Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter 24
SIENNA
DECLAN IS ALL I’VE THOUGHT about these past twelve hours. After saying those cruel words to him that completely broke my soul, I left the hotel, numbly following Anthony’s directions to meet a driver a few blocks away. It turned out Anthony wasn’t in Hawaii, just some men he sent to ‘collect’ me. They picked me up and drove me to the airport while I silently wept in the back seat.
They escorted me inside. The one who reeked of cigarettes grabbed my arm forcefully and said, “Stop fucking crying. You look suspicious.”
So I cleaned up in the bathroom and kept quiet until we made it onto the plane a few hours later. Once we were in the air, I put on a sleeping mask and started crying again.
I cried until my nose was too stuffed up to breathe and my eyes were swollen shut and my head throbbed with stabbing pain. Until I felt completely dehydrated and my mouth was a desert. But I didn’t eat or drink. I couldn’t. I wanted to cause my body so much pain and distress that I’d simply die.
How I can live with myself after those disgusting, cruel things I said to Declan?
The way he looked at me, the total devastation in his eyes—it’s going to haunt me the rest of my life.
But he’s safe. There’s no way he’ll look for me after that.
He’s safe.
We’re now driving away from O’Hare International Airport. It’s around 5 AM and I’m a walking zombie from lack of sleep. Somehow, I’m still crying.
The man who smokes rolls down his passenger-side window and lights a cigarette. “God, will you shut the fuck up?” he growls over his shoulder. “You’ve been whimpering for nine fucking hours.”
The guy driving tells him, “Chill, man.”
“No. She’s making me lose my damn mind.”
“Hit me then,” I say weakly.
He scoffs and shakes his head.
That’s what I thought. They can’t do a damn thing except yell and complain. If they hurt me, Anthony will hurt them. He hates people touching what he thinks belongs to him.
I close my eyes, seeing Declan’s wounded, scarred expression again. It feels like my insides are bleeding. I know I had to do it, had to break his heart to save his life, but I’ll never stop hating myself for what I said.
Fingering my locket, I stare out the passenger window at the streets I grew up in. A disturbing mix of nostalgia and revulsion hits me. I see the pizza place with the best meatballs—giant ones that made eating each slice a balancing act. I used to sit in the corner booth alone until they closed because I felt more comfortable there than I did at home.
Several miles down the road, I spot the park where I did plein air paintings. They weren’t good, but people always stopped to watch, looking at me like I was a real artist with some grand vision they were trying to understand. Some people asked me to paint them, but I was always too shy to accept; I didn’t want them to give me money and then be disappointed by the final portrait.
That park was also where I met Anthony at age 16. A few years later, he admitted that he’d been watching me for months before finally approaching.
My response was, “I think it’s romantic that you stalked me.”
What a young, na?ve thing to say.
After the car turns a few corners, we pass by my high school, the one I barely graduated from. When I turned fourteen, my parents really stopped caring and barely spoke to me or noticed when I was home. They didn’t even care if I went to school, leaving it up to me to decide if I wanted to go.
Before Grandpa died, he really encouraged me to get an education, so I did my best. I wasn’t a good student, and I skipped a lot of classes. But I somehow turned in enough homework that I didn’t completely flunk. I also lucked out by having some sympathetic teachers senior year who cut me a lot of slack.
When I turned 18 and graduated, that’s when I moved in with Anthony. I started drinking more, did drugs with him. Eighteen was symbolic. I was finally an adult and felt free of my parents, even though I could’ve left at any time without them noticing.
And I liked being an adult in Anthony’s world. He was only a year older, but that somehow made him mysterious. He also made me feel seen for the first time in my sad little existence. He was fascinated by my art when no one else cared. He was interested in my past and ambitions. And even better, he told me repeatedly that I belonged to him.
I wasn’t just some mistake; I had a purpose. It was to be with him.
I felt wanted for me. But I was too young to understand Anthony only craved power and control. The man never understood love, only possession.
By the time I woke up and noticed the dangerous world I was in and the vanity of Anthony’s attention, I was already in too deep.
