Page 29 of Brutal Savage

I slap a hand over my eyes.

How do I continue to get drawn to men who are bad for me? I liked Jerry when I met him. He was always nice to me every time I saw him with my father over the years. I thought he worked for my dad, crunching numbers in his restaurant business.

But I was very wrong.

What I didn’t know was that my father wasn’t just a restaurant owner. He was a criminal, and Jerry wasn’t exactly working for my dad. He was working for an organization who was in competition with my father, someone my father owed lots of money to. Money he couldn’t pay back.

In exchange, he sold me to Jerry’s father, the head of the gang, and Jerry forced me to work for their organization, doing horrible things.

And there was nothing my piece-of-shit dad could do about it. Unless he was willing to die for me, which he wasn’t.

No one but Jerry knows I killed him. That asshole helped me bury the bodies. I had no one else to call except him.

Of course, he swore that if I tried something, if I didn’t continue working for the gang, he’d make sure I rotted in prison.

So I had to run. If I hadn’t, I’d have ended up dead, and so would my grandparents.

I can’t go back, and I can’t end up in prison.

I still remember the day I realized I was engaged to Jerry and who he really was.

I always knew my father didn’t love me.

But to do that?

It was unforgivable.

TWO YEARS AGO

From my handbag, I retrieve the keys to my parents’ home, wondering why my father asked me here today. He doesn’t care much about spending time with me. Never has. This must be important.

Two cars are parked in the driveway.

Cars I don’t recognize.

A chill creeps up the back of my neck. I don’t know why, but it’s there, like it’s warning me of something I don’t yet understand.

My father has always had people by the house, though. Even when I was younger and lived here. He’d say they were there to help him run the numbers for his business or deal with orders for the restaurant. He’s made a good living doing it for over fifteen years. It’s honestly all he ever cares about.

The door screeches as I start to open it.

“Hey, Dad, I’m—” The words die in my throat.

Three men I’ve never seen before—scary-looking men—stand around the foyer. Black shirts, tall, tattoos on their necks. They give me hard stares, and I gulp down my own fear.

“Um, do you know where?—”

One of the men cuts me off and points to his left, toward the kitchen. Muffled voices grow louder as I head in that direction.

“Whatever you want!” my father tells someone.

My stomach knots from the fear in his voice.

As soon as I appear, a man in a suit, about the same age as my dad, stands behind him, lowering his gun out of view. But I saw it, and it was pointing at my father’s head.

Every limb on my body trembles. Dread like I’ve never known zaps through me.

My eyes land on my father’s. He’s just as scared.

---