Chapter Twenty-Seven #2
Why would he choose me? Having sex with me, sure, I understood that.
But beyond the physical, why would Maximo—with all his good looks, power, and money—want to be with gutter trash?
That question had lurked at the edges of my mind, invading randomly again and again.
My insecurities were a loose thread and that question tugged at them, leaving me frayed. Like I could unravel.
Like I was temporary.
Was I just the latest in a long line of barely-legal girls and popped cherries?
Was he going to toss me aside when the next one came along? Or would he want me to be one of the girls at the fights, with politicians snorting coke off my breasts and big shots groping me?
I wanted to swear he wouldn’t, but a lifetime of betrayal and heartache had taught me to never trust anyone.
And that definitely included slimy, shady, wannabe gangsters like Mugsy.
I tried once more to free my arm from his hold, but his grip was ironclad. So I screamed as loud as I could. “Help! Someone help!”
“Shut the fuck up, bitch.” He shook me so hard, I thought my neck would snap.
I got away from Marco that first night. I dodged Cole and locked him in a room.
I will not be taken down by Mugsy Carmichael.
Thrashing, I screamed bloody murder.
Smack!
Burning pain radiated across my cheek where he’d hit me.
His face was red as a tomato when he did it again. Violently yanking me closer with one hand, he used the other to hit me a third time. His stupid, gaudy ring caught my lip, tearing it open.
I wasn’t sure what came over me, but at the metallic taste and the hot drops of blood sliding down my chin, I smiled.
No, I grinned .
“He’s going to hunt you down,” I said matter-of-factly. “He’ll never stop. And when he catches you, he’ll make sure your death is slow and painful.”
All color drained from Mugsy’s face, but he puffed out his chest and blustered, “He won’t be able to get to me.
But while he’s trying, they’ll pass you around like the whore you are.
He won’t even want you when they’re done.
” His immense sweating turned into a waterfall down his jowled face as he pulled a gun.
“Out of respect for your father, I said I’d get you to come on your own, but you’re as greedy and money hungry as the rest. I should’ve let them have you. ”
When Maximo is done with him, he’ll wish he had.
Jabbing the gun into my side, Mugsy smirked triumphantly. He began down the path, clearly expecting me to follow.
I didn’t.
For whatever reason, someone wanted me. Whoever they were, they likely wanted me alive.
Which meant Mugsy wasn’t going to shoot me. And if he did? Well, death was better than being passed around.
Calling his bluff, I screamed. I kicked. I swung my arms windmill style, hoping to connect.
I made so much damn noise, someone had to hear me.
Mugsy caught my ponytail in his sweaty palm, yanking hard enough to make my eyes water, but I kept going.
Even when he smacked me.
Even when he hit me in the eye with the butt of his gun.
Even when he made revolting threats that caused bile to rise from my churning stomach to lodge in my throat.
I was not going to be a victim. I’d die before that happened.
And I’d take that asshole with me.
Summoning every bit of will and energy and fury I had, I stopped fighting. I froze. Through blurry, already swelling eyes, I watched Mugsy’s body relax with exhaustion and victory. Thinking he’d won, he let his guard down.
And that was when I attacked.
I threw my weight at him, catching him by surprise and knocking us both to the sidewalk. His head slammed against the unforgiving concrete, and he lost hold of his gun, the metal skittering up the path.
He tried to roll, but between me and his own gut, he was a turtle stuck on his back. “Fuck! Get off me, cunt!”
My fists rained down. My nails dug in.
I’ll never be a victim again.
I’m not a little girl getting slapped around. I’m not small and defenseless against trained punches.
I’m not taking a knife for that bastard.
I decide who touches me. I decide my life.
Not a victim.
Not a victim.
“I’m not your damn victim anymore, Dad!” I screeched, blood and spittle spraying.
“You’re fucking crazy, bitch,” Shamus shouted back.
But it wasn’t Shamus, of course.
Shamus was dead.
Maximo killed him.
Just like he was going to kill Mugsy.
