Page 5 of Owned By her Enemy
More recently it’s all very dull. The internet makes things simple. Bankrupting a greedy pig like Tottenham is not as difficult as it sounds when you have as much access to his online world as I do. Watching everything that went on in Tottenham and silently scuppering each attempt David Tottenham made was savagely satisfying. I was in a digital tower, a lone, all-powerful man making slights of hand—the occasional email lost, a “typo” or two that changed the whole meaning. Every step that inexorably progressed to disaster was seemingly an accident.
The opening of a social media account was of only marginal interest to me. I’d watched Charlotte Tottenham thousands of times as she grew up, but never felt anything. At forty, I prefer experience and brevity in my bed partners, not youth. If they’re going to cry, I want it to be because that’s their kink and I have my hand around their throat, not because their little virgin cunt can’t take my big cock.
I played the video to observe and scheme, not to fall in love.
She’d called herself Rapunzel, which made me curious: the girl imprisoned in a tower. That name hinted Charlotte Tottenham was not the spoiled mafia princess I’d assumed.
From the first note, I swear my soul left my body and has been floating around, searching for her, since. She wore the same red dress as I saw her in at our restaurant first meeting, and had a filter that made her hair smooth and her face cartoony. But it was the tone of her voice that ripped me apart. So sweet and mournful, singing about lost love.
I did something out of character for me: I left a comment on the video, saying she had the most amazing talent. Then another compliment on the next one, and the next. A year later and we’re conversing every day.
In those messages we’re friends. In reality, she’s the daughter of my sworn enemy.
“Boss, her car has stopped a couple of streets away.” Mikhail sounds tense.
I nod to reassure him. He hasn’t understood that I’m not actually as psychotic and bloodthirsty as the reputation I’ve built. Quite the opposite.
It was simple. My uncle planned to blow up the whole Tottenham Tower—prick thought he could blame brown people and get away with it. But anything that risked harming my girl? Not going to happen.
He died of a very plausible heart attack. When my brother voiced his intention to continue with the same plan, he died in a tragically preventable drug overdose.
But I’d learned by that point. To protect my girl, I had to be the kingpin. I took over, called the entire Edmonton Bratva family together and forced them all to give up their phones so I could control the narrative. Then I asked who wanted to go ahead with the attack on Tottenham Tower and shot every last one who raised their hand.
Not so much “touch her and die”, more “even think of touching her and die”.
The story I put out was that they challenged my authority. I prefer to be more subtle, as I was with my brother and uncle, I leave a body and a clear reason for the death. I’m never cruel to those left behind. I know the pain of being denied closure since Tottenham murdered my parents. They just disappeared, as is Tottenham’s sadistic hallmark.
After that, a suggestion here and there, a bit more financial pressure, and David Tottenham invited me to discuss peace. Childishly easy.
“Boss, think of how it looks—”
“She’ll be here,” I cut Mikhail off.
He’s quick, and loyal, but prone to telling me things I already know. Not his fault.
Lotte has stopped to make what she fears will be her last video as Rapunzel. Usually she does a few takes, and I enjoy watching those far more than is healthy. This time though…
She looks into the camera, her glossy dark brown hair falling over her eyes. The background is a long sandy beach with a bright blue sky. When she moves, a tone of black follows her.
She sings a hauntingly beautiful aria. It’s fancy. Maybe in Italian? I’ve got it on my phone speaker playing in full sight, in a damn church. Out of the corner of my eye, Mikhail looks like he might be sick, and in the front row of pews Grant Lambeth exchanges a confused look with his wife. Fucker. I’d tell him and his opinions to get out if I cared about anyone but Lotte.
As she tails off the high note, she smiles wryly into the camera, and says, “Just wanted to let you know that I’ll be away for a bit. Bye for now.”
And that’s it.
I type in a message, as she’ll be expecting. I’m vaguely aware that the entire church is watching me text my fiancée after I played her singing to the hushed room.
ListeningToHer: Gorgeous. But everything okay, songbird?
Rapunzel: TBH, I don’t know.
Oof. Her honesty kills me sometimes. She has no idea that I’ll take care of her in every way.
Rapunzel: Just think I’ll be limited in what I can post.
My ptichka has obviously heard about how I don’t allow my team to keep any technology that might compromise us. To be fair, we’ve binned a lot of phones and she’s right. I won’t risk her continuing to use her current one.
ListeningToHer: You’ll still sing, I hope.
