he was done, he tucked it back in.

  I could see the thick stack of green peeking over the edge of his denim. A scowl set in over me. Who did this bastard think he was, knocking me around like that? I was going to show him. That money was going to be mine.

  The swirling giddiness had started to settle down and the world regained its order. I clambered up slowly, ignoring the pain lancing through my head and ankle. I was a man of the streets. I took what I wanted. No one was going to stop me, least of all this dumb, pig-eyed son of a bitch.

  When another customer came tottering up to him, I took my chance. Springing forward, I snatched the roll of cash from his back pocket, tucked it under my arm, and booked it around the corner.

  Every step was agony, but I couldn’t afford to stop. I heard pounding footsteps and raised voices coming from behind me. “Get the fuck back here, you little cunt!” the dealer roared. Other people joined him in chasing after me.

  The cold air was like daggers on the inside of my lungs and throat. I wove between pedestrians, desperate to find a spot to hide. If they caught me, they’d kill me, simple as that.

  The weight of the money was intoxicating. I’d never held so much cash at one time before. It was heavy, palpable. I couldn’t wait to pour over it and let its power wash over me. This was the shit. I was headed for the top. No one could stop me.

  Then I whipped around a corner and collided face-first with the knee of a tall businessman in a suit. All my momentum stopped at once. He looked down, startled to see a dazed little kid had run into him. But he didn’t stop. He stepped over me and kept on barking orders into his cell phone as he retreated into the distance.

  “Wait,” I gasped, stumbling on wavering legs. The breath had been knocked out of my lungs. I couldn’t manage to suck in more air. “Fuck…” I sputtered. This time, the word wasn’t satisfying. It was just ugly.

  I couldn’t do anything to resist as rough hands picked me up and carried me into a nearby back alley. “You fucking little shit,” snarled the man. He reared back and buried a fist in my stomach. I felt a rib give way under his knuckles.

  “You think you can fucking steal from me? Fuck you. Nobody steals from me.” He hurled me against the brick wall. I slammed into it, then slid down to the wet, dirty concrete. My eyes fluttered open just in time to see a tan boot wind up and then swing into my jaw.

  The world erupted in fireworks. More blows followed, battering my legs, my head, my torso. Bone crunched and blood dripped while the man beat the ever-living shit out of me.

  When he’d finished venting his anger on my helpless body, he plucked the cash from my limp grasp and walked away. I could only see his boots as he disappeared around the corner.

  The electricity in my brain was dim and sputtering. I could only focus on one thought, one word: fuck.

  Chapter 2

  Isabel

  “Isabel, what the hell do you think you are doing?”

  My father’s voice was as angry as always. It ripped through the heat of the kitchen and pierced my ears with its shrill fury. He soon followed, bundling around the corner, his cheeks purpled with rage. The tendons of his neck stood out stark against his flesh.

  I froze in place. The dolls on the tiled floor in front of me were worn and filthy. Their hair was a matted mess, limbs were missing, and every article of clothing was as threadbare and tattered as the ones I wore myself. It made sense—after all, they’d been fished out of the garbage—but it didn’t matter to me. I loved them anyway, even Angelica, the one without a right eyeball. She had a sweet smile painted on.

  I liked to pretend that my mother had a smile like that. I wouldn’t know, of course. She was gone long before my memories began. Daddy always told me that she’d gotten sick of the Chicago winters and she went to California, where it was sunny and warm. But I didn’t believe him. I could always tell when he was lying.

  I looked up at where he stood in the doorway. He was skinny, hardly any meat left on his bones, though a little potbelly sagged over his drawstring chef’s pants. He walked with a hunched back and a hitch in his step, cursing up a storm under his breath, always demanding to know why his body was betraying him in so many ways both little and big. His hands were scraped raw from years of plunging them into the hot water from the sink.

  He’d owned this restaurant for as long as I’d been alive. He used to tell me that he’d moved to Chicago and found a job working in the kitchen here under the previous owner. It was a run-down Italian joint. We served spaghetti and meatballs with marinara sauce, lasagna, and lots of other dishes like that. But there weren’t ever too many people who came to eat here. Daddy was always sitting in his office, shuffling through papers and cursing like he loved to do. He knew a lot of curse words.

  I opened my mouth to talk, but he didn’t wait for me to answer. Instead, he marched across the distance between us in two quick steps, scooped up my dolls, and threw them straight into a trash can.

  “No, Daddy!” I shrieked, clutching at his elbow.

  He shook me off, then spun around and seized my upper arm between his skinny skeleton fingers. “I told you to wash the dirty dishes,” he hissed. His face was jammed up against mine. I hated looking into his eyes. They were so scary. “If you don’t listen to me, you don’t get your dolls.”

  “I’m sorry, Daddy,” I wailed. Tears were streaming down my face. His grip on my arm was so tight. It hurt. There would be bruises later. It wasn’t the first time this had happened.

