Cruel Paradise (Beautifully Cruel Book 2)

by J. T. Geissinger

  And I look at her enormous ruby and diamond ring.

  My voice choked, I say, “You’re married.”

  “I am.”

  I close my eyes, draw in a deep breath, and curse the day I decided to raid that fucking diaper warehouse.

  She says, “I’m also your attorney, in case you’re wondering.”

  My eyelids fly open. I stare at her. I never truly understood the word “flabbergasted” until right now.

  She knits her brows together. Her eyes are a stunning shade of pale green, like sea glass. She says, “Don’t look so surprised. Just because I’m from a tiny shithole town in Texas doesn’t mean I can’t argue the law. I’ll have you know I passed the bar on my first try.”

  I want to burst out laughing. I also want a flamethrower. “How long have you been married?”

  She beams, twisting her wedding ring with her thumb. “Seven months now. We went to the Civil Registry Office the same day we found out we were pregnant.”

  “So we’re not pregnant.” I remember Killian’s disappointed tone that night he broke into my bedroom and want to retch.

  Tru glances up at me. Her eyes are as soft as her voice. “We’re having a girl. We’re going to name her Maribel, after my mama.”

  I almost break down and cry then. Almost. I feel the pressure behind my eyes, the sting and the pressure. But I refuse to make more of a fool out of myself than I already have, so I jump to my feet and start pacing.

  After a few turns back and forth, I stop and glare at her accusingly. “So, what? He’s a bigamist in addition to being a huge asshole and a gigantic liar?”

  She blinks.

  I press my advantage. “Are you part of a cult? Some nutjob religious group that brainwashes women into becoming sister wives, some bullshit like that?”

  She looks to her left, then her right, like she has no idea what’s happening and hopes someone will burst in and save her from the crazy woman. “Um…”

  I scoff. “Don’t play coy with me. He sent you in here. You know exactly who I am.”

  “Yes,” she says carefully. “And I’ve heard such nice things about you.”

  I throw my hands in the air and shout, “And you’re okay with it? Jesus!”

  “I’m sorry…okay with what?”

  My laugh is dark and scarier than the eyes of the cop who put me in here. “Oh, you’re screwed up, lady. You need help.”

  She frowns at me, sits up straight in her chair, and snaps, “Actually, you’re the one who needs help. And I’m here to give it. At four o’clock in the morning, no less. And I do not appreciate the snark, or the attitude, or whatever the heck it is you’re trying to insinuate.”

  Instead of tearing all her hair out of her head like I want to, I fold my arms over my chest and stare at her, breathing hard. “I bet he tells you that you’re the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen, right?”

  She says through a tight jaw, “As a matter of fact, he does.”

  Bastard. If I ever see him again, I’ll pluck out all his pubic hair one by one with tweezers, then stuff it up his nose and light it on fire.

  “And I bet he gives you lavish gifts. Ridiculously expensive gifts. Jewelry you can’t even wear in public because you’d get mugged in ten seconds flat.”

  She stares at me. Her sea glass eyes are as hard as flint.

  I say sarcastically, “Yeah. He’s great that way. Sooo generous. Sooo romantic. And what about Shakespeare? I bet he blows that Shakespeare smoke right up your ass, too, doesn’t he?”

  She cocks her head.

  “No? Oh, am I the only special one?” I laugh. I sound unhinged, like I’ve been mainlining cocaine.

  She says, “Hold on a second—”

  “And how about those accents, huh?” I cackle. “Oh, god! The Chris Hemsworth is totally my favorite! I mean, James Bond is a close second, but sweet baby Jesus, that Australian accent is the bomb, right? I bet he used that one on you the night he got you pregnant.”

  All my hysterical laughter dies in my throat. I suck in a breath. It comes out as a broken sob.

  Tru rises to her feet, pressing a hand over her chest. She says gently, “Oh, sweetie. Oh lord. You think I’m married to Killian, don’t you?”

  I thunder, “You just told me you were married to him!”

