After obsessing over what to do all morning, I came to the conclusion that there was no way out. I was stuck. Although I knew I was being blackmailed and my grandmother's well-being was hanging in the balance, I still felt ashamed. The draw that I felt to Malice was not necessarily deterring me. I was not dragging my feet on the walk over here. Even though I was overwhelmed with what I had to do yesterday, the murder I committed wasn't tearing apart my psyche. I did what Anthony suggested. I wrapped up what happened in a tight little box and dropped it off the edge of my subconscious. Of course, intrusive thoughts still attacked me when I wasn't actively forcing away the image of me crushing his skull. But mostly, it wasn't as difficult as I thought it would be. And that thought both thrilled and terrified me.
Was I a psychopath? Was I just as bad as the murderers I researched? Or was I just a girl who was given a painful ultimatum? I did what I felt I had to do to survive, and it was difficult to feel guilty about that. I'd do it again. Was it so wrong to want to live?
Hale walked up to the gate and opened it. "Boss has been waiting for you. You’re late."
I let out a sigh. "I had to walk Grams home. She was tired," I explained.
Hale gave me a once over. His eyes were beady. His lips cracked and bloodied. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets, but I could see him stroking his dick with his meaty fingers through the thin material of his pants. I squirmed in disgust as he examined me closely. Aside from the obvious pervy behavior, there was something about him that made me really uncomfortable. I could feel it in my gut. Like he was the type of man to hurt a woman for sport. Malice was evil, but I got the sense that he was calculative, and every decision he made had a purpose. He researched and found my weakness with Grams, then exploited me for it. Hale? Hale seemed like the impulsive kind of bad. This kind of man did things on a whim and wrapped his hands around your neck because it made him feel good. He just had bad energy.
"Hurry up," he grunted at me as I walked through the gate and up the path toward the main house. The Civella home was a stunning three-story mansion in the heart of Kansas City’s wealthiest neighborhood: Sunset Hill West. I felt like I should have to empty my pockets just to walk on the sidewalk here. Naturally, there were guards covering the perimeter and a line of armored cars in his driveway. I wondered how that could affect a person’s psyche, to never be alone. To always fear for your life. To have an entire armory at your disposal.
The house was a Georgian Colonial-style home, proudly standing like a gangster landmark in the breastbone of what looked like two acres of land. It was shocking to see the amount of wealth on the inside. The elegant decor was subtle and soothing, completely different from the harsh masculine man who owned the property. There were high ceilings, deep moldings, and marble flooring. The entryway was large and open, and when I looked down the hall, I saw French doors leading into various portions of the home. "Follow me," Hale instructed.
Hale guided me through the home. We passed a formal living room, a dining room, a family room, and a walnut-paneled library with a fireplace. We made our way toward the back of the house where a dimly lit office was nestled in the corner. A large oak desk was in the middle of the room with two oversized leather chairs in front of it. I saw Malice almost immediately. Standing at a wet bar in an expensive suit, he greeted me while pouring himself a glass of bourbon. "You're late," he said, his back still turned to me.
"I had to take my grandmother home," I explained. Malice turned around to face me, his green eyes appearing almost bored by my excuse. His blond hair was swept to the side, and his soft lips were pulled tight. I fought the urge to apologize to this man. Something told me he didn't appreciate sorries. He wanted his world to run on his schedule, and anyone who didn't comply was punished.
"How is Grams?" Malice asked conversationally before going to his desk and picking up a switchblade. His skilled hands started spinning it around, making the veins in his hand bulge. I stared at the way he rolled the knife over his knuckles with ease.
"She's well," I croaked out.
"Good. Did Hoffstead treat you like family?" Malice asked before sitting down at his seat. "Family is very important to me, you know."
"He was great," I whispered.
"Send Hoffstead a fruit basket," Malice said to Hale with a wink. Something told me that a fruit basket was code for something else. With a simple nod, Hale pulled his phone from his pocket, typed something, and exited the office. "Have a seat, Juliet," Malice said while nodding in the direction of the leather chair in front of him.
Malice still had that switchblade in his palm and was spinning it around threateningly. I half expected him to throw it and treat me like his own personal dart board. I slowly moved to the open chair and sat down in it. "Why am I here?" I asked.
Malice stopped playing with his switchblade to bring it to his lips. Pressing the flat edge of it against his pout, he contemplated my question for a lingering moment before dragging his lip along the sharp blade. I watched in sick fascination, and when he finally decided to answer my question, I gasped at the stark sound of his rough voice in the silent room.
"Let me tell you something, Juliet," he began while circling his desk and walking toward me. Every hair on my body stood on edge. "Instead of asking why you are here, I suggest you ask what I need. We've already established why you're here. We already know the lengths you're willing to go to keep yourself and your grandmother safe. Don't ask why anymore. I don't have the patience for questions like that. I don't have the patience for ignorance, either. Now try again."
Malice leaned against his desk, one arm crossed over his chest. His switchblade still in hand, he dragged it along his piercing jaw with a featherlight brush. I swallowed.
"Fine," I grumbled. "What can I do for you?" I voiced my words with a bite. In response to my small voice of rebellion, Malice glanced up at the ceiling and smiled, releasing a short laugh. I wondered if people ever treated him with snark.
Malice pushed himself off the edge of the desk and leaned closer to me. Then, he braced one hand on the armrest of my chair and tipped in so close that our eyes were only an inch apart. His hot breath flowed over my face, smelling like mint and bourbon. I felt him slowly, slowly, slowly ease his switchblade to my lips. "Open your mouth," he directed in a soft sensual tone that was both frightening and intriguing. I obeyed. Partly because I was held at the end of the blade and partly because I was curious about what he was going to do to me.
Malice then slipped the knife into my dry mouth. My chest tightened when he placed the knife on my tongue ever so carefully. The flat edge rested there for a moment, and he used his thumb to press against my bottom lip. He breathed me in while taunting me with the danger on my tongue. "You're so feisty. So full of life. Do you know what I do to people who don't speak to me with respect?" he asked. I couldn't even respond to him. Couldn't shake my head. He continued, not bothering to wait for my response. "I cut off their tongues."
He pulled the switchblade out of my mouth but, while doing so, made sure to nick my lip, forcing a fresh bead of blood to pebble up and spill from the small wound. He swiped the crimson stain from my lips with his thumb and then licked it. It was both erotic and terrifying. My heart raced at the sight of him.