The memories make my stomach churn, bile rising in my throat. Even though I haven’t eaten or had water, I vomit whatever foamy liquid is in my stomach.
Cigarette Man turns to glare at me. “This is my car, you fucking—” He unbuckles himself and before I can react, his hand strikes my cheek.
My head whips to the side, hitting the window. As my ears ring, I blink through the stinging pain in my face and the throbbing in my skull. My body is shocked and shaking, but emotionally, I really don’t care.
My heartbreak from leaving Declan outweighs everything.
The man who is driving grabs Cigarette Man’s shoulder and shoves him back into his seat. He’s a young Latino guy who looks like a newbie, his eyes always shifting around for threats. This might be his first big task.
“Chill,” he says firmly. “That was stupid, and I’m going to make it clear I wasn’t involved.” He glances at me in the rearview mirror, fear in his eyes. “Right? I wasn’t involved.”
I nod. Someday, he’s going to regret his decision to get involved with such dangerous men. He’ll soon learn that others in Anthony’s world aren’t like me—others will lie and enjoy getting him in trouble.
Cigarette Man sighs and flicks his cigarette out the window. “You’re cleaning it then,” he tells the driver.
There wasn’t much in my stomach, but I dry heave a few more times. My mind grasps for any mantra or quote to get me through this, but there’s nothing.
Only silence stretching into forever.
We finally stop in front of a slim, three-story rectangular white house, and I lean forward, peering up at it. It’s made of brick—colonial style with plenty of windows—and the roof is flat. It’s crowded into a row of other boxy houses, only a few feet of space separating them.
The wrought-iron gate in front is just for show because anyone could hop over it—maybe that’s Anthony’s way of saying his enemies aren’t a threat.
“Get out,” the driver says. “He’s waiting for you inside.”
I follow directions. After I grab my luggage from the trunk, the black sedan pulls away.
My hand shakes as I stand on the sidewalk clutching my luggage handle. My breath comes in short, sharp gasps.
This is it.
Could I run?
My eyes dart around the peaceful-looking neighborhood. The street is lined with trees; it’s a sunny day. Everything is radiant and beautiful, even though the house in front of me is filled with evil.
As I’m debating an exit route, knowing I wouldn’t get far, the front door opens. My heart stops for a beat as Anthony appears. He stands in the doorway with that cool smirk of his that always blends his hard edges into soft shadows. It’s deceptive—the man is only hard edges. His eyes fix on me. It’s a look I remember—the steely focus of a predator who’s finally located his prey.
Time has definitely given his body more angles. His muscles are plump and cut, a lot of ink covering his exposed forearms. And his cheeks are hollow, pulling focus to his jagged jawline and the deep grooves of his olive skin. He’s always been handsome in a cruel way, but age has given him a sharpness that contrasts with his well-tailored clothes—slacks, a button down rolled to his elbows, and a black vest.
It really doesn’t matter how expensive some men dress; every unspeakable thing they’ve done is written all over their posture.
From instinct, my eyes dart around the neighborhood again. Anthony only leans against the doorframe and crosses his arms, daring me to make a run for it. His dark eyes watch—the eyes I’ve painted dozens of times in dozens of paintings.
Always watching.
He knows I can’t run; I know it too. He’ll only go after Jada and Declan.
I take a deep, shuddering breath, squaring my shoulders. I’m going to face this. I have to be strong. Sienna is always strong.
I’m sick again, my stomach churning, as I force my legs to move. Every step feels like a mile, my feet heavy and my heart pounding. I push the squeaky gate open and let it clang behind me. Then I reach the bottom step. Anthony meets me there, smirking through his shadows. I glance at the gold chain around his neck, the one carrying the cross he always wears, along with something new: a gold M.
Fuck him.
His fingers brush the ends of my hair. “Black, huh? You used to have such long, beautiful blonde hair. I miss it, but I’ll get used to this new look.” He’s about to say something else when his lips freeze. With one narrowed eye, he scans my damp eyelashes, my cheeks, my nose. Holding my chin, he makes me turn my head, revealing where some of my skin is redder than the rest. Then he grazes my forehead, finding the bump.