  She shakes her head. Clucks her tongue. Looks at me with sympathy. She rounds the desk between us and puts her hands on my shoulders. She gazes deep into my eyes.

  She says softly, “I’m not married to Killian, sweetie. I’m married to his brother.”

  It feels like she just punched me in the gut. “But…but I saw you. I saw you two, on the street outside the restaurant last night!”

  She thinks for a moment, then her eyes widen. “He didn’t tell you, did he?” She sighs. “For heaven’s sake, that impossible man.”

  I almost explode when I yell, “Tell me what?”

  She waits a moment for her hair to settle around her face. “Killian and Liam are identical twins.”

  Liam.

  Killian.

  Twins.

  All the air is sucked out of the room. My heartbeat flatlines.

  Tru smiles at the look on my face and pats my shoulders. “I know. I had exactly that same expression when I found out.” She crinkles her nose. “And that’s only the tip of the iceberg, I’m afraid.”

  The sound I make is the same one a cat makes when it’s trying to expel a hairball.

  “Maybe you should sit back down.”

  She guides me to the chair then sits across from me again. We stare at each other. I think she’s waiting for me to go first.

  I say weakly, “Um.”

  “Liam said he knew the night Killian called to tell him about you that you were the one. He went on and on about how it felt like he was dying from cancer. Or something like that. It probably sounded better when he said it. Anyway, Liam had never heard his brother talk like that about a woman. He’s not exactly the settling down type, if you know what I mean. He’s never been serious about a woman before. Can you imagine? At his age? Personally, I think it’s incredibly romantic. I’m telling you, when the Black boys fall, they fall hard.”

  She laughs her feminine, delightful laugh. “For such alpha wolves, they’re just marshmallows when it comes to their women. Oh, I can’t wait to get to know you better! I’ve got three sisters already, but I’d love to have a fourth. What fun we’ll have! Y’all will have to come visit us in Argentina as soon as you can.”

  “Argentina. Um. Uh-huh.”

  “You poor thing. I’ve crossed all the wires in your brain, haven’t I?” Her voice goes from sympathetic to brisk. “Well, Killian’s gonna get an earful from me, I’ll tell you what. Here, drink your coffee.”

  She pushes the cup of coffee closer to me. I pick it up, but can’t find the brain power to remember how to drink. I just sit there and stare at her like a big dummy.

  “Twins.”

  Tru nods. “Identical. Nobody can tell them apart except me.”

  I remember something Killian said to me one night when we were standing in his kitchen. I made a smart comment about his décor, the acres of black marble, and his answer sounded loaded, like there was much more to it beneath the surface.

  “It was like this when I moved in.”

  Then, during the same conversation, he asked me to call him Killian. Not Liam, the name everyone else knew him by. When I asked for an explanation, he said he couldn’t tell me.

  Not that he didn’t want to, but that he couldn’t.

  And now I find out he and his brother are identical twins.

  I say carefully, “Tru?”

  “Yes?”

  “What does Liam do for work?”

  “Oh, he’s retired.” She smiles mysteriously.

  If I thought Killian had secrets in his eyes, this steel magnolia has got him beat by miles.

  I drink the coffee in one long gulp, setting the cup on the table when I finish. Unsurprisingly, my hand is s
haking.

  Tru rests her hand on top of mine. She says softly, “It’s Killian’s story to tell, not mine. So I’ll let him tell it. But I can say this: I was sitting right where you are once. Well, not exactly right there. I’ve never been arrested for stealing cheap tequila—”

  I say loudly, “I got it.”

  “My point is that I know how confused you are, but you can trust him. With anything. With your life.”

  I whisper, “But he’s a gangster.”

  She leans back in her chair and gives me the secretive eyes thing again. “He’s a gangster like you’re a thief.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I told you: it’s Killian’s story to tell. But, sweetie, if you’ve been giving him a hard time about his line of work…be prepared to do some apologizing.”

  “Seriously? Does anyone in your family not talk in riddles?”

  She laughs. “If you’re lucky, pretty soon you’ll be talking in riddles, too.”

