Page 72 of The Killer Card

“No,” I say again, more firmly.

Grandfather’s anger is palpable as he repeats back, “No?”

Swallowing, I meet his eyes with more courage than I feel. “I won’t be a murderer.” Carefully I place the gun back on his desk and rise to my feet. “Make me your mule. Whore me out. Beat me until I can hardly see through the blood in my eyes, but you won’t make me a murderer. My mother did not die so that I could be as vile as—”

Faster than he should have been able to move at his age, Grandfather shoves out of his chair and has me by the throat. My hands just catch on the surface of the desk before my hips crack against the wood.

"Your mother died because she decided a bastard mattered more than her duty to her family!” He snarls, his tobacco flavored spit hitting my cheeks. “She gave up the right to expect anything of you or me the day she let that filthy bastard dump his seed between her legs!”

He shoves me away so hard I have to catch myself on my chair. Levelling a finger in my face, he warns, “This is the last time you will ever disrespect me, boy. You will make yourself of more use to me than lying on your back or you will do it six feet in the ground! Do you understand?” When I don’t reply instantly he raises his voice to the rafter, “DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?!”

“Yes!” I gasp quickly. “Yes…”

He shoves a finger at his office door. “Get out of my sight!”

I can’t follow that order fast enough, racing across the room so fast my sneakers catch on the rug. I stumble as I rip open the door, flinging it closed behind me. I’m hardly halfway down the hall when I freeze, meeting Sonya’s brilliant blue eyes where she leans against the wall. They’re just as cold and lifeless as they’ve been since she came to live here and when she shakes her head, I fear for just a moment she’s actually disappointed in me for not doing what he asked. I don’t speak to my sister enough to know how indoctrinated she’s become into this system. I don’t know what she’s willing to do to justify her existence in this world.

She pushes away from the wall, coming toward me, doesn’t stop to speak or even look in my direction. But under her breath I hear her whisper, “She died for you.”

Whatever shred of dignity I have left crumbles at those words because I know. I fucking know she died for me. I know if it wasn’t for me she would still be here for Sonya. My father might even still be alive. I am the reason the only two good people I have ever known are dead and that will haunt me for the rest of my miserable fucking life.

Making my way into the kitchen, I grab the key to our Central Park gate. I don’t come back until there’s no sun left in the sky and the chill of the evening air has numbed the ache in my heart to a dull throb.

✽✽✽

There’s someone in my room again. I hear them before I make it all the way up the stairs. Goddamn it, will I ever get a fucking break in this house? I shed my jacket as I take the final steps into my tower, growling out in English, “Whoever you are, I don’t care what you paid. You may as well go and beg for it back because I won’t be doing whatever it is you’re here for- Oh.”

It’s a man. A very handsome man in a maroon suit, his dark hair slicked back neatly. His dark eyes crinkle when he turns, smiling at me in a way that is…. Not at all pleasant and I recognize him instantly. He was the man sitting next to Sonya at dinner a few weeks ago. Mister…

“Rossi,” he holds out a hand. He has a heavy Italian accent, but his English is perfect. “Sebastian Rossi.”

The man engaged to my sister. I don’t take his hand, but I do take his measure from a distance. “What do you want?” I ask in his native tongue. Not to make him more comfortable in my room, but to get to the point faster so he can leave.

Unfortunately, my fluency seems to please him. He sets down the book he was rifling through- some old classic for school- turning fully to face me. I don’t like the way his eyes travel over me from head to toe then back again. It’s too slow, too intimate. Instinctively, I take a step back.

“Your accent is magnificent,” he tells me.

“Thank you, Signor.”

My formality and deference pleases him just as much as my Italian. I see the flash of it in his eyes. I take another step closer to the stairs. He gives me another smile, and suddenly I have the most violent urge to run.

Clearing my throat, I ask again, “What do you want, Mr. Rossi?”

Mr. Rossi licks his lips and a horrible chill racks my spine. “I think,” he says slowly, closing the distance between us. My stomach turns when he raises a hand to thumb my cheek. “You know exactly what I want, little wolf.”

Ripping away from him, I turn to rush down the stairs, only to be stopped by long, familiar fingers against the exact spot on my chest they put out a cigarette the last time we met. “Scared him off already, Bastian? I told you to be gentle.”

“We both know it is not in my nature, Liza.” I flinch when I feel his breath against my ear. “But you were correct.” His hand drifts up my spine to grip the back of my neck. “He is very lovely.”

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, FUCK!

I’ve never been sold to a man. Grandfather is rather conventional and has always been open about his opinions. Men enjoying other men is one he very loudly frowns upon. Yet, here I am, forced between a woman who has already paid for me before and a man who is supposed to be engaged to my sister. Unless this woman- Liza Rossi- paid without disclosing her intentions, this can only be the most twisted form of punishment Grandfather has ever dealt upon me. It’s not that I’m opposed to being with men, there are plenty of boys at school that have turned my head, but I most certainly- deep in my gut- know that I do not wish to be touched by this man.

I have no choice. I struggle anyway, trying to pull away from his hand on my neck, but his fingers only tighten.

“Yes, little wolf,” Liza chuckles, her breath ghosting across my lips, a familiar tang of cherry lingering in my nose. “He likes when you fight.”

What the fuck is wrong with these people? That’s her brother and she talks about him like a lover. If I ever learned even a fragment of my sister’s sex life, I’d be considering the quickest way to an early grave.