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Epilogue
America Marshall-Travis-Petrov
2 Weeks Later…
The car came to a slow but steady stop in front of a familiar place. In all of my years I’d lived in New York, I’d only ever seen it from the outside, and now I was curious to know what it would amount to on the inside. Club Champagne. My father’s club—one of many and soon to be mine. After tonight anyway.
“Ready?” Jensen asked, looking over at me. I grinned back at him and even went so far as to flash him a wink.
“Let’s do this,” I replied. The sooner the better. I wanted this nightmare over. Something had broken inside me after Ben—Nathanial,I reminded myself for what had to be the hundredth time—kidnapped me and tried to kill me. There was no more Mary Peterson, no more being that quiet, reserved persona. I was Mare, the woman who didn’t take shit, and when Nathanial had tried to kill me, all he’d done was kill who I’d pretended to be. Now, it was time to take back my life as America.
Starting with my bastard father.
Jensen and Archer got out of the car, leaving me alone with Ian in the driver’s seat. The front door of the club opened as a couple left, a thick heavy bass echoing out so loud that I could hear it even beyond the bulletproof windows of the SUV. “Sure you don’t want to change?” Ian asked, casting me a look.
I shook my head. “My father deserves to see me like this, don’t you think?” I replied, gesturing down to the white lace dress I’d donned just that morning before all four of us had headed to the courthouse to be married—well, officially I’d only married Ian, but we all knew the truth of our hearts. I was married to three men, three protectors, who had three very devious minds and would wreak havoc on the world if I was ever hurt. That kind of power gave a girl an ego—I should know. I was that girl.
Ian shook his head but couldn’t suppress the small smile that graced his lips. Then, he, too, got out of the SUV, circling to the back as he tossed the keys to Jensen waiting on the edge of the sidewalk. Jensen caught the flying keys with ease as Ian opened my door and held his hand out for me to take.
“Well then, Mrs. Marshall-Travis-Petrov, shall we?”
I smiled and let my hand fall to his, letting him help me out of the car. Full, porcelain white skirts swished around my thighs. The dress was long enough that it covered me down to my ankles, where it stopped abruptly and left just enough room for my black Mary Jane heels to remain visible.
“We shall,” I said.
Jensen and Archer stepped forward, each grasping a door and pulling them open at the same time. Like Alice through the looking glass, I stepped through and into another world.
Smoke clouded the inside of the club. Heavy red and purple drapes hung from the walls, covering any window that might have been used to peek inside. Scantily-clad women with faces full of makeup danced on small stages throughout the center of the main room. A lone girl stood on the largest stage of them all, her dark curls shifting as she swayed on her feet. The crimson dress she wore molded to her curves, stopping mid-thigh with a tulip hem that showcased one thigh. She sang a hauntingly beautiful song that echoed throughout the club, her skin glowing under the stage lights. The only other items she wore were a pair of simple black stilettos and a golden bracelet on one wrist, the focus no doubt meant to be on her slinky, seductive dress and melodic voice.
A skinny man with a receding hairline and a gaping mouth blinked at us, his back stiff and hands tight at his sides. “Please tell Mr. Perelli he has guests,” Archer said with a smile, handing the man a couple of hundred dollar bills.
The man stared at the money before his entire face drained of color. “I-I’m sorry, s-sirs,” he stuttered, shoving the money back at Archer. “A-and ma’am,” he said, nodding to me slightly. “But Mr. Perelli isn’t—”
Before the man could finish telling his lie, a set of double doors on the far side of the club were thrown open and my father, Jason Perelli, appeared in the doorway, two beefy bouncers flanking him as another dragged a crying man out of the back room. My father’s cold eyes locked on the man before lifting to his minion and nodding to the side. The bouncer, clutching the poor man by his shirt, suddenly lifted him and punched him straight in the face, effectively breaking his nose as the smaller man howled in pain and blood spurted from his nostrils.