I wince as his touch makes the area sting.
If looks could kill, Anthony’s would slaughter a hundred men.
“Who?” he bites out.
I shake my head. Cigarette Man was a jerk, but I don’t want him dead. “I just…fell.”
Anthony snorts. “Sure.” He pulls out his phone, staring daggers at the pavement. He dials and when the call connects, he says, “Get back here.”
I can only wait on the bottom step, watching some birds in a tree. Birds that are free and can fly wherever they want.
Anthony waits, too, arms crossed, eyes roaming my body.
A few minutes later, the black sedan returns and both men step out.
“Who was it, baby?” Anthony asks, sounding like he’s actually a forgiving man.
I shake my head and squeeze my eyes shut. Please, don’t let him murder that man. I don’t want to be responsible for Cigarette Man losing his life. I’ve already been complicit in enough killings.
Holding my chin, Anthony forces me to turn my head toward the men. “Who?”
When I open my eyes, I unconsciously look at Cigarette Man. It’s only a half second before I look at the ground, but that’s all Anthony needs. He’s good at seeing those tells in someone’s body language.
“Mark. Inside,” Anthony barks.
Cigarette Man, Mark, follows orders like a veteran. He doesn’t shake or cower; he follows Anthony inside with a blank stare and solid shoulders.
Anthony slams the door and I flinch, fighting back tears. Something crashes inside.
I glance at the young male driver as he waits on the sidewalk. His brown skin has turned pale.
“How old are you?” I ask, my voice sounding like I’m barely clinging to consciousness.
“Eighteen.”
“You’re just a kid. You should run before you get—”
There’s a curdling scream from inside, then another loud crash.
The young man flinches, gaping at the front door like he expects a real monster to emerge.
“You should just run,” I tell him.
Peeling his eyes away from the house, he gives me a lost look. “I can’t. My family needs the money.”
I’m sure his family would choose his life over money. But I don’t get a chance to tell him that.
The front door flings open and Mark comes stumbling out. His face is bloody, swollen, his clothes disheveled. One of his elbows is bent the wrong direction.
Holding his arm, he stumbles down the steps. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles as he passes, gritting through his pain.
“No,” Anthony says from the doorway, so sharp and loud that it echoes around the quiet neighborhood. “Fucking apologize correctly.”
Mark turns to me, clutching his broken arm and swaying like he might pass out. He bows his head. “I’m so sorry for touching you. I shouldn’t have, and it will never happen again.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper to him before Anthony is beside me.
“Julio, take him to our doctor,” Anthony says.
Julio hurries to help Mark into the car, then he jumps into the driver’s seat and the two of them speed away.
Anthony rubs my shoulders, and I resist the urge to recoil from his bloody knuckles. “I’m so sorry about that, baby. Let’s go to your room so you can rest after that long trip.”
I do need to rest. I need to sleep so I can wake up and have a clear head.
I need to figure out what to do next.
Or should I just surrender?
He grabs my luggage, and I follow him inside, one painful step at a time. When the front door closes and locks behind me, I wonder when I’ll see the sunlight again.
Months?
Never?
The interior of the house is everything I’d expect from a place that’s probably two million—dark mahogany floors and furniture that suck all color from the room, slick white countertops, a giant fireplace and rugs and mirrors and modern opulence and wealth. It’s so different from the modest penthouse Anthony used to live in. He’s clearly moved up in the world.
How many years has he been out of jail, plotting for the day he’d yank me back into his world?
He rolls my luggage to the side and turns to face me as I glance at the three burly men sitting on the brown leather sectional. There’s a fourth man sweeping up pieces from a shattered mirror, something Anthony must’ve broken with Mark’s body.
This house…will it be my tomb?
No, I can’t think that way.
Not yet, at least.
