Page 7 of Scarred (Russian Sinners 2)

“Hi, Mom,” I spoke softly to her.

Her head slowly lifted and her blue eyes that used to shine when I was a little girl were now dull and lifeless. Sometimes, I felt like she didn’t even recognize me. Like now, when she stared at me like she was trying to figure out who I was.

She stood next to me, and my heart cracked for her. Love did this to her. It was the worst kind of punishment any woman could endure. The rage inside me flared and burned hot.

“It’s me, Mom. Olivia.” The words choked in my throat.

Recognition flickered in her eyes but she didn’t smile. It was as if smiling took too much effort. My heart hurt seeing her like this; the hurt and rage dangerously mixing within me.

“My dear, Olivia.” Her hand slowly lifted to my cheek and she gently patted it. “My poor, little girl,” she murmured so low I could barely hear her.

I hated my father’s guts. Sometimes the feeling was so consuming, I couldn’t think past it. I wanted to make him pay; make Malcome pay. Make them hurt as much as we all hurt. But we were weak pawns in their power.

“I’ll come and read to you later,” I choked out, rushing out before I broke down. She didn’t have to see me upset. I didn’t want her to have more to worry about; her mind was weighted down enough. Sometimes I wondered if maybe she hadn’t lost her sanity already. “Promise.”

Whenever I was home, I read regency novels to my mother. They were her favorite. They were a bunch of rubbish, but as long as it made my mom happy, it was good rubbish.

A little after five in the afternoon, I descended the stairs of our family home. My father paced back and forth in the lobby, and I could see the agitation on him. I knew most women would wear elaborate gowns. I opted for a black Channel pencil fit dress, which was more appropriate for a business meeting. After all, this was a business arrangement so I might as well dress accordingly.

As soon as Dad saw me, he spat out angry. “We were supposed to be there at five.”

I didn’t give a shit. It was my smallfuck you Dadrebellion. I guess you could say I was passive aggressive.

“Sorry, Dad,” my answer was calm. “I wanted to make sure I looked alright.”

Truth was, I got sick to my stomach just thinking about seeing Malcome. Bile rose in my throat as I was leaving the room and I had to rush to the toilet. Then it required me brushing my teeth again and ensuring each strand of my hair was where it had to be.

Then I got a reply via text from my brother’s friend letting me know Oliver went to the casino along with the address of the place. Why in the hell would he go to the casino? Again! This was the third day in a row.

“Let’s go.” My father practically bellowed at me.

He didn’t wait for me but rushed out of the door and into the car waiting for us. Of course, it was the car that Malcome sent. His corporate emblem etched into the door. He said he hated people recognizing him but he advertised his shitty emblem everywhere.

We drove in silence all the way there. It was only a fifteen-minute drive through the city. We were attending an event hosting some foreign delegates. I couldn’t have cared less for any of it, I just prayed that Malcome would stay away from me and be busy trying to impress other assholes like him.

As soon as the car came to a stop, I put on my sunglasses before exiting. Between those and my large hat, I hoped nobody could see my face well. The less people saw me, the easier it would be when Mom and I ran off and hid.

The cameras flashing and clicking signaling pictures being taken was the only sound I could hear as I exited the car and rushed inside. I hated all this. I despised the spotlight, these cruel and power-hungry people, and most of all I despised Malcome Schmidt as he came outside to greet me.

I guess he wouldn't be too busy to give me his attention. It had been over six months since I saw him last. With each step I took, my fear grew. I knew he purposely came out and stood on the top step, waiting. It showed his superiority. I didn’t give a shit about his power or his money. Unfortunately, my dad was a slave to this man.

Bile threatened to come up in my throat again. Now, wouldn’t that make a pretty sight for the news reporters. Olivia Fray puking her guts all over Malcome Schmidt and his damn polished shoes.

I swallowed hard, raising my head to meet his eyes. They shone with malice. I had one advantage over him right now. I could see his eyes but he couldn’t see mine. If he could see my eyes, he’d see revolt in them… and fear.

Instead, he could barely see my face. But I knew better than to show any emotions.

I studied this despicable man. Malcome Schmidt was about fifty. His age didn’t bother me. He was fairly tall, about five foot eleven. He was built like a boxer. It was the only way I could describe him. His hair was blonde, mixed with greys. His hair stood wildly about his head, reminding me of Albert Einstein. Those grey eyes trailed up and down my body. The strange shade, which my father once said was due to something genetic, held a cruelty that made my body shiver in fear. The malice in them when he had a plan was even more terrifying. And usually, it was a plan in which someone was hurt and he got off on it.

And that was how they shone now. I swallowed hard again, my stomach churning in knots.

“Olivia,” his voice was creepy and smooth. “How nice to finally see you again.”

My name on his lips as he rolled my name on his tongue was the worst kind of sound. He gave me one of his shark smiles.

“Malcome.” My throat was so tight, I could barely spit out his name.

I hated his name on my lips. I wanted to call him Mr. Schmidt but I remembered too well what happened last time. The burns inside my thighs flared up just thinking about it. The pain was unbearable when he pushed a cigar against my inner thigh. But that wasn’t enough for him. He followed up by pressing a lighter over the cigar burn. I could still hear the sizzling of flesh burning and smell it too.

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