Mugsy shoved me off him, and I rolled to the side. I braced for an onslaught of kicks or for him to pull me by my hair, but he was wheezing as he struggled to stand.
I was faster to find my footing. With him prone, I could’ve been the one to deliver the onslaught of kicks. As badly as I wanted to, I had an opening, and I was taking it.
Vengeance and violence could wait.
Running as fast as I could, I raced back to the door. I pulled and pulled but it was locked.
Shit.
Shit.
Shit, shit, shit.
Maybe I could make it past Mugsy.
Maybe the car at the end of the path was a coincidence.
Or maybe I’d be caught, dragged away, used up and spit out like a worthless nothing.
I couldn’t let that happen.
I slammed my bloody fists against the door, hoping like hell I could be heard over the chaos of dinging machines, clacking chips, and conversation.
After a moment that felt like an eternity, the door swung toward me, nearly knocking me over.
Someone grabbed my arms, and I opened my mouth. My scream died in my throat and relief washed over me when I saw Ash’s horrified gaze scanning my battered face. “Fucking hell.”
“I’m fine,” I offered, knowing I likely looked worse than I felt.
Which wasn’t hard, really, because I didn’t feel anything.
I was physically and mentally numb.
Pulling a walkie-talkie from his pocket, he said, “I’ve got her. Hall B-9. Search the rear path and delivery alley.” His gaze returned to me. “Who?”
“Mugsy Carmichael,” I said with zero hesitation.
He’d made his bed. He could rot in it.
Ash shifted us inside, closing the door and blocking me with his body. I was about to ask him to get me the hell out of there when I felt it.
Like the calm before a downpour, the room went electric and wired.
My eyes shot to the end of the hall just as Maximo stormed in. There was no cool, calm, blankness to his expression. It was unconcealed rage. Thunderous.
He wasn’t a downpour.
He was a hurricane, ready to rip apart everything in his path.
I stared, captivated by how one man could fill an entire room with his fury and malice. And he stared back, as though nothing else in the room—in the universe —existed but me.
As he neared, I realized it wasn’t only anger that darkened his expression.
It was desperation.
Panic.
Anguish.
Fear .
Unrestrained and raw, his dark gaze moved down me, taking in each scrape. Each cut. Each smear of blood and patch of dirt.
“Little dove,” Maximo whispered roughly, as though the words were forced out through gravel and glass.
He lifted me in his arms, and I clutched the lapels of his suit jacket and buried my face in his chest. I wanted to fall apart, but the tears wouldn’t come.
“Carmichael,” Ash bit out.
Maximo didn’t speak. He just held me tight as he began walking. After a minute, I heard the ding of the elevator before he stepped in and the noises of the casino were cut off. Even when we were alone, I didn’t loosen my death grip on him.
I didn’t do anything but shake.
The elevator slowed to a stop and Maximo stepped off. Only then did I let him go, but he didn’t do the same. Cupping the back of my head, he held me to him. His lips pressed to the top of my head, and we stood like that for long, silent moments.
Just the two of us.
But not in our space.
I wanted our space.
“I want to go home,” I said, my words muffled against his chest.
“Soon.”
The elevator chimed and opened again. I tilted my head just enough to see Marco step off. I didn’t think he could see much of the damage, but the rage in his eyes told me I was wrong.
He went to the kitchen and made a bag of ice, wrapping it in a towel before handing it to Maximo.
Maximo rearranged me in his hold and pressed it gently to my face. “Get Pierce here.”
“I don’t need a doctor,” I tried, but I should’ve saved my breath because they ignored me.
“Ash already called,” Marco said.
“Have security sweep the entire resort. Every fucking corner. Get Miles and Cole to go through the cameras from today.”
“Yesterday, too,” I said.
Both sets of angry eyes shot to me.
“What happened yesterday?” Maximo asked. His voice was low and even, but there was a sharp edge—as if I’d kept something from him.
I’m not the one with secrets.
“He said they saw you drag me through the casino yesterday. They thought you were pissed at me.”
“Did he say who they were?”
I shook my head.
