by Keri Lake
Everything works out in the end, she always said.
Maybe it doesn’t, though. Maybe that only applies to the woman who didn’t betray the only man who made her feel something.
It wasn’t a lie, when I told Damon that I didn’t know Valerie and Isabella were his family. Very little was known about the husband, at the time, as he seemed to go off the grid. Just disappeared. The news never once captured a picture of him, not even in the brief minute he was named as a suspect early on. And in a city like Los Angeles, where murders happen every day, theirs didn’t hold anyone’s attention for very long before it became old news.
When Mamie told me what her friend who worked at the hotel had divulged, I couldn’t eat for a week. I wanted to go to the police and confess everything, even if that meant turning over myself, but Calvin had already threatened to torture Mamie, if I spoke a word about the record, and with so many police on his side, I didn’t trust any one of them to take my confession.
Hands trembling, I put out my smoke and read the letter.
My Dearest Ivy,
Your entire life has been riddled with pain and guilt. The sorrow of having a mother walk out on you. Your father, too. The guilt of carrying around another man’s sin on your shoulders. Fact is, people make choices every day to do right or wrong. And sometimes they do wrong in the name of something right. I want you to forgive yourself and learn to accept forgiveness from others. It is not a sin to love someone so unconditionally that you would do anything for them. But the gravest sin of all is not allowing God the opportunity to forgive you.
On se reverra un jour, mon petit moineau.
Je t’aime.
Mamie
My tears wet the page as they fall, and I hold her final words to my chest, wishing I could tattoo them across my heart. I tip back the bottle of wine, guzzling my best bottle of cabernet, but startle at a pounding at the door, dripping wine onto the page.
“Ivy!” The voice on the other side, steeped in menace, carves a hollow dread in my gut.
Oh, no. Not Calvin. Not now.
I reach for the phone I’ve ignored for the last two hours and see he’s texted me a dozen more times, each one increasingly angry in tone. Stomach churning with sickness, I pad quietly toward the door and peer through the peephole, where my fears are confirmed by his furious eyes staring back at me.
“Ivy! Open up!” Three more wallops at the door set my muscles jerking, and I slap a hand over my mouth, my whole body trembling with fear and adrenaline.
“You leab! You leab right now, or I’ll call da police!” Mrs. Garcia’s voice sends a shot of alarm down my spine, and when Calvin spins around, shoving her backward into the door behind her, I snap into action.
Unlocking the door, I throw it open and give a harsh push to his arm, and I fall to my knees beside Mrs. Garcia, who lies on the floor, rubbing the top of her head. “Oh, my God, are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m okay.”
Arms band around my stomach, lifting me off the floor, and I scream and fight, elbowing him in the chest as I kick at him.
“You leab her alone!” Mrs. Garcia calls after us.
The door shuts out her threats to call the police, and Calvin drags me across the room, throwing me down onto the bed. He prowls toward me like a vicious predator, backing me against the wall, caging me.
“Where’ve you been, love?” he asks through clenched teeth. “I’ve called and texted and called and fucking texted all night!”
“My grandmother died, you heartless bastard!” I want to say that I regret calling him that, knowing it’ll piss him off, but the events of the night have reset all my instincts. I feel like I’m short circuiting and ready to break down.
A cold, hard sting smarts my cheek, kicking my head to the side. “Heartless? This coming from the bitch who can’t show a little gratitude toward the man who saved her ass?”
“You never saved me. You imprisoned me, and I’ve regretted helping you ever since!”
Another crack against my cheekbone rattles my teeth, and I flinch as the pain shoots up into my sinuses. “Where were you tonight?”
“At the nursing home.” I force calm in my voice, certain that another hit will knock me out. “I told you, my Mamie died.”
“Your Mamie?” He lifts his head, nostrils flaring, and his lips flatten with the hardening of his jaw. “Then, why’s it smells like fucking sex in here?”
“You’re crazy. Call the nursing home, Calvin. They’ll tell you.”
