Chapter 11
Carmine
I’m certain Soren isn’t following me; but I’ve been certain before. The night at the club, I’d been pretty sure he wasn’t watching me when I managed to get into the ring without him showing up immediately, but there he was. Walking right over and dragging me out and away from Tiger.
So, I’ve learned not to count on my intuition when it comes to Soren. He could very well be watching, waiting, just to jump out and rescue me.
As if I need him to rescue me at any given moment. I can handle myself. I don’t need him; I don’t need my brothers; I don’t need guards.
That’s why I’m here.
Walking down a dimly lit alley in the middle of the night.
Soren had unintentionally given me the exact information I wanted. The Carvels were planning on an ambush, but not tonight. Saturday night they’d be playing poker. He hadn’t told me where, but that was easy enough to figure out.
A few phone calls, texts, and maps search later, I knew exactly where to go.
I’m not worried. It’ll likely only be five or six of them, and I have my gun on me. I’m prepared this time, and they’re the ones who will be taken aback. Not me.
As I get closer and closer to the back door of the office space they are holding their game downtown, I can’t get Jackson Carvel’s face out of my mind.
His hands.
The way he had looked at me like I was nothing but a body for him to use. For him to take and do whatever he wanted with.
If Soren hadn’t been there to stop him, just how far would he have gone?
Anger wells up inside of me, and I don’t care that I’m outnumbered. I’m angrier, and I’m ready.
“If you’re following me, you’d better be read to fight,” I say into the open air. Just in case Soren is listening.
If he wants to trail me, so be it, but I don’t plan on leaving without blood being spilled. Mine, theirs, all of ours.
Still, I find myself hoping that Soren isn’t following me. This could go down with minimal death, or it could go down with everyone fighting for their lives.
I don’t want to kill them all. I just want to show them what it means to go up against Carmine Dresvanni.
To go up against my father’s son.
I want to prove that I’m strong enough to lead this family.
The light underneath the door is dim, but I know they’re in there.
There’s no guard stationed at the door. Which is a little odd, but perhaps they really don’t expect any danger to come tonight. Why would they?
I should expect a guard inside though. I pull my gun out, slowly, and use my other hand to open the door. I’m prepared to shoot if a gun is pulled at me. If anyone lays a single hand on me, I’m ready to shoot their fucking head off.
It’s not enough.
I realize as the door opens, and I see that the round table in the center of the small office is completely empty, devoid of even a single playing card, that something is very wrong.
“Get inside!” a voice hisses from behind me.
The cold barrel of a gun presses against the back of my head.
There’s no one in front of me to shoot, and if I attempt to turn around and grab their gun, I could be dead before I even get a glimpse at my killer’s face.
“Drop the gun!”
I keep my gun held tightly in my hand, but I step forward.
“I said drop the fucking gun!” he tells me.
There’s more than one set of footsteps that I hear. Three…no four. No, five.
I was right, five people—but that’s the only thing I was right about.
I’m pushed inside the dimly lit room and the door is shut behind me. I make a quick decision, and slide my gun onto the table once it’s close enough.
“Good job, so you do know how to listen to orders,” a different voice tells me. “You really thought you could come here and just get your way?”
I stay quiet. My eyes, cold and calculating, take in the entire room. The desk, the chair, the small window near the ceiling. The door to the left of me. The bottles of bourbon in a small cabinet to the right, crystal glasses next to them.
If I can get the gun out of his hand, grab mine, I’ll have two guns against them. Depending on if there are guards outside of the office door, I might be able to get out that way.
If not, if a shootout becomes the only option, the desk might shield me enough to not get mowed down.
“I can see them wheels turnin’ in your head, boy, don’t even fucking thinking about it.”
The voice is similar to Jackson’s, but not quite. Rough and low, with an accent that isn’t even remotely native to Italy.
“You know, I should have known that greedy Americans like you wouldn’t play fair,” I say calmly.
I feel a hand on my back, and another on my shoulder before I’m turned around against my will. My ankles nearly twist at the sudden movement.
“Shut your fuckin face,” the man spits at me.
I try to keep my temper. I know getting worked up won’t do anything against the Carvels. I can’t lose my cool. Not this time.
But I also won’t let them touch me, not like last time. Not ever again.
“What do you want?” I ask.
“What did you do to Jackson?” he asks me.
I eye his face. Large and furrowed with anger.
“Tell me, ya fag!” he hisses.
