Page 43 of Brando

“So, you want to torture me by showing me how badly you’re mistreating my sisters? Do you even feed them?”

I can see that he relishes my desperation; that he finally has control over me and knowing that he can bend me any which way to make sure I do as he says. He can almost taste the fear I’m feeling, and he’s feeding off my anger.

“I guess perhaps we could find them a better home,” he murmurs, almost as a side note, before he taps on his laptop again.

“What are you doing?” I shriek.

A series of numbers appears on the monitor, digits and letters scrolling up the page on either side of each screen.

“Let’s play a little game, shall we? I’m not sure I know how much your sisters are worth toyou,since you keep breaking the rules. But let’s see how much your sisters are worthto others.”

I move forward, looking closer at the screen, until I see the credits rolling up the page for what they are. I look at him, mortified, as I understand what he’s done and what’s about to happen. He’s sent my sisters to auction.

“Your sisters are the stars of the night, Mia. And the bids are soaring high so quickly.”

I can feel the blood rushing in my ears, a tide rising too fast to stem. Panic claws at my throat, but beneath it all, a fierce heat kindles—the fire of protection, unyielding and fierce.

“Bastard!” I breathe out, defiance etching my features into stone. “I won't let you have them.”

With every bid that rolls in, and as the numbers grow exponentially to ridiculous heights, Frank's satisfaction swells like a symphony reaching its crescendo. Frank’s cruelty reaches through the air between us to throttle me, robbing me of the air I need. My heart slams against my ribs, my bones rattling as they fight against the skin encasing them. They scream bloody murder as I lunge at Frank’s throat.

I slam hard against his body, sending us both hurtling to the ground as the chair goes flying from under him. I may notbe able to stop the auction, but I can kill him and prevent any handover. Even if I end up dead in the process, I won’t let him have my sisters.

The room shrinks around us, walls inching closer, suffocating me. I struggle against him, even as he quickly overcomes me and has me on my back. My hands tremble as I lash out, reaching for his throat. He straddles me, grabs my hands and lifts them above my head, and for a split second, I’m transported back in time to a place that’s gone but not forgotten. I won’t let him destroy me again. I won’t let him destroy my sisters.

“Even if I have to kill you, I will end this! Do you hear me, Frank? I willendyou.”

The realization that Frank brought me here under false pretenses guts me. He never had any intention of giving me back my sisters, and he played me like a violin as he set his plan in motion. It becomes painfully obvious to me that he planned, he executed, and then he just sat back waiting for the outcome. There are no two ways about it. The man is a monster, and although I still don’t know what his motivations are, I can see so clearly now that he set a trap, and I fell right into it.

I had railed and punched, determined to end him, but I’m no match for a man twice my height and size. Not physically, anyway. I can feel a sting at the edge of my lip, and I taste blood when I dart my tongue out at the liquid pooling there.

“You make quite the couple, I must admit,” Frank chuckles.

He wipes at his own face where I clawed at his cheek, drawing blood. I know that must sting like a bitch, and that pain for him warms my heart. Not nearly enough of what I want to do to him, but it’s a start.

“Fuck you to hell and back, Frank.”

“Ah, Mia,” Frank answers, his voice like honeyed poison. “I’ve already told you that can be arranged, if only you ask nicely.”

“You’re certifiably crazy,” I whisper, as the realization dawns on me. I have to forget everything I know about the boy that was Frank Falcone. He was dangerous then, but this new, refined adult version looks like it’s had a faulty upgrade. “I will make sure you rot in hell for this,” I spit out, my voice a blade cutting through the room.

“Such spice,” he taunts back. “I think I’m going to enjoy every minute of our sparring. You’ve become quite the spitfire, Mia.”

“Fuck you! You’re despicable!” I spit at him and the glob of saliva lands on his left cheek. He lets go of my hands to reach up to his face. I watch in fearful fascination as everything unfolds in slow motion. He’s so casual as he does it, his mask frozen in place, that you would think it’s just another day in Frank Falcone’s life, but it’s enough to give me a front row seat to the depths of Frank’s depravity. He lifts his hand to his cheek, and ever so slowly, he slides the pads of his forefinger and middle finger through the spittle down his cheek, past his chin, then up to his lips. He sucks his fingers into his mouth, and I could swear that he is turned on by the way he’s dilated eyes become hooded. I’m just as much shocked as I am disgusted as I watch him in horror.

When he finally takes his fingers out of his mouth, it’s with a pop, before he shoots me a wicked smile that has ice curling up my spine. He fixes me with crazy eyes that seem to darken, the way the clouds would suddenly before a raging storm.

“This time, I’m going to be patient and make you beg me to take you,” he purrs. “That will be the ultimate fuck you to Gatti.”

23

SCAR

Javier Merchado’s gaze locks onto mine as he settles into the chair at the head of the table. I hold his stare, allowing him to claim his position of power—after all, we’re on his turf today. I’ve given him this courtesy out of respect, but make no mistake, I could crush him without a second thought. Easily.

Brando told me Javier was the only one who made sense in the meeting the other day—the only one with a level head in a room full of chaos. He might be the rational one, but he’s still part of the Maltese family, which makes him the enemy. And as far as I’m concerned, I’m not in the mood to make deals with the enemy—unless it’s for my brother’s sake.

I’m not one to let emotions cloud my judgment. Quite the opposite. I’m all about precision, strategy, and control. Every action, every decision is the result of hours of planning and preemptive thinking. Emotion doesn’t belong in my world. Or, at least, it didn’t. Not until Allegra. Not until Scarlett. Before them, I had only one true tie to any emotion, and that was for my immediate family. By ‘immediate’, I mean my brothers. Certainly not my mother—she was a vile, loathsome woman, someone I couldn’t even imagine feeling anything for.

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