  My voice climbs. “Lucky?”

  She picks up her briefcase and stands, smiling. “C’mon. Let’s get you home. I’m sure you can use some sleep. When Killian gets back from Prague tomorrow, he can tell you everything.”

  “Prague?”

  She looks at me with raised brows. “You didn’t think he’d send anyone else if he were in the country, did you?”

  “I didn’t think anything. Because I am no longer capable of comprehensible thought. Because…Killian.”

  She says drily, “Trust me, I understand.”

  I rise, blinking, utterly confused. “Didn’t you just tell me you lived in Argentina? Or am I hallucinating that, too?”

  “We wanted to visit before the baby was born. We arrived last week. And I can’t tell you how many times your name has come up in conversation. Killian keeps pestering me for examples of what drives women crazy.”

  I’m momentarily horrified. “What, like in bed?”

  “Ha! No. If he’s anything like his brother, he’s got that covered, I’m sure. He asks about what kinds of things will make a woman want to push a man into traffic.”

  Relieved, I mutter, “He’s got that covered, too.”

  “I think he’s trying to annoy you less.”

  “I don’t think that’s humanly possible.”

  We leave the room and walk down the corridor. I feel like I’m in a dream. A strange, nonsensical dream, featuring car chases, pregnancy scares, gang shootouts, and unicorn ponies.

  Tru’s already posted my bond, so I just have to complete some paperwork before I’m released. Then I’m following her down the front steps of the police station toward the waiting SUV, still in a fog.

  Which is why it takes me longer than it usually would to react when the men step out of the shadows around the side of the building.

  They grab me.

  I open my mouth to scream, but the chemical-smelling cloth is already smashed over my nose and mouth.

  As my legs turn to Jell-O and the world fades to black, one of the men says something to the other in a language I don’t recognize.

  But I don’t have to recognize it to guess that it’s Serbian.

  29

  Jules

  When I regain consciousness, I’m lying on my side in the trunk of a moving vehicle. My hands and feet are bound with something, maybe rope. A rough black cloth hood covers my head. I’m barefoot. Except for a splitting headache and some mild soreness on my biceps where the men grabbed me, I’m unharmed.

  My first instinct is to scream.

  I fight it, concentrating instead on remaining as calm as possible. I breathe in squares to control my panic, as I was trained to do as a child.

  Inhale for four counts. Hold it for four counts. Exhale for four counts. Hold it for four counts. Start over again.

  There’s nothing to be done yet but try to keep track of time. If I can estimate how far the men drive before stopping at the final location they’ll hold me, it will help the police search for me later. If I can somehow get that information to the police.

  If the men don’t kill me first.

  Inhale for four counts. Hold it for four counts. Exhale for four counts. Hold it for four counts. Start over again.

  I tell myself that it’s likely I won’t be killed. If the men who took me are with the same Serbian gang that Killian said were looking for collateral in a war with my father, I have value. As long as I’m alive, they can negotiate terms. And to negotiate terms, they’ll have to provide proof of life to my father.

  He won’t just take their word that they have me. Pictures won’t do it, either, because they could have been taken any time. Years ago, even.

  They’re going to have to film me.

  Or, worse, put me on the phone with him.

  Once they’ve agreed to terms, my captors will have to produce me—still breathing and in mostly one piece—in order to get what they want.

  Unless Daddy Dearest doesn’t want me back. Unless he tells them that I’m dead to him already and they can do to me whatever they want.

  Inhale for four counts. Hold it for four counts. Exhale for four counts. Hold it for four counts. Start over again.

  He’ll want me back. It would dishonor the family if he allowed his enemies to harm his only child. It would weaken his reputation. He’ll pay what they ask, if only to save face.

  Then…oh god.

  Then he’ll have me.

  And there’s no way in hell he’ll ever let me go again.

  I’ll be locked up. Locked down. Forced to live as a captive. He might even send me away to Italy. To live with the Sicilian side of the family, far out of reach of his enemies in New York.

