The men don’t move any further, they just hold me against the seat like a pinned butterfly, all splayed beauty and death.
The only sound is the harshness of my breathing and then my new husband speaks.
"No quiero pinchis sobras y no confío en su padre. Revísala."
I have no idea what he’s said but both of the other men laugh and then the one holding my legs rips my blouse out from where it was neatly tucked in and he slips his hands into the waist of my pants, his fingers searching for the buttons.
A scream bursts out of my throat only to be muffled by the hand, tears leaking out of my eyes, as the button pops off of my pants when he finally gives up trying to open them, instead just destroying them to get them down my legs.
I try to rip my hands out of the sweaty hands of the man holding me but he only chuckles and tugs my wrists further up until I think my back might snap under the pressure. My eyes fly back to my new husband as he stands behind his men, the cigar dangling from his lips as he murmurs in low tones to them, none of the words making any sense to me.
Rough fingers pry my thighs apart and I scream again, my thighs tensing as I try to snap my legs shut but I'm not strong enough. Panic sets in and I can't catch my breath, the sobs stealing any chances I might have had at being rational. I attempt to kick my legs out but the fabric of my pants traps my ankles.
I hear a man spit and then two fingers thrust roughly inside me with no other warning.
My sobs turn into a wail as I try to get away from the assault, every fibre of my being violated by this treatment. I was wrong back on the plane, my father's wrath was better than this. I would relive every moment of his abuse to get away from this.
I know deep down this is only the beginning.
"Definidamente no es virgen. No tiene sello."
The sobs just keep coming.
"Vadim Archambault estará muerto antes de que aterrice su avión."
The fingers finally disappear and my legs are shoved closed. The hands around my wrists also drop away, only to be replaced by a fist curling in my hair, pulling me until I'm slumped onto the floor. Doors slam shut around me and the fist in my hair jerks my head back until I'm staring through my tears at one of the men.
He speaks in broken English, the words garbled and hard for me to understand. "Senor Mecedo does not want another man's leftovers. You should not have lied to us."
He slams my head into the seat in front of me, the sickening crunch of my nose breaking vibrating through my skull, and then he finally lets me go, slamming the door behind him.
They're going to kill me.
Bile creeps up my throat and I swallow it down, the metallic tang of the blood pouring out of my nose overwhelming me entirely. One of the men hops into the driver's seat and starts the car, cheerful Latin music playing loudly through the speakers like some sort of cosmic joke.
My eyes swim with tears and the pounding in my head only gets worse with the motion of the car until all I know is darkness and I pass out in a pool of my own blood.
Chapter Four
Illi
The docks are a stinking pile of rotten wood, dilapidated buildings, and homeless people sheltering in rickety old boats who see fucking everything and nothing all at once. The warehouses and boat sheds that house the parties and business rooms of the Twelve are nearby but the spot I've chosen for the meetup is away from D'Ardo's security cams and hired muscle. No doubt he's paying one of the bums to keep watch but they're far enough away that he won't know exactly what my business down here has been for, only that I was here.
I trust that man like a brother, but sometimes he oversteps and forgets I'm not one of his little flunkies.
I lean against my car, looking out over the sludge pile of seaweed and trash that makes up the shore down here. The water beyond is calm and still, the moon reflecting perfectly against the gentle ripple of the tide. It could be beautiful down here. If the Bay wasn't hell on Earth, if someone gave a shit about the place at all, it would be a fucking amazing city.
Instead it's overrun with gangs, crime, bikers, drugs, and murder.
That had always been perfect to me but fuck... something is wrong in my head right now. I still crave the blood and the burn of my work but something is missing and fuck me if I can think of what it is.
Maybe I am losing my fucking edge.
Lights hit me and snap me out of my shitty, reflective mood. I shake myself off and roll my shoulders back. Gotta get my head back in the game before I get taken the fuck out.
The car is fucking nice, a ‘67 mustang Shelby Sportsroof, that would look fucking perfect in my garage. Fuck, maybe I'll ask for that as payment for my next job. A smirk stretches over my lips at the thought of taking it, knowing just how fucking hard to come by they really are.
Two thugs get out and tip their heads at me with respect which I ignore entirely and then their ugly-ass boss steps out, adjusting one of the rings on his scarred hands as he looks around, not entirely trusting that we're alone and unwatched out here.
The Viper is my biggest client.
I don't trust the greedy fuck but from my time in the cage he knows exactly what I'm capable of and usually treats me with enough respect that I don't feel the need to peel his fingernails off with toothpicks. His crew are all dumbass meatheads, not worth the air they consume, and this means I make a lot of money out of this member of the Twelve.
He drops my payment at my feet without ceremony, the set of his jaw pissed off and on edge. I smirk back at him. "Bad day at the office? Having trouble finding fresh meat?"
"Someday you'll have to let me induct you, Illium. You'll be backed into a fucking corner and have no choice." He grunts out. I get the feeling he's still pissed at the hike in my prices. I deserve more, after every fight and every job I raise my rates a little, just enough that they all know I'm not some chump for hire. If you want me, gimme the fucking cash.
At this point, only the Devil out prices me and no one here is dumb enough to call him.
I light the cigarette between my lips and smirk at him. "Not fucking likely. Maybe you should find a different gene pool to skim, your new blood is kind of pathetic."
The guy I'd pulverized the previous night had apparently been the brother of one of the Viper's most trusted men. Fucking pathetic, the lot of them.
He gives me a look as he sets the leather bags down at my feet. A thrill runs up my spine. I fucking love cold, hard cash. Nothing safer than green packed into the walls of my warehouse, there's not a man, woman, or child in the Bay braindead enough to come steal from the Butcher.
Banks aren't so fucking trustworthy.
"I need the guy alive, y'hear me? No more accidents. If the Chaos Demons find out I'm looking around their business then it'll bring a whole new war to the Bay and I've been enjoying the peace." He mutters, leaning in as he slips me the paper so his men don't hear what he's saying. Huh. So he's completely fucking aware he's recruited mouthy trash who can't keep their mouths shut to fucking save themselves and yet he still keeps taking on more of the dickheads. Nice.
D'Ardo might be a merciless, evil fucker but at least his men know the score.
"Yeah, yeah. The last guy had a heart problem or something, he croaked too fucking easy. When I took him apart I found it looked a bit... fucked."