Fucking psychopath!
He pushes off the bed, and lifts the bedspread before letting it fall, then disappears into the bathroom. The sound of clanging is undoubtedly my personal shit he’s throwing around in his tantrum.
Heart pounding in my chest, I watch him move from the bathroom to the closet, and he emerges carrying my black latex suit, holding a section of it marred by a dull streak, where Damon’s cum has dried.
“Yeah? What’s this?”
Eyeballs bouncing from the suit, to the disbelief in his eyes that promises more pain, I clear my throat, hoping to convince him. “It’s nothing.”
“I bought this fucker brand new. So, why’s there a cum stain?” The rancor in his tone tells me whatever I say next doesn’t really matter. His eyeballs practically glow red with the fury I imagine roiling through his blood right now.
While my mind spins for an answer, he lifts it to his nose, sniffing the material, and my stomach twists in knots. “I … Calvin …”
Another backhanded slap with the fabric smarts my cheek, bringing tears to my eyes. “You’re a lying cunt. And you know what happens to lying cunts?” He doesn’t give me a chance to answer. Not that I would. “They get fucked.”
Before I have a chance to fight back, he grabs my ankles, dragging me to the edge of the bed. Kicking out at him is futile while he holds my legs, and with one harsh yank, he flips me onto my stomach. Clawing against the sheets, I scramble on my knees to get away, but he drags me back and presses his weight on top of me.
“How many times do I have to tell you? This pussy is mine! I guess we’ll have to brand it, won’t we? Make sure every motherfucker knows it’s mine. Think it’s time we plugged in that curling iron of yours, Ivy.”
“No, no!”
With a handful of hair, he drags me into the bathroom, while my feet kick and scrape against the floor. Once inside, he doesn’t release me as he kneels down.
I manage one sharp kick to his nuts, which only incites a snarl from him, and he slams his body on top of me.
My ribs feel as if they might explode, all the air rushing out of my chest. I can’t suck in a breath for a moment, and he steals the opportunity to pull a set of cuffs from his back pocket and secure me to the pedestal sink. Still gasping, I turn over, feeling a harsh yank across my thighs, and suck in the first small breath. By the time I have enough air in my lungs, he’s yanked my jeans and panties completely off, leaving me naked from the waist down.
Pushing my thighs apart pins them painfully to the floor, and he bends forward, burying his nose between them. “Smells like another man’s dick.”
Squirming fails to break his hold, and a sharp twinge of pain hits my core as he shoves two fingers up inside me, his nails scraping against my walls.
“Feels like you’ve had someone’s dick up in you. Just like a little whore.” Pushing up to his knees, he nabs my curling iron from the basket where it’s stored, and plugs it into the outlet.
Suddenly, all my fight is gone as I lay there faced with the horrific.
“Please, Calvin. Please don’t do this. Please, I’ll do anything you want. Anything for you.”
“Aww, this is what I want, love. I want to fuck you with this and make sure every bastard who tries to fuck you after knows who you belong to.”
“Please, Calvin. Don’t do this.”
“You know how they’re gonna know?” he continues. “Because if anyone tries to put their dick in you, you’re gonna remember how painful it is t
o be fucked with a hot ass curling iron, and you’re gonna tell them this pussy belongs to me. Calvin Bianchi.”
“No, please.”
He sets a finger to the curling iron, presumably testing the heat, and a wicked grin stretches across his face. “Ding! Ding! It’s hot and ready, baby.”
As he lowers it to me, I kick and squirm, the anxiety causing my field of view to shrink. Smaller and smaller, until the last thing I see is the curling iron set between my thighs.
18
DAMON
Forgiveness hasn’t always been my best suit, oddly enough. So the fact that I’m standing outside of Ivy’s door is a testament of my faith and how far I’ve come from the man who, ten years ago, would’ve put a bullet in the skull of anyone who confessed to having murdered my family. What I know from my years of tracking people down is, this guy would’ve found the lawyer regardless of whether, or not, Ivy handed over that record. Sure, she shaved some time by offering up his exact location, but any killer worth his salt would’ve found another way, and if he has the connections she says he has, it’s a wonder he even bothered with her.
