The Devil’s Torment (The De Vil Dynasty #2)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

VICKY

My heart pummels my ribcage as I prepare to deliver the opening line of the eulogy at my sister’s funeral. I’ll pay dearly for what I’m about to do, but I don’t care. I’m not scared of the De Vils or my parents.

Throughout my entire life, I’ve always been second best in their eyes. I may as well live up to the great fucking disappointment they’ve always believed me to be.

I draw in a deep breath, and out it comes.

“There isn’t a single doubt in my mind that my sister would still be alive today if Nicholas De Vil hadn’t come for her.”

A collective gasp rises from the congregation, followed by a deathly hush. I purposely avoid my father’s gaze, too busy drilling Nicholas with my hate-filled glare. I said what I said, and I’d say it again over and over until everyone knows that my baby sister—the sweetest, kindest, most beautiful soul in the world—is dead because Nicholas decided he needed a wife, and she was the poor, unfortunate victim he chose.

Once, I’d believed I was in love with him, but whatever I felt died along with my sister.

He stares right back at me, unapologetic, uncaring about the lives shattered by an enemy of the De Vils. He can play the innocent card all he likes, but I know he said something—or did something—that made Beth leave the club that night. That drove her to get into a cab instead of one of the armored cars that had taken us to Noir—one of many clubs owned by the De Vil family. He’s denied it, several times in fact, but I know he’s lying. He’s so self-absorbed, he probably doesn’t understand that words and actions have the power to hurt, to destroy.

She was so combative, so unlike herself, that night. It was as clear to me then as it’s clear to me now that she was desperate to get away from Nicholas. Desperate enough for her to refuse my offer to accompany her home.

If she had… if she had… she’d still be alive, because there’s no way I’d have let her get into a cab when we had far safer transport a few steps away.

As much as I never wanted her to marry Nicholas, I’d take that over not having her in my life at all. I feel empty without her.

Lost.

Cold.

So cold.

As her elder sister, it was my job to protect her, and because of the man belligerently staring at me without an ounce of guilt marring his too-handsome face, I lost her.

A fresh deluge of rage bubbles up inside me at the decision to lay my beloved sister to rest on the De Vil estate. She wasn’t a De Vil when she died, yet even in death, they’ve stolen her. Oh, I argued with my parents. Boy, did I, but ultimately, it was their choice, and they made it. I don’t understand it, and I never will.

My wrist throbs, and I rub it. The force of the blast that knocked me unconscious could have resulted in far worse injuries than a sprained wrist and various cuts and bruises, most of which have already healed. Unlike my heart, which I’m not sure I’ll ever piece back together.

Nicholas’s injuries have healed, too. From this angle, the only sign he was hurt at all is a thin, red line above his left eyebrow, where a shard of glass sliced through his skin.

Shame it wasn’t his throat.

I pull my gaze away from his and glance down at my cards. I know my speech by heart, having practiced it many times, but public speaking isn’t something I’m all that proficient in. Having them to refer to gives me comfort.

Lifting my chin, I jut it forward, sending another clear message that this family doesn’t scare me, even if many crammed into the pews are probably expecting them to send me to the gallows for daring to challenge them, to accuse one of their own of being responsible for my sister’s death. I’ve no doubt the De Vils are responsible for many deaths, and Beth’s is one in a long line of casualties that leave this family’s hands blood-stained.

The congregation is agape, waiting for me to throw more grenades at a dynasty powerful enough that even the police don’t interfere in their activities, legal or otherwise. Except I don’t care what they do to me. They can’t destroy me any more than I already am. Let them do their worst.

“You’re probably expecting a regular eulogy, for me to regale you with fond memories of my sister so you can all nod along as though you knew her. In that case, prepare for disappointment.”

I glance down at my cards, then up again. The faces before me register a gamut of emotions from shock at my boldness to spellbound and fascinated at what I might say next. I’m sure they’ve never attended an event at Oakleigh quite like this one. At the last moment, I change my mind. I have no use for the carefully prepared speech. I know exactly what I want to say. I stare straight ahead, my attention on no one in particular.

“My sister was kind, thoughtful, and considerate of others. Everything this family isn’t. She accepted her future as Nicholas’s wife with fatalistic assent, and I know she’d have done her best to conform to what he needed, to fit in, to submit. Unfortunately, that stoic compliance is what got her killed.”

Another round of gasps fills the chapel. At any moment, I expect my father to race to the pulpit, and drag me away before I can do any more harm. My gaze drifts to Imogen, Alexander’s wife, and someone I’ve grown close to. I envisage her anger, her fury, but instead, her expression is steeped in empathy, her head tilted to the side, her dazzling green eyes sending a message of support. Her husband, on the other hand, does not share Imogen’s emotions. Alexander glowers, the hand that isn’t holding his wife’s clenched tight, his knuckles almost translucent.

My gaze sweeps across the front row. Charles De Vil, the head of the family, is looking at me with pity in his eyes, which only makes me madder. I don’t want his pity. I want… I want…

I’m not sure what I want other than a way to bring my sister back, which even he, with all his power and influence, can’t make happen.

Finally, my eyes land on Nicholas once more. His nostrils flare, his body almost vibrating as he struggles to keep his seething rage under control.

