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My monster's shiny black shoes click against the cement basement floor as he walks around my swinging cage. His fingers wrap around a piece of metal, keeping me inside.
"How are you feeling today, Little Snake?"
I adjust my body, bringing my legs to my chest. "I'm fine," I say, avoiding his eyes.
"Mmm. Well, we have several lesson plans today to go over," he says, lifting the key out of his pocket.
Yay. More lessons. More ways for him to break me down and build me up again. I can already feel the effects of my imprisonment taking hold. He's beaten me down so hard already I don't know if I'll survive anymore. I don’t know if I’ll leave this place the old Journey West I was before.
"What's the lesson today?" I blink several times when he swings the door open to my cage and smirks down at me.
"Eager already, Little Snake?"
Eager to get out of this cage, but I don't dare talk back to him. I learned that lesson within the first week of being here. I can still feel the remnants of the gag he shoved into my mouth for two days straight, refusing to feed me until I learned to hold my damn tongue. So, I hold my tongue. For now, anyway.
"Yes," I say with apprehension, moving to step down from the cage hanging from the ceiling and suspended above the cement.
The room's cold air seeps through my damn bones, despite the ratty sweatpants and T-shirt I've been allowed to wear. My bare feet hit the ground, sending shivers through my emaciated body. My stomach grumbles at the thought of the last meal I had. It wasn’t anything substantial. A peanut butter and jelly sandwich with a bag of chips.
"Then, let's get started, Little Snake." He grabs me by the back of the neck, forcing me toward another room at the opposite end of the basement. Or warehouse. Or wherever he has me. I've never been able to figure it out. All I know is it's dark at all times. It's cold and damp and constantly smells like mildew. If I ever make it out of this prison he's so gleefully thrown me into, I'll never fuck up my chances again.
I take a deep breath when we walk into a brightly-lit room filled with fluorescent lighting. They hum in the small room, highlighting the array of torture devices hanging from the walls and resting on a metal tray. Oh, and the man tied to a metal chair, strapped down by his hands and feet, unable to move. A gag rests in his mouth as he squirms, probably begging to be free.
"Oh, I almost forgot." No, he didn't. Whatever it is, he's always two steps ahead of me. "Your sister has written you a letter." He grins down at me, forcing me to face him. God, how I wish I could pluck his beady blue eyes out and put them on a stick for all to see that I killed the monster holding me hostage. He doesn't deserve a face or name.
My heart pounds double time. I haven't seen Sunshine in four months. Not since... He promised me if I complied with everything that he'd save her. That this was my repentance for being a bad girl.
"Can I?" I ask, licking my lips, which draws his attention toward them. Interest flares in his eyes, and I want to shrink back away from his gaze.
"Why don't we interrogate him first? Then, I'll see about handing over the letter. Be a good little girl today," he says, running a finger down my jaw with interest. "Then, we'll see."
Our promise to the Viotto Crime Family is this: we will remain pussy free until our initiation commences. Then, we will have someone special for us—an arranged marriage. Normally, each member of the family has their wife selected for them from an early age. Seeing as Arrow’s father wasn’t in the family, he was never truly considered. Or Shepp, whose father passed on before any connections could be made. And then, there was me. At eighteen, I was provided with who I was supposed to marry on a slip of paper and told to keep my nose clean.
The boys and I decided right then and there, we would share her. Seeing as we were each intrigued and heavily interested in one girl—Journey West.
Is the practice barbaric and outdated? Absolutely, yes. It’s something we shouldn’t have to deal with in this day and age. Yet, my father pushed, and I conceded like the dutiful son I was. Nowadays, I’m far from his puppet on a string, the boy he threw into the dark basement closet because I reminded him of my mother.
I’m Jericho fucking Viotto, heir to the mafia throne. I no longer believe my father’s words of contempt or strictly follow his rules.
I make the rules now.
And I say, Journey West is ours and forever.
Not Chloe Satin or whoever else he’d like to throw in our laps.
“I wouldn’t have ratted you out, you know?” Leighton says in a smooth voice, waving off the firefighters and police officers as they haul away his burnt-out car as evidence against Journey.
Evidence that’s going to promptly disappear. Along with her conviction. Right after I convince my Little Chaos that she does, in fact, need me. She can pretend she’s a strong, independent woman, all she wants. Not under my thumb. She’s mine. Ours. And she will abide by what we have to say, no matter what.
“Of course not,” I say, side-eyeing him. “You wouldn’t rat out your own.”
He snorts, eyeing the carnage with hazy eyes so clouded by the drugs and alcohol in his system that he doesn’t feel the danger crowding in on him.
“Fuck no,” he says, digging in his pocket. “I didn’t really like that piece of shit car, anyway.” He shrugs. “She did me a favor. A hot as fuck favor. How’d you get so lucky to get that? Wanna trade?”
The urge to punch the cigarette he’s currently lighting straight into his mouth and watch as the flames eat away at his tongue rides me hard. But I resist. For now. Leighton will pay for his crimes.
“Trade?” I ask gruffly, shaking my head.