  “Now, go,” he barked, throwing me backwards. I stumbled, but stayed on my feet. He spun on his heel and stormed back out, ranting quietly to himself.

  Everything was wrong. It was too hot in the kitchen, my arm hurt, my dolls were gone, and the stack of dishes teetering on the edge of the sink would take me years to scrub clean. Daddy always made sure they were extra clean. He’d pluck one up from the finished stack and hold it right up under his eyes. If there was even the tiniest speck of grime or crusted food on it, he’d make me start the whole pile over, no matter how clean all the others were.

  I sagged in front of the sink. I didn’t want to stand up anymore. I just wanted to lie down somewhere quiet and cool and sleep for a long, long time. And when I woke up, I wanted Daddy to be nicer and smiling.

  I twisted open the faucet. Water poured out, scalding hot. Steam rose in spirals from the flow. Reaching as high as I could while standing on my tiptoes, I pulled the first plate from the top of the stack, dunked it in the sudsy water, and started to scrub.

  I pretended that all the bad things were like old food on the plates. If I scrubbed hard enough and didn’t cry out when the hot water hit my hands, then I’d be able to make it all go away. The plates were so pretty when they were clean. Maybe my life could be that pretty, too.

  Hours passed as I scrubbed and scrubbed until my hands were swollen and pink. I could hardly bend my knuckles. The fingertips were like little fleshy raisins.

  It had to be getting close to closing time. There were still a lot of chores I had to do after the customers stopped coming in, but at least Daddy wouldn’t be quite so nervous and mad. He usually
calmed down a little bit once the restaurant was empty.

  I eyed the pile. There were only a few dozen plates left. I figured I could afford to take a quick break. Stepping down from the stool, I tottered to the kitchen door. I pushed it open and stuck my head out.

  There was a short hallway connecting the kitchen to the main dining room. The sign on the door was flipped to Closed and the few tables I could see were empty, but for some reason, there were still unfamiliar voices booming throughout the building. Suddenly, I heard a big crash, like plates shattering.

  I snuck down the hallway and peeked around the corner to see what was happening.

  At the big booth in the corner, two men in suits were lounging back, cackling. Their suits were shiny and new-looking. I wanted to touch the fabric. It looked so soft and silky. They each had cigarettes burning between their lips, even though smoking wasn’t allowed in the restaurant. Daddy hated the smell.

  Strewn across the table were dozens of dishes. That was good, at least. They’d ordered a lot of food, so maybe, if I was lucky, Daddy would be a little bit happier tonight. Maybe they’d even leave him a big tip. That would be best of all.

  “This pasta tasted like shit, Sergio,” said one of the men. He had a thick, bristly mustache and chubby fingers with lots of gold rings. As I watched, he picked up the plate in question and dropped it on the floor at my father’s feet where he stood at the head of their table, right on top of the remains of another broken dish.

  It hit the floor and broke into tiny shards. Pasta sauce flew up onto my father’s apron and torso. He flinched, bringing up his hands to protect his face. I couldn’t see his expression but I knew he would be furious. Daddy had such a temper, didn’t these men know that? I bet he was about to kick them out and curse at them until they cried, just like he did to me when I was bad.

  But he didn’t do anything. He lowered his hands slowly. I barely recognized the voice that came out of his mouth just then. It didn’t sound anything like him. Where was the anger? Where were the curse words? The only thing he said was, “I’m s-sorry, Emilio. It won’t happen again.” His tone was apologetic and sad. He looked down at his feet as soon as he’d finished talking.

  I was confused. None of this made any sense. Daddy shouldn’t be acting so nice to these men. He was letting them smoke in the restaurant and break his plates and insult his food. That wasn’t very nice of them at all. If I’d broken a plate, Daddy would have shaken me by my arm and sent me straight to my room without supper.

  “Fuck your sorry,” said the other man. This one was immensely fat, but he had a baby face, skin as smooth and clear as a pat of butter. When he spoke, his cheeks shook like Jell-O. I didn’t like him any more than I liked the man with the mustache. “And fuck your food,” he added. “Emilio’s right. It does taste like shit.”

  “Can I, uh, get you something else?” my father stuttered.

  “You can get us the money you owe, Sergio,” the fat man said. His eyes were squinty and mean. He took a big drag on his cigarette and blew the smoke straight into Daddy’s face. Daddy coughed hard, doubling over as he wheezed. The men all chortled.

  Daddy tried to talk, though his voice came out raspy. “I don’t have any money to give you right now. I can barely keep the lights on as it is. Nobody comes here!”

  The man with the mustache cut in sharply, “The Capparelli family doesn’t give a fuck about your excuses, Sergio. We don’t care how you get the money. But you better find a way to get it.”

  My father started to babble. “There’s just no way, I mean, how can I? No customers, food goes bad, and then—” The sharp crack of flesh on flesh rang out, interrupting him. Daddy’s head snapped back. He fell silent, stunned.