I can’t help but laugh.
“What’s so fucking funny?” another one of them says.
Their names are irrelevant, if I even knew them. They’re lackeys at best. The way they hold their guns, the way they stand too far away to really be of any danger.
I realize that maybe I’m not as outnumbered as I thought.
“You really wanna know?” I ask.
The gun is pressed to my sternum. “Tell us what happened to him, and we might let you die quickly.”
I glare at the man holding the gun to my custom-made dress shirt.
“Jackson thought I was fucking his wife,” I tell them. “But you see, that’s not the problem.”
I’m jostled around slightly and I grunt in response, trying to wiggle away from him. Trying to inch closer to the table so I can try to grab my gun.
“Stay where you are,” another voice says and I hear my gun being picked up from the table.
Damnit.
“The problem…was when he tried to rape me,” I sneer.
The big guy blinks at me, and then laughs. “What? Yeah right!”
“Ha! Tried to rape you. Sure. I’m sure you wish that happened.”
My jaw tightens. “Do you wish it did?” I ask roughly.
He presses the gun tighter to my chest. “What, did you try and suck his dick and he turned ya down, pretty boy?” he asks me.
My throat is tight and every inch of me is frozen.
No. Not again. I can’t let his happen again. I can’t.
I need to move. Protect myself.
My eyes burn. I can’t cry in front of them. I can’t let these assholes know that anything they’re saying or doing is getting to me.
“I turned him down,” I spit back. “When he dragged me to the floor, and tried to force my pants down and my cock in his mouth. Your Jackson. Your Jackson tried to rape me and nothing you say or do will change that. So, if I’m a faggot, then I guess he is too.”
This only makes them angrier, but I think that’s a good thing. His grip tightens but becomes shakier on the gun.
Come on, I can do this. I can move.
“You should be raped for saying that,” one of them hisses at me.
“Then do it!” I growl.
Adrenalin courses through me. I grab the gun pressed to my chest before he can pull the trigger and elbow him in the face. The larger man goes stumbling back and I whirl around, pointing the gun at the first man I see. He’s pointing a gun back at me.
“Who wants a piece?!” I shout. My breath is heavy and face hot. I’m trying to keep my cool, but flickers of what Jackson tried to do to me keep crossing my head.
Not just him.
I swallow the lump in my throat and try to focus.
Suddenly fists are flying, and bullets are soaring through the air. I’m ducking and trying to miss them, but I feel a distinct pain pierce through my leg, almost in the exact same spot I was nicked by a bullet several weeks ago.
“Son of a bitch!” I pistol whip the nearest guy, grab his gun and point them at the two in front of me. There’s a guard and another guy pointing their guns at me.
My nose is bleeding down my lips and my leg is gushing blood into my expensive shoe.
“You’re gonna pay the dry-cleaning bill with your fucking life.” I pull the trigger, and then duck before either of the other two can. One man goes down, and I’m launching myself backwards until I can toss one of the guns to the side and use my free hand to grab the guard by his hair.
I point the gun at his head.
“Don’t care about this guy, do ya?” I ask, and before either of the remaining men can answer, I shoot him in the head. Blood splatters all over my face and shirt. The smell making me sick, yet at the same time it’s all so intoxicating.
My head is starting to get dizzy from the blood loss.
“You motherfucker,” one of them growls at me and tackles me to the floor before I realize that’s what he’d trying to do. My leg is too weak to kick him with it, the other pinned to the floor.
“Jackson tried to rape you? Huh? Like you wouldn’t like it, you nasty bitch,” he fights with me on the floor as I try to get out of his hold.
My heart is pounding in my chest.
“Maybe I’ll finish his fucking job,” he starts to grab at my crotch.
His hands are all over me again.
Those words cut through me.
I deserve it.
I deserved it.
I wanted it.
The instinct to fight is overwhelmed by the instinct to just lay here and let it happen. Just like I did when I was younger. When I was too small to really fight.
The metal door comes crashing open, and along with it is Soren and two of the guards that work for both of us now.
His eyes are filled with red-hot anger, and it knocks me out of my frozen state.
I’m not too small anymore.
I can fight.
I use all the energy I have to shove the man off me at the same time that Soren grabs him by the back of his shirt and throws him to the side.
“Took you long enough!” I yell in Soren’s direction.
Soren pulls his gun out and points it at the man who’d just been groping me.
“No!” I shout with a huff. “He’s mine!”