“I want him out of here, Jonny,” the bastard commanded. “Take him somewhere for me to deal with later.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Perelli.” All the while, no one paid them any mind. No one noticed my father’s men or him—or …no, they noticed,I realized. Every time my father focused on a certain part of the room, people swiftly looked away. No one would meet his eyes, as if they were too afraid to be noticed. My father had his club members well trained. These people must have known who he was—what he did. There was no other explanation for why Jason Perelli would feel so comfortable conducting his illicit business here, and after that display, there was no doubt in my mind that he did. The singer chose that moment to belt out a long note that could have shook the house down had it not been for the underlying foundation of tension holding the place up.
Still, he continued as if looking for something. Then, his eyes fell on me, and I felt myself smile. It was cold, bordering on predatory as a thrill of excitement filled me. For the first time, I wasn’t the prey; I wasn’t the ‘weak’ one. Years—hell, weeks—ago I might have shrunk back from his shrewd, calculating gaze. I might have hidden behind Ian and Jensen and Archer, but that’s not who I was anymore. That’s not who I was about to become.
His brows drew together at first, his confusion clear as he tried to place who I was. Moments later, recognition flashed across his face before the scrunched expression smoothed into a hard, stony gaze. I could practically feel the shock and anger nearly rolling off of him in waves as his body went rigid.
There was a certain nuance to his stiff stance as he flicked his gaze to my side and took in Ian and then Jensen and Archer. Archer shoved the money at the man working the front door despite him having tried to give it back. When the guard realized his err, his hands started to shake. He’d allowed Jason Perelli’s daughter—hissnitchof a daughter—into his club. “I’d take this if I were you,” Archer said. “Thanks for the help.”
Without a moment’s hesitation, Ian led me forward, keeping my hand in his as Archer fell behind us and Jensen pushed ahead. Stares followed us, each gaze almost a tangible weight coming down on us. The pressure of this moment and how it would affect my future and theirs was a burden I couldn't have prepared myself for, but there was no turning back. We stopped several feet away when we had made it across the room, my gaze locking with eyes so similar yet worlds different than my own. “Well, it seems you’ve done me the favor of coming to me, dearest,” my father said, his voice even and unperturbed.
“We have a lot to discuss,Father,” I replied, emphasizing his moniker. I wanted him to remember—for as long as he had left—who I was. I was his flesh and blood, his daughter—the girl he should have loved and protected. The one he’d ignored until he couldn’t any longer.
I strode into the backroom with my husbands. God, even in the midst of what we were about to do I loved the sound of that. The doors closed and I inhaled the scent of cigar smoke and … blood? I looked down and almost chuckled to myself. Of course, there was blood here. This was a mobster’s office after all. There, on the floor, was a fresh stain. It appeared my father had already been hard at work tonight. A cold mask blanketed any sensitivity I may have felt for the situation as I stared at the darkened mark, as if my emotions had been suddenly muted. I knew I should have been disturbed at the reminder of being so close to his cruelties, but it was as if my body knew I needed to focus on the job. I would never be truly safe from him until he was gone.
“I will say”—Jason Perelli leaned against the wide solid oak desk that dominated the large office—“you’ve got some guts coming back here.” He steepled his fingers under his chin and rested his elbows on the surface of the desk.
“No guts,” I stated simply, shrugging. With my lack of emotions, the apathy for what I was doing grew stronger, as if I truly didn’t give a shit that I was about to end this once and for all. “Just a purpose.”
His cold eyes glared at me. “And what purpose would that be?” he demanded.
I shrugged again, pulling my hand from Ian’s as I stepped forward and surveyed the room, barely making it two steps before one of my father’s bouncers reached for me. Holding my hand up, they paused but knew it wasn’tjustbecause of me. They didn’t know me—they didn’t respect me. Not yet anyway. I turned my head and saw that Archer had stepped forward, around Ian, and removed his Glock. He held it up, patiently waiting for me to continue. God, I loved my men.