  I’ll be married off to one of my brutal, hairy cousins. I’ll be forced to have sex with him. Have his children. Cook his meals. Scrub his toilet.

  Inhale for four counts. Hold it for four counts. Exhale for four counts. Hold it for four counts. Start over again.

  I can’t let myself despair. I have to remain positive. Remain calm. Take things one minute at a time. Stay alert and non-combative. Stay alive.

  And, no matter what, I can’t let myself think about Killian.

  I can’t think about his beautiful dark eyes and his heartbreaking smile. I can’t think about how his voice grows husky when he wants me. I can’t think about how he touches me, or how he kisses me, or his incredibly intoxicating combination of masculinity and tenderness. How gentle he is when we make love. How passionately he fucks me.

  How he has an identical twin brother.

  I definitely can’t think about that, even if I wanted to, because my brain keeps bouncing off the possibilities. The impossibilities.

  The total insanity of what two of them could mean.

  What they could do.

  Who they could really be.

  Or what.

  The car pulls to a stop. Doors open and slam closed. Heavy footsteps crunch on gravel. The trunk lid opens, and a rush of cool night air blows in. A male voice addresses me in a heavy Eastern European accent.

  “Rule number one: be good or I cut something off.”

  His tone is businesslike. Almost bored. This is the kind of threat he makes regularly. Makes and follows through on.

  My heart palpitating, I say, “I’ll be good.”

  I hate myself that it comes out in a whisper.

  He grunts his approval. Grabbing me by the upper arm, he hauls me to a sitting position, then roughly up and over the lip of the trunk. My ankles are tied, so I almost fall forward onto my face when my feet hit the ground, but he yanks me upright and steadies me. Sharp, icy gravel cuts into the soles of my bare feet.

  He picks me up and throws me over his shoulder.

  Though I can’t see him through the hood, I can tell he’s big. Strong, too. This is no mastermind. No strategist. This is the guy the higher-ups send when they need serious muscle. His arm around my thighs is as hard as steel. He’s got an easy, loping walk, like my weight on his shoulder is completely insubstanti
al.

  He’s probably used to carrying weight like this a lot.

  Dead weight.

  Inhale for four counts. Hold it for four counts. Exhale for four counts. Hold it for four counts. Start over again.

  We go up steps. His boots make a different sound on wood than they do on gravel. A heavy, hollow sound. He stops for a moment. I hear a metallic clang, then the complaining creak of unoiled hinges. Then it sounds like a large door is being pulled open—no, rolled open from one side.

  The pungent, distinct scent of horses and damp hay hits my nose, followed by the fainter scent of fresh water.

  We must be in the country. There are no sounds other than the gentle chirping of crickets and tree leaves rustling in the cool breeze. I probably have been unconscious for a long time. I’m far away from the city.

  If anyone’s looking, they’ll never find me.

  Inhale for four counts. Hold it for four counts. Exhale for four counts. Hold it for four counts. Start over again.

  My captor starts walking again. He changes directions a few times, disorienting me. The building we’re in must be large because we walk for quite a while until we stop.

  We abruptly begin to descend.

  When the elevator lurches downward with a loud creak, I suck in a startled breath.

  “Rule number two: be silent unless you’re told to speak.”

  I bite my lower lip and swallow the scream clawing its way up my throat.

  When the elevator stops, the air is warm and stale. I smell cigarette smoke and the low drone of a radio tuned to a talk channel. There’s a burst of electronic noise, then a voice crackles over a ham radio.

  The voice doesn’t speak in English, so I can’t understand what it says.

  I’m flipped upright and deposited onto a hard metal chair. The hood vanishes. I blink into blinding white lights directly in front of me. Beneath my feet, the floor is dirt.

  From beyond the lights, a man says in English, “State your name for the camera.”

  We’re doing this already? They’re not wasting any time.

  I moisten my dry lips. Breathe slowly. Sit up straighter in the chair. “Juliet Moretti.”

  “Louder.”

  “Juliet Moretti.”

  “State your date of birth and birthplace.”