Unless he just used it as an excuse to rope her in.
It was inevitable that he’d find my family, and it makes sense that he spared me, if my father was the one to hire him. Old bastard always had a thing for making my life hell, so why not douse the flames with gasoline by taking the very thing that offered me salvation? The only thing I had to live for back then.
A noise from behind me swings my attention around, and I see Mrs. Garcia, who I remember from earlier.
“You hab to help her. Iby’s in trouble. Please, help her.”
“What’s going on?”
“Dat man came back. He’s so evil! I know he’s going t’hurt her. I called da police, but dey neber come.” Chin jutting toward the door, she scowls. “He’s friends with dem.” With a grip of my sleeve, she stares up at me, eyes earnest and brimming with worry. “Help her. Please.” Sneaking back into her apartment, she closes the door like she’s battening down the hatches for a storm.
Maybe she is.
Wrath moves through me like a dark cloud, and I twist back toward the door and pound against it. Like an old friend, something cold and familiar snakes through my veins, winding itself around my tightly woven composure and strangling my control. While the veil of righteousness clings to my skin, the fire beneath peels away the veneer, threatening to reveal what lies within me.
I drop my gaze so he won’t see my face and pound on the door, harder this time, ready to knock it right off its hinges.
“’The fuck are you?” His voice bleeds through the door, carrying a certain familiarity about it.
“Father Damon Russo of Saint Mary’s Catholic Church.” Hiding the rage is nearly impossible as I answer through clenched teeth. “I just came by to check on Ivy.”
“She’s fine! Go away.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t do that.” Knuckles burning with tight fists, I tell myself I don’t have to kill him. I can spare him after punishment, but I know better. If he’s hurt her, there can be no mercy. “I know she lost her grandmother, and I’d really like to check on her.”
“Listen, asshole—”
The minute the door swings open, I lurch forward and swing. The punch knocks the guy back on his ass, and within seconds, he scrambles forward, barreling right into my gut. Like a linebacker, he tackles me backward into the wall, bumping the mirror, which crashes to the floor.
I manage to get him into a headlock and hammer a punch into his face, cracking his nose.
“Fuck!” Falling backward onto the floor, he cups his nose, but not even that stops him from charging at me again.
I take the hit to my ribs, and he pummels punch after punch, damn near knocking the wind out of me. Blocking the next hit, I swing and crack his jaw, kicking his head to the side on a spray of blood. Another hit kicks it the opposite direction. Another splits his lip open.
Body crashing onto the floor, he weakly blocks my punches, until a stab of pain radiates across my arm, and I pause to see a knife sticking out of my bicep. The distraction costs me the next punch, and he climbs over me, knocking his fists against my arms that shield my face. Blow after blow weakens my muscles, casting a burn through my body. He turns the knife in my wound, and I bellow, my mind snapping with the pain.
I look up and see his face for the first time.
He looks at me.
Vinnie Bianchi. I grew up with the bastard back in New York. Was my best friend and often accompanied me on jobs for my dad. Only, we didn’t call him Calvin back then. He was the wannabe gangster. The kid whose family disowned him for hanging around Anthony Savio’s son. He joined the military for a while, and got shipped overseas. Ended up suffering from post-traumatic stress and got into security work, also known as paid assassinations, and he pulled a couple jobs for my dad, quickly gaining my father’s trust.
The last person I’d expect to see.
“You rotten motherfucker!” A surge of strength beats through my muscles, and taking advantage of what appears to be shock on his face, as well, I throw him off of me.
“’The fuck? I thought … I thought you died. No one heard from you again.”
“You killed my family.” I yank the knife from my arm, capping my hand over the oozing blood.
“That was business. Wasn’t personal. I didn’t want to do it, but your dad paid me a lot of dough for that one.”