He gently sat me on the kitchen island. Curling his hands around the edge of it, he leaned down so we were brooding eye to swollen eye. “I need you to tell me everything, Juliet. Can you do that?”
I nodded.
“That’s my girl.”
I loved to hear Maximo say that, but right then, the words were hollow.
Empty.
Or maybe that was just me.
How did I let myself get in so deep?
How did I let him break through all my walls?
How could I be so fucking stupid?
Letting people in only leads to pain and disappointment.
I needed space from the man I’d willing— happily —let take over every aspect of my life. The sooner I talked, the sooner I could get the distance I needed.
Starting at the drunks brawling, I did my best to recount everything that’d happened.
Well, almost everything.
I didn’t tell them what Mugsy had said about me betraying my father. I also didn’t share his claim that Maximo was training me. Using me. Breaking me in like I was just another na?ve girl who meant nothing.
Who was nothing.
I couldn’t bring myself to tell him because I didn’t want to know the truth. I wanted to bury my head in the sand a little longer.
Even if I didn’t speak the words out loud, they were there, a constant taunt running on a loop through my head.
Nothing girl.
Whore Jule-bug.
Rat Jule-bug.
Temporary.
As I described my counterattack and tackling Mugsy, Maximo must’ve realized the blood on my hands wasn’t only my own. He moved away to get a damp, soapy towel. When he rubbed it across my raw skin, I hissed at the coarse texture and burning sting.
His force eased, but he didn’t stop. “Got to get that motherfucker’s blood off you.” Mixed with the anger, there was a glimmer of pride in Maximo’s eyes. “Ballsy. My ballsy girl.”
Am I his girl?
Tears burned my eyes, though they had nothing to do with the pain in my hands. My heart hurt worse than any of my injuries.
Maximo cleaned the rest of the dirt and blood with the same tender care. Once he was done, I wrapped my arms around myself, sliding back farther onto the island.
And he noticed.
Of fucking course.
Concern furrowed his brows as he studied me. When he spoke, his tone was firm and demanding. “Is that everything, Juliet?”
I had to choke the words back because I wanted to obey my Daddy. To be his good girl. To trust him.
Just as he’d trained me to do.
“That’s it,” I lied.
His eyes narrowed, but before he could speak, the elevator chimed and opened to reveal Ash and Dr. Pierce.
The doctor stepped off, but Ash stayed inside. I offered him a smile, but rather than getting his dimpled one in return, I caught his flinch before the doors slid closed.
I must look worse than I thought.
Dr. Pierce and Maximo fussed over me, cleaning the cuts more thoroughly and slathering me with ointment. Thankfully there was nothing broken, requiring stitches, or needing a hospital.
Just as I’d said.
When they were finished, Doctor Pierce surveyed me. “The good news is, it looks worse than it is.”
“That’s not saying much because it looks like hell,” Maximo rumbled before catching my frown. He reached out to stroke my hair back, and I didn’t lean into his touch like I usually did.
I stiffened.
His jaw clenched, a muscle jumping, but Doctor Pierce grabbed his attention as he gave a short list of things to watch for before leaving.
Maximo gathered me to him and lifted me, turning to Marco. “Give me a minute.”
Carrying me into the bedroom, he set me on the bed and rummaged through my suitcase and then his. He returned to stand in front of me and gripped the hem of my top.
I tried to scoot away. “I can do it.”
He didn’t respond verbally, but he gave me the look .
I stopped fighting, knowing he wouldn’t relent. It was easier to get it over with.
Or so I thought.
Because Bossy Maximo was hard enough to resist. When he was gentle and attentive, treating me like I was precious, it was nearly impossible.
Once I was wearing a pair of my cotton shorts and one of his tees, he carried me back into the living room. Arranging me on the couch with an unneeded blanket, he said, “I’m going to talk to Marco and then we’ll go home.”
But it wasn’t home. It was his home.
Just like my suitcase wasn’t mine. My clothes weren’t mine.
Nothing was mine.
I was nothing.
The pit in my stomach grew as the truth settled in.
It was the beginning of the end.