Page 2 of Tormented Heir

Now, with Jacob, she has a good husband. My Italian stepfather was anything but. He screwed around too, the way this piece of shit clearly has. It’s tough luck for him that he’s triggered deep, buried feelings of loathing in me.

His wife smiles at me. She knows I’m considering taking the bait. She probably thinks it’s worth it. Suck the bratva enforcer’s cock, and she gets to live.

Except, I don’t want her to suck my cock.

I don’t want her to do that if she feels she must.

That won’t upset her piece of shit husband enough either. Me making her come, though? Me having her shout my name as she unravels for me while he’s tied to a chair waiting to die?

Now that will fucking eat at him. The way I wish someone could have got to my stepfather and made him suffer.

Casually, I walk to the wife. I tip her chin up and rub my thumb over her full lower lip. “What’s your name?” I ask.

“Lizzie.” Her eyes are incredible up close.

I undo her wrists, and her husband struggles in his chair. I then untie her ankles. It’s a risk. This woman could be planning to murder me for all I know. She has no weapons, though, and I’m a trained killer. I can kill a two-hundred-pound man with my bare hands, never mind a petite thing like her.

There’s an old school boom box in the corner of the room, and I press play on it so that rock blares out, near enough to the husband’s ears to be painful.

Taking her hand in mine, I pull the wife, Lizzie, after me to the far end of the room where a small bar is set up. I gesture to the drinks.

“Vodka,” she says. “On the rocks.”

I pour her drink and hand it to her. She drinks it down in one go and licks her lips.

“Another?” I ask.

She nods.

“You don’t have to do this,” I tell her. I’m a lot of things. Murderer. Torturer. Killer. Fighter. One thing I am not, and will never be, is a rapist.

“I’m going to let you go, irrespective.”

“Why?” she asks.

“My gut tells me you weren’t in on this. Like you pointed out, he had a mistress. And he treated you like shit, I presume. Why should you suffer for his sins? You can walk out of here right now. No need to offer me anything.”

“What if I want to?” she asks softly. “What if I want the last thing he sees to be me on my knees for you?”

My cock is so hard, I think it might explode. If I was the sort of person to fall in love, then she might be it; except, we’re both far too jaded, and too jaded people just make a nihilistic mess.

“You hate him that much?” I raise one brow. “You married him.”

“Yes. Twenty years ago. Since then, he destroyed every dream I had. We had no kids. He was unable to, and then he said we couldn’t use a donor. He made me leave my job. Slowly alienated me from my friends. Fucked over your boss.” She shakes her head and purses her lips. “He’s a fucking life-ruiner.”

“Yet, you stayed. How do I know you won’t get overcome with remorse once he’s dead and decide you have to go to the police?”

Her mouth twitches up in a slight smile. “If he’s found dead, unknown causes, then his insurance pays out. If I go to the police, then I won’t get anything. There will be years of investigations, and the insurance could argue he brought it on himself. So, why would I screw myself over that way? You ask why I stayed; well, I stayed because I have nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“No. The house is mortgaged to the hilt. We have debts. The one thing we still have, and I know because I am the one who does all the finances after he got behind on the bills, is the joint life insurance. It would only pay out enough to clear the mortgage, but I don’t need the house and the memories.”

“You really had no clue he was skimming off the top?” I push, even though my mind is ninety-nine percent made up.

Her face twists into a mask of disgust and anger.

Disgust is one of the most basic human emotions. It’s hard to fake. It’s discernible from a young age. Tiny children can recognize disgust. Her face is drowning in it, and it is real.

---