“Why? Why would you take everything that ever mattered to me?”
“Why’d you leave, huh? Just up and fucking disappeared? That bitch … that bitch had you wrapped around her finger from the beginning.”
I lurch forward with the knife. Straddling his body, I press it toward him, shaking with the effort, as he fights me, holding the knife away from his throat where I intend to slice him open.
“She … didn’t … love you. She tell you … I fucked her before you left … for California?”
“Fuck you!”
“It’s true. She came … to my house … asking me to … take her in.”
“Liar!”
“You made … her leave … New York. She was … fucking miserable.”
I press harder, putting every ounce of muscle into driving the knife into his throat to silence his words. “So, what did you do? Follow me out to California?”
“Your father … asked me to keep an eye … on you and Val. Val, in particular.”
“And Isabella?”
“I didn’t … want … to kill her. It was … a mistake. She got … in the way … protecting Val!”
Are you resolved to consecrate your life to God for the salvation of his people …
The vows of my ordination are a quiet white noise inside my head, tamped down by the screams that ripped from my throat when I held my daughter’s lifeless body in my arms.
With my eyes screwed shut, my thoughts latch on to echoes of her laughter, a sound I’ll never hear again, thanks to this unrepentant piece of shit.
Muscles quaking, I draw back and punch him in the face. Over and over, I hammer my fists against his bones, sending slivers of pain up through my knuckles, until he stills beneath me.
My body kettles the rage boiling inside of me, threatening to explode in violent bursts of vengeance.
Tears blur his bloody form, further distorting his mangled face, and I push off him to look for Ivy.
I find her in the bathroom, legs spread wide, where she lies passed out on the floor and cuffed to the sink. A curling iron is propped between her legs, the waves of heat painting images inside my head. Murderous images that only serve to fuel my rage. I stride across the room, back to Vinnie, and search through his pockets, finding a key stuffed inside his jeans. Back at Ivy’s side, I unfasten the cuffs and set the curling iron aside, before lifting her up off the floor. I carry her across the room, setting her down on the bed, and cover her up with the blanket.
Still entranced by the adrenaline coursing through me li
ke gasoline, I swipe up Vinnie’s ankle and drag him into the bathroom. Once inside, I cuff him to the sink, just as he had Ivy moments before, and wait for him to come to.
Seconds bleed into minutes.
Camped out with a bottle of wine I found on the living room floor, I smack Vinnie’s cheeks. “Hey. Wake up.”
His swollen eyes blink open, and as realization dawns on him, he immediately scans his surroundings, lifting his gaze toward his cuffed arms. Kicking back away from me, he tugs on the cuffs, as if he could break them, or something.
I hold up the curling iron that’s practically smoking with heat by this point. “What did you plan to do with this?”
The slight roll of his shoulders snags my attention. “Nothing, man. Just messing around.”
“Messing around.” I tip back the bottle of wine, swallowing a burning chug of cabernet, and wipe my mouth on my sleeve. “So, when I found her in here with her legs spread, you weren’t actually planning to fuck her with this?”
He snorts and shakes his head, as if I’m the crazy one now. “No. It’s just a game. Just wanted to scare her.”
“Why?”
“She’s mine. She belongs to me.” The possession in his voice doesn’t roll off his tongue like a man who knows love. He sounds like a child guarding a toy that he plans to destroy so no one else wants it.
“What’s so special about this girl?”
The flinch of his eye confirms my suspicions, as if he doesn’t want to reveal her best assets to me and risk I’ll want her more than I already do. “Ivy … she’s not like other girls. She’s the only one who gets me.”
“Gets you? She does what you say because she’s afraid of you.”
“That bitch isn’t afraid of anything. She’s got fight in her. ‘Swhat I like about her.”
Another swill of the wine numbs my conscience, feeding the ever-growing thirst to watch him suffer. “A woman shouldn’t have to fight a man who claims to care about her.”
