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Had I intended to become what I was? A mercenary for hire? Taking the highest paying jobs, no matter the cost to my victims? Not consciously, no. Over the last few years, though, I had done everything I could to live up to my heritage. I was a mercenary. I went where the money was.
I didn’t like training women, readying them for something like this. But I was good at it. And I wasn’t sure there was another job on earth that would make me feel any lesser trash than this. Taking women and knowingly delivering them into the hands of other monsters like me. Worse than me.
I was well and truly a sick fuck.
I’d started taking these types of jobs two months after the night I’d learned the truth. After that night at Salvatore’s house when my world had exploded around me, and left me holding the smoking gun. When I’d stood over my brother’s—half-brother’s—dying body.
He didn’t die.
But that didn’t matter. I’d felt Franco’s hate. His revulsion. Had he always felt that way about me?
I sat down on the edge of the bed, as if needing the support.
Had I just always been too fucking stupid to see it? Too cocky? I’d been my mother’s favorite. Her little prince. I knew why now. She’d loved my father more than she’d loved Franco Benedetti. And I was the living, breathing result of that love.
I shook my head. What would she think if she saw me now?
My throat closed up, and I stood. I had to forget. I just had to fucking forget. I could try to understand forever, and it wouldn’t make any difference. It wouldn’t change anything. I just needed to stop thinking about it.
I went to the dresser and opened the top drawer, taking out a fresh pair of underwear, jeans and a long-sleeved, V-neck T-shirt. Black. It was all I wore these days. Underneath was the photo I kept there. Taking it out, I touched the little face. The tiny smiling face. Effie. My little girl. She was eleven now. And I missed her. I’d been in her life off and on for her first three and a half years, but when she and Isabella had moved back to New Jersey, I’d seen her almost daily. I think that’s why I missed her so much now, even after so many years had passed.
I was just Dominic to her, though. Not dad.
Dad.
I shook my head. She’s better off, asshole.
Isabella—for some unknown reason—kept e-mailing me photographs. I printed the ones I was especially fond of. It was strange. I didn’t think she’d want me in the picture at all. Did she feel bad?
No. That bitch didn’t have a conscience. Or she hadn’t until Luke.
She was the only one who knew how to get ahold of me, and I knew she hadn’t told a soul. That was confirmation of her lack of conscience. She’d watched her sister and my half-brother search and search for me, and she never said a fucking word.
But even she didn’t know about this cabin in the woods.
Even she could not forgive this.
I tucked the photo back into the drawer and got dressed. That was what I needed—to remember all the lowlifes in my life. To remember none of us had a conscience. Well, except maybe Salvatore. And fuck him. I was sick of thinking about him.
In the kitchen, I grabbed another beer and opened it, taking a sip and looking at the food supply. The cabinets would have been stocked before I got here. Part of the setup. I had several contacts, but only one man knew of the location of this cabin. And I only knew him as Leo. He got me my jobs. No one knew they were hiring Dominic Benedetti or Dominic Sapienti. Leo got the cabin ready and delivered the girls. I didn’t kidnap them. I was purely a trainer. I spent about six weeks with them. I got them from here to the auction. And I delivered them submissive.
Like I said, I had no delusions about what I was.
I took out the eggs and bacon and switched on a burner. My thoughts went back to the girl. No sound came from the room. All cried out from her whipping, she was probably sleeping off the rest of the drug.
She was different than the others. She fought me; they all did to an extent. But they also begged for their lives. She’d done the opposite. She’d told me to get it over with if I was going to kill her. I wondered where she’d come from. Who’d had her, and who’d branded her. I wondered if her new owner would want that mark cut out. They usually liked them pure. Maybe he’d burn his own brand over top of whatever decorated her hip.
