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Weight: 125 lbs.
Blood Type: O Negative
Lives: Lincoln Park
Mobile Number: XXX-7174
Nationality: Spaniard and American
There are other details that I also take note of.
Aliana works with Aurora at the women’s shelter—teaches too—and even with a heavy work week, she still attends the uni there, keeping a 90% overall. Beauty and brains. That’s a heady cocktail that most men can’t handle, but I’m above the rest. A woman should be both and never forced into one box to satisfy the needs of anyone around her. My aunt taught us this, God rest her soul, and it’s also a lesson my mother failed at.
My mother’s purpose in life is to travel and shop while pretending the money she spends isn’t dripping in blood.
A note toward the bottom of the page makes me pause, and it’s a unified concern by her professors over unaccounted absences without a note to excuse each—something the uni she attends is sweeping under the rug.
“Where are you going, Aliana?” Or why? The dates seem to all surround the latter part of the last two years, between July and October with one short trip over the New Year holiday. They are abrupt with no pattern, and it doesn’t sit well in my gut. “What are you hiding?”
My informant attached a class schedule, and her days off coincide with my arrival in the states. Perfect.
There are a few other things about her family, but when we reach her father, his clean file makes me laugh. I know him. I’ve dealt with him once in the past while exchanging a beneficial favor, and the politicians in that family are sexist arses with no loyalty shared.
“How can she come from that rubbish?” This leaves me with more questions than answers, but I have to push it back until we land in America. It’s the only way I’ll concentrate, but it doesn’t stop me from sending a message to the bloke that gathered the information.
Eyes on her at all times. ~Callum J.
A quick line, he responds to without pause no matter the time difference.
While the information on her was good, there’s a gnawing feeling—demanding I dig deeper, see past what others want me to see. Knowing who her father is, it leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.
A man willing to prostitute women in exchange for donations isn’t someone I trust.
A family led by misogynistic men, wankers with no real backbone, is one I’m repulsed by.
She doesn’t belong there, and no matter how much this makes no sense and I don’t understand this sudden obsession, I’m not fighting it. The only thing I do understand right now—what’s been brewing since Casper spoke her name—is that I don’t want him to taint her.
“You okay?” Casper asks, coming to stand beside me while our men and Malcolm’s load a truck full of cocaine and stolen merchandise a few days later. Two days earlier than the original meet up, but it was opportune when the moment arose, and we were already in the US. My cousin has already tasted the product and accepted the generous donation. We’re even now, could leave, but have been asked to remain and bear witness to the owner of Asher Holdings disciplining those involved. “You’ve been too quiet.”
Casper’s eyes and mine are on the men and one woman kneeling a few feet away. Some are crying, writhing, while some remain as still as statues, trying to keep themselves out of anyone’s line of sight. Motherfucking pussies.
Malcolm is a mean son of a bitch when necessary, and I respect him for that. His beliefs align with mine: loyalty above everything.
You don’t see.
You don’t hear.
And you sure as fuck don’t speak.
A lesson learned by his cousin who is now missing a tongue.
“Yes.” We both know I’m taking some time off; I just haven’t told him where I’m going. Not yet. To him, I’m either heading back home or slipping away while no one notices and it’s best he leaves it at that. “Just enjoying the show.”
There’s a different kind of energy flowing through me, licking at my spine as the time draws near. I’m here as a witness and then gone, my evening to be occupied by a pretty little brunette that has no idea the devil exists. That I’ve laid a claim on her.
Because I’m back in Chicago.
Because I want a taste of every sensual inch of Aliana Rubens’s small frame.
