Home > Radge(3)

Radge(3)
Author: Esther E. Schmidt

This because my father unknowingly started a war that should never have erupted in the first place. The one who raped Dara forced her to lie. And by doing this she accused an innocent man who paid with his life for something he didn’t do.

I’m furious she spread lies and with it caused a war with not only a very dangerous motorcycle club, but innocent lives were lost all while the real scumbag is walking around with a smile on his fucking face because he got what he wanted.

And what he wanted was cooperation between two mafia families. Specifically, the weapon transport the MC was doing for us. All of it was a well-planned setup. No wonder Dara wanted me to stay away from her since she could never keep a secret from me; I can poke right through a lie when I’m facing a person.

One of the many reasons why my father likes to keep me in the loop with everything business wise and thank fuck he did because I know everything inside and out and right now I’m the only one who knows exactly what happened with Dara and why.

She was used like a pawn in a plan that Bane has been trying to pull off for years. Dara was caught into their web a few weeks ago. She shared with me how a man in his forties was giving her attention and secretly gave her gifts. She was swept off her feet, and while we are brought up by different standards, she was affected by the secret male attention she received.

When I reminded her how her father was already looking for a suitable husband, she vowed to withstand his advances. Women in the mafia world don’t have the luxury of following their hearts; it’s all about forging alliances. She did mention he was a capo but she also told me she would tell him to stop the next time she’d meet him.

Yes, the dude even got her to sneak out of the freaking house. And did I mention the whole over forty part while she’s almost three years younger than I am? She’s barely sixteen for Christ’s sake.

A few days ago, Dara explained to me how stopping to see him didn’t work because he went to her father to demand they were to be married. She showed me a picture of the guy she secretly took with her phone and I instantly recognized him as Rory Mickle, a capo from Bane, another mafia family. I knew right then and there it screamed disaster and I mentioned it to my father so he could put a stop to it.

Talking about disasters, I hope to hell my father is able to salvage a bond with the MC that he shattered beyond repair when he killed the president last night during a standard transport meeting. He shouldn’t have retaliated this quickly, and he wouldn’t have, but that scumbag responsible for everything made a few of his men join my father for the meeting.

And seriously? Knowing all the details now? This betrayal was brilliantly planned and put into action. Almost fucking flawless. And they would have gotten away with it if Dara didn’t have one weakness; her friendship with me.

I unfasten my helmet and the sound of my mother’s voice immediately assaults my senses. “One of these days, Meribeth.”

A soft murmur and one glance in her direction lets me know she’s swallowing a few curse words right after my full name until she adds on a steady breath, “Your father has been asking where you are. He has something to tell you.”

“I’ll go see him now because I have something to tell him as well.” I place the helmet on top of my bike and try to stroll past my mother but she stops me.

“You need to change first. I’ve put clothes on your bed. Be sure to put your hair up. All of it, and apply some makeup.”

Makeup? “Since when do I need to get fancy when I talk to dad? Not to mention, I don’t have time to polish up my looks: what I have to tell him is urgent.”

“Whatever it is, it will have to wait. We have guests you need to meet. And you better not disappoint us. This is important, there’s a lot at stake.” She folds her hands in front of her and raises her chin.

Disappoint us? Why would she warn me not to disappoint the both of them? The way her thumb is rubbing circles over her other hand is something I find concerning. It’s a subtle movement but I’m always observant when it comes to people. I know both my father and my mother inside out. And this little action? It tells me she’s nervous.

“What’s going on?” I question.

She waves her hand and her high heels click on the concrete floor as she struts toward the door. “Hurry up, Meribeth. They are expecting you.”

I should march right into my father’s office and see why my mother is acting suspicious but the truth is, I’ve never defied them. Basically, because they’ve always given me freedom to do as I please. And in a mafia world? That says a lot.

For instance, I’m going to be nineteen in just a handful of days and by now, a mafia princess like me? I should have been tied into an arranged marriage for years. Arranged marriages are common and since my father is the boss, I’m the most wanted woman to have on a made man’s arm.

But like I mentioned, they’ve always given me my freedom. Though, I know my father has mentioned how there isn’t anyone suitable to take me on. There have been quite a few suitors who my father has turned down. The way I was raised; I’m worthy of a great leader, and time will tell who this man would be. His words, not mine.

I’m just thinking I might not survive my wedding night since I’ve got quite the temper and not always succeed in keeping my thoughts from spilling out. Much to my mother’s distaste when it comes to social gatherings where I need to act like the woman she raised.

I release a deep breath and head up the stairs and enter my bedroom. My mother has placed an emerald green evening dress on the bed with a side slit. The black bow high heels on the floor aren’t ones I bought but my mother clearly wants me to wear them.

Diving into the bathroom, I quickly brush my hair and tame my thick, long, and red mass of curls and put it all up into a tight bun. Snatching some underwear from my drawer, I grin when I take a green lace thong and a black lace bra.

My silent defiance to my mother’s fanciness. I mean, there’s no one who sees my mismatched underwear, but I know and it’s a small satisfaction in a shitty situation she always puts me in. Changing into the dress my mother requested, I eye the shoes and decide to go with something different.

I don’t know why she’s nervous or demanding me to get all fancy so I might as well throw her a little off by picking different shoes. Snatching my Versace black Medusa Zipper sandals, I quickly put them on and nod at my reflection.

My mother will go nuts when she sees them. Not only did I pick other shoes than she wanted me to wear, they are sandals. This means my crimson nail polish is showing and I’m wearing an emerald dress. Screw classy, I made the effort with the dress, makeup, and hair.

And my feet are the only thing I like to pamper. I don’t wear earrings–because it hurt the first time my earring got stuck during fight training–or other obvious jewelry for that matter. Except for my golden toe ring and three ankle bracelets I wear on my left foot. Yes, totally girly along with the nail polish but I absolutely love it.

I give one last look in the floor to ceiling mirror and let my hand slide over the curves of my ass. The dress my mother picked accentuates my hourglass figure and the fabric stretches over my thighs and ass. I try to show less cleavage but with my cup size it’s a wasted effort. Again, I wonder why I need to dress like a meat show but my mother is calling my name in an impatient tone.

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