I can’t meet Anthony’s eyes, so he chuckles softly to himself, that fake softness settling into his voice. “Baby, I know it’s hard to be back,” he says. “So take some time to settle in. I prepared a nice room for you. It has a great view, and I stocked it with art supplies. I know how my baby loves to paint.” He reaches out, his hand cupping my cheek.
A thousand needles shoot through me, and I cringe, pulling away from his touch. “Don’t,” I say, surprised at how firm my voice is, considering how much my throat aches from crying and puking.
Anthony doesn’t listen and runs his fingers through my hair anyway, avoiding the tender spot. He chuckles again. “You always were a bitch.” He slowly fists my hair, tugging until my roots ache and I make a sound. “But I wouldn’t expect anything less from the woman who put me in prison.”
Still fisting my hair, he leans close enough for his cologne to assault me. “A petty man would be pissed and looking for revenge. But I’m honestly proud. You’re one nasty bitch, and I still get hard thinking about how you sold me out.” Finally releasing my hair, he runs a thumb over my puffy cheek. “You know I love our games.”
I swallow hard, forcing myself to stand my ground and not pull away again; I know my resistance only fuels him. “How did you get out? I put you in there for thirty years.”
“C’mon, Magpie. You’re smarter than that. I got out on good behavior.” He winks.
I know he means Victor, his boss, helped him. The authorities were supposed to go after Victor too, but I guess they failed. When I made the plea deal, Victor had been showing signs of wanting to get rid of Anthony, so I thought he’d just let him rot in jail.
An ignorant miscalculation on my part.
Anthony grabs my luggage again. “Follow me. Let’s get you settled.”
He leads me upstairs to a guest room on the second floor. It feels more like a cell with constricting white walls and bland furniture.
“Take all the time you need,” Anthony says, moving my luggage to the walk-in closet. “I’ll give you space to adjust.”
I know what he really means. He’s giving me time to come to terms with my fate, to accept that I’m his.
I’m really trying, but it’s just too hard to feel strong today. I hope he’ll leave so I can crumple to the floor.
He doesn’t. Instead, he walks to a pitcher of water sitting on a table by the window. After pouring a glass, he pulls a packet of pills from his pocket.
“My men told me you’ve been struggling,” he says, stopping in front of me. “I can’t have that. I need you to drink some water and take these sleeping pills so you feel better.” He tries to hand me the glass and pills, but I don’t move to take them. A slow grin splits his wicked expression. “You want me to force you? I don’t mind, you know.”
I swallow.
He inches closer, his eyes burning trails along my body. “You know, your new look is already growing on me. Cute black hair. Hateful eyes. I’d love to see what else about you is different.” He rolls the pills along his fingers, pressing the edge of one against my lips. “You know, my tastes have changed since the last time we fucked. I’ve had time to grow up and explore. I’m a bit more…rough. So if you want me to shove these pills down your throat, I’d love to. It’ll turn me on, but I don’t think you’re ready yet for how I like to be satisfied, are you?”
A cold jolt worms up my spine, and I bite my tongue. I don’t think he’d take me by force. He never did in the past, but I have to remember that I don’t know this man anymore.
I don’t know what he’s grown into.
I snatch the sleeping pills and water, swallowing everything. Then I toss the glass at the wall so it shatters. I stare Anthony down, not even flinching as glass shards scatter across the wooden floorboards.
Anthony throws his head back and his laugh bounces around this confining space. Before I can flee, he sweeps me into his arms, spinning me. When I’m back on my feet, he buries his face against my neck. “Seven fucking years, Margaret. I’ve been waiting to see you for seven fucking years. God, you feel good. Smell good. I missed you.” When he pulls back, he’s grinning. His dimple is showing, and for only a second, he has the same boyish grin I remember from our youth. “Fuck, I love you. It feels so damn good to have you here.” He runs a finger under my chin, tipping my head back so I’m forced to look at him through my scowl. “You’ll come around, Magpie. I promise. Then it’ll be just like old times.” He kisses my forehead and then finally leaves.
Surprisingly, I’m not out of tears. I crawl beneath the goose down comforter and cry until the sleeping pills pull me under.