  The man with the mustache, the one who had just slapped him across the face, winced and rubbed his knuckles. “Christ, you’ve got a hard skull, Sergio,” he muttered. “I hate doing that, you know. Why do you make us do things like that?” He tugged on a pair of leather gloves as he stood up from the table.

  The other man followed suit. As he stood, he swept an arm across the table, knocking off the dozens of half-eaten plates of food that had been sitting there. They slammed into the floor, crashing and smashing apart. Food went everywhere.

  “No, wait, please,” my father begged, but the skinny man with the mustache ignored his pleas as he gripped Daddy’s neck and swung him on top of the table.

  “Find the money. Now. We’ll be back soon if you don’t,” he said, pointing a gloved finger in his face.

  “Okay,” he gasped through the pressure on his neck. “I’ll find it, I swear.”

  “Good,” the man replied, releasing the grip on his neck and standing up straight. He brushed a spot of pasta sauce from the lapel of his jacket. His nose wrinkled in disgust.

  “And clean this place up,” added the fat man. “You’ve got a lot of broken shit lying around on the ground. It’s a pigsty.” He smiled evilly. Both men laughed again. I liked them even less than I had at first. They were not nice men. Daddy was mean sometimes, but even he didn’t deserve this. I felt scared. I hoped they wouldn’t come after me.

  “Should we leave him something to remind him of us?” the fat man asked his friend.

  The other rubbed his mustache thoughtfully. “I guess so,” he sighed.

  Turning, the fat man plucked the cigarette from between his lips with one hand and grabbed my father’s wrist with the other. Daddy started to struggle, but the mustache man pinned him to the table top. He looked on in horror as the fat man flipped his hand over, exposing his palm, and pressed the lit tip of the cigarette down into his skin.

  I ducked back around the corner and covered my ears as Daddy started to scream. I kept them covered for a long time.

  When Daddy limped back around the corner a while later, I saw that he held a corner of his apron pressed against his palm. He looked at me. His eyes were round and sad. For once, he didn’t look angry. He just looked so tired.

  I thought he was going to say something, but he didn’t say anything. He sighed and just kept walking.

  I never did get my dolls back.

  Chapter 3

  Dominic

  I didn’t know how long I was lying there. It was the opposite of my first memory. This time around, when I returned to the realm of the living, instead of being white, everything was dark.

  It was nighttime. The lights overhead in the alleyway were dim and flickering. They only made the shadows deeper and more jagged. I felt something warm and wet dripping from my mouth. The tangy, metallic taste told me it was blood. My lips were dry and my whole body shivered from head to toe.

  I tried to move. The second my muscles ignited, pain tore through me like I’d never felt before. The white hot epicenter of it burned in my chest, where a grinding crunch hinted that something must be broken.

  The dealer had beat the shit out of me and left me for dead. I was close to it as far as I could tell. Nothing moved right. Everything hurt. I couldn’t even sit up. All I could do was blink. Even thoughts seemed like too much effort for my body to handle.

  I kept fading in and out of consciousness. It went dark for a while, and when my eyes opened again, it was morning. I was so thirsty, my throat desperate for a sip of water. Something cold nuzzled against my face, a tiny pinprick of sensation. It was snow. Flakes began to fall from the sky lazily, drifting down between the power lines and the rooftops to settle in a thin patina along the wet concrete. I opened my mouth and caught a few snowflakes on my tongue.

  Every time I tried to move, the same pain flared up, just as bad as the first attempt. I was going to die out here if I didn’t get some help. No food, no shelter. I’d be buried in a snow bank for weeks before they found my body. I almost wanted to laugh at the mental image of some garbage man unearthing me, finding a scrawny little corpse with his tongue stuck out.

  The snow kept falling. I wasn’t going anywhere. I couldn’t, try as I might. This was as far as Dom was going to get. I should’v
e died in the car crash. It would’ve been quicker and less painful.

  “Oh, shit!” came a wearied, nasally voice. “What’s this little man doing back here?”

  I struggled to move my head in the direction of the sound. “Help,” I wheezed through my dry throat. My lips cracked and bled with the motion. “Help me.”

  The man rounded into view. He was small and frail. Dirty clothes hung loose from his skinny body and a thick beard clung to his sunken cheeks. His fingers twitched and danced restlessly in the air in front of him. He looked like shit, but his eyes were brown and friendly.

  “Oh, shit!” he exclaimed again. “You ain’t doin’ so well, my man.”

  I raised a limp hand, but the effort exhausted me after a moment. It dropped back to the ground uselessly. “Please,” I muttered. The act of speaking tugged tenterhooks into my devastated rib cage. Each word was agony.

  “What happened to you?” he asked. “Wait, no, no, don’t tell me. You don’t look like you can speak anyway.” He laughed, then cut himself off suddenly with a frown. He seemed crazy, pirouetting from emotion to emotion, his body never standing still. I groaned.