Good. Good.

I’ve got to him.

It’s exactly what I aimed for when I took my position at the pulpit.

“There isn’t much more to say, other than the world lost a treasured soul when my sister left this Earth.” I glance upward and force a smile. “I love you, Beth. And I will miss you for eternity.”

Gathering up my cards, most of which I haven’t used in the end, I step down from the raised platform. My knees tremble as I make my way back to the pew, where my parents are staring at me with a mixture of utter shock and unbridled fury. Whatever punishment they decide upon, it’ll be worth it. If I had my time all over again, I wouldn’t change a thing. Let them punish me, ground me, lock me up. Let them do their worst. I don’t care anymore.

A quiet hush settles over the five hundred people who are here not for my sister, but because they received an invite from the De Vil family, and only someone with a death wish would refuse to attend.

My father leans toward me, his warm breath feathering my ear. “We will talk later, young lady.”

A threat laces his tone, but if he means to put the fear of God into me, he’s failed. On his other side, Mum doesn’t even look at me. She’s fidgeting with a lace handkerchief—one of those useless scraps of material that are for show rather than something to blow your nose on. It’s funny, but I haven’t seen my parents shed a single tear over Beth.

Maybe they’re putting on a front for me, and once they’re in the privacy of their bedroom they let it all out. While I understand grief hits everyone differently, I’d have expected some tears at her funeral, for God’s sake. I’ve been crying all morning, only pulling myself together long enough to show Nicholas how much I despise him and his family.

The minister fluffs his first few lines but soon gets into the swing of his closing words. I tune him out, staring at my feet, praying for this day to end. I knew it would be bad, but my emotions are teetering on the edge of a full-blown breakdown. I’ll have to hold on for a little while longer, though. First, we have the burial, which I’m dreading, then the wake, and after that, the funeral car will take us back to our house—straight into my parents’ interrogation.

Why did you do that, Vicky?

Because I fucking hate him. Because he killed Beth.

What else is there to say?

The sound of shuffling feet brings my head up. Four suited men are in the process of lifting Beth’s coffin onto their shoulders. Pallbearers, I realize, noting that Nicholas isn’t among them. In fact, I’m sure that’s the funeral home employees. My eyes narrow. Yet one more thing he can’t be arsed doing. Too beneath him to carry the coffin of a woman whose body was so utterly destroyed, the coroner advised us not to see her, which we didn’t, and to have a closed casket, which we did.

Hot tears prick the backs of my eyes, like tiny needles stabbing me over and over. I blink rapidly, refusing to allow one single person here to see how destroyed I am at losing my sister. There’s a time and a place to break down, and it isn’t in this cold chapel, with the De Vil family looking on. Nicholas would revel in my tears, soak up my agony, and use it against me when the right opportunity arises.

My father grips my elbow and propels me to my feet. His fingers dig into me, a silent warning that he’s furious. I struggle to keep up with his angry strides, having to put in the odd skip to avoid stumbling. Being five-foot two in my stocking feet never bothered me before, but right now, I wish I was tall like Imogen.

The wind has picked up during the forty-five-minute-long service, and my hair blows around my face, momentarily blinding me. I dig a hairclip out of my coat pocket with my free hand and attempt to tame it. While shivering in the chilly autumn breeze, I follow my father and mother around the rear of the chapel, where the De Vil family bury their dead. It infuriates me that Nicholas is at the front, leading my parents and me to Beth’s final resting place. She never married him. She was ours, not his.

She’ll always be ours. Our beautiful, quiet, funny, compassionate Beth.

A sob crawls into my throat, but if I make a sound, the crisp wind holds my secret and carries it away.

As we gather around the hole in the ground, waiting for the pallbearers to lower Beth’s coffin, I realize it’s just us and the De Vils. The rest of the invited guests aren’t here. I’m sorry they’re not. Even though the majority are strangers to me, they provided a buffer of sorts. Now it’s only the twelve of us, my anger reaches new heights. I catch the eye of George De Vil, Nicholas’s uncle, and he gives me a kind smile. I dip my chin an inch in acknowledgement. Of all the De Vils, George is probably the best of a bad bunch. But he’s still a De Vil. Still touched by that superiority complex, that intrinsic belief he’s above everyone else. That we’re all pawns they can play with, moving us to meet whatever nefarious purpose they’ve chosen that week.

Once again, my eyes are drawn to Nicholas standing on the other side from my parents and me. Dad still has my elbow in a death grip, but he can’t control where I look. I search Nicholas’s face for an ounce of grief, but I find none. That would take a strength of emotion he’s incapable of. He never made any secret of the fact he didn’t love my sister. She was a means to an end, an arrangement, a mother for his kids and a wife to fuck while he carried on his life exactly as before.

As Beth’s coffin is lowered, Mum dabs at her eyes with that useless handkerchief. It’s the first public sign of emotion she’s shown since she received the news about Beth. Dad releases me to comfort her, and I rub my elbow as I seek out Nicholas once more. This time, he’s looking straight at me. My gaze radiates vitriol and revulsion.

Someday, somehow, I’ll get the truth out of Nicholas De Vil—a confession that he’s responsible for what happened to Beth.

And I won’t rest until I do.