Page 13 of Alliance

He laughs. “I offered her up but LaFontaine has a taste that’s a bit… classier.”

My guts twist and I fight the urge to throw up the contents of my stomach. I guess he likes young girls, just not young girls with blue hair and an attitude. And I guess I can understand that. If you’re looking for arm candy, Lana’s it. She’s quiet and beautiful, raised to be the perfect wife. Who wouldn’t want her?

“So what?” I ask, knowing I’m on the verge of pissing off my boss and possibly getting a bullet in the back of my head. “You gonna drag her down the aisle?”

Marcus chuckles next to me. “If that’s what it takes, yeah. See, you’re not getting it, Naz. It’s doesn’t matter a single fuck what Lana wants, she can kick and scream, throw a fucking fit if she wants, but one way or another she’ll walk down the fucking aisle and marry the congressman.”

A shit-eating grin spreads across his cheeks. He has no shame. I don’t know if Marcus even has any feelings in that thick skull of his. I let myself sink back into the leather seat of the Camaro, letting my body rest for what might be the last time.

Marcus is silent the rest of the way until he pulls up to an old building in the warehouse district. His men, big goons with too many muscles, are already waiting when we pull in. As soon as he’s in the parking spot, the door is thrown open and I’m pulled from the car. My arms are pinched between the bulky hands of his men as they drag me into the warehouse.

I nearly fall, tripping over my own feet as they drag me into the warehouse. Inside is a room with thick cinder block walls that will prevent my screams from being heard. Marcus follows behind. Every few steps, I catch a glance of his mocking face over my shoulder.

It’s not even like Marcus is in line to take over his grandfather’s position as the head of the family, but the guy acts like he’s hot shit. It grates at my nerves. I want to put the shithead in his place.

When they get me into the room, they toss me onto a metal chair. A cheap one, the kind you rent in bulk for a backyard party. They use duct tape to secure me to the metal, haphazardly stripping it from the roll and circling my limbs.

My stomach sinks every step of the way.

Damien steps in next. I recognize him from the night I met Lana. The same night her sister leaped from her balcony and Marcus dragged me there to clean up the mess. Because selling drugs isn’t enough. If you want your button, want to officially joinla famiglia, you have to get your hands dirty. That was the night I first soiled my hands.

I still see Lily’s body when I close my eyes at night. I can see her mangled limbs, the bone that protrudes from her arm. Her blood spread over the pavement, taking two rounds of pressure washing to get the tinge of red to disappear.

I vomited as soon as I got home that night, rushing to the toilet in my mom’s house and spending the next hour hunched over the bowl. Until then, I didn’t realize how much I didn’t want to see broken bones and bloody cracked skulls. I’d assumed my stomach was made of iron and I had no gag reflex, but I was very wrong.

Damien gives me a cold look as he slowly walks to stand in front of my chair. “So,” he says thickly, “did you touch my daughter?”

Lana didn’t give me the impression that she was a pure flower, she seemed eager to sink to her knees for me, but her father is making me feel like I just defiled the princess.

I’m unsure what answer is my best bet of getting out this basement. “Yes,” I breathe, uttering the truth. I want to believe that these men honor truth, I would think this would be in their oath as a brotherhood. But I’ve worked for Marcus for a while now, and I know without a doubt that he’s a liar and a cheat. So there’s a chance that the truth means shit to them.

Damien bares his teeth at my answer. “Ya little fuck,” he growls, winding back his fist and punching me in the face. My neck pivots from the motions, whipping my head to the side and sending a sharp pain through my skull.

I don’t apologize.

I don’t want to, and I’m not sorry for fucking his daughter. She’s a grown woman. She chose to come home with me, to spread out on my bed and let me touch her smooth skin, let me fuck her until she begged me to stop.

The door to the cement room opens again, and through the strands of black hair that have fallen over my eyes, I can see Congressman LaFontaine enter. His brown loafers scuff the cement floor as he struts in.

I want to ask how Lana is. Mention that it didn’t seem like she wanted to go with him. But I figure that’s not in my best interest.

He stalks over, standing in front of me and letting his eyes scan up and down my body. So far I’m fairly unscathed, just the single black eye Damien gave me and a few sore spots from being manhandled into the chair.

I can tell he’s not amused by my lack of injuries.

Apparently, he’s taking me being with Lana very personal.

His face turns to Damien, looking him in the eye. “I want the bastard dead.”

Chapter Eight

I’M CONVINCED THERE WILL BEa hand-shaped bruise on my other arm from the forceful way Davis grips me. With only one hand he pushes me toward the car, not caring when my body hits against the metal exterior. He shifts his gaze to either side, making sure we don’t have an audience before he gives me another shove. His hand squeezes, tightening his already forceful hold as he leads me into the car, shoving me in the backseat.

I’m not going to cry.

I won’t let myself be weak in front of him.

There was a quote I read once from a survivor of abuse. Something saying that only weak men hit their wives.

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