Chapter Twenty-Four
AVA
E lijah releases me from the handcuffs, kissing the marks on my wrists tenderly. He had placed the baton on my desk, coated in my juices, dripping with how he made me feel, and I blush when my eyes land on it.
I still can't believe I let him fuck me with my baton. Not only that, but he came in my ass, something he seems to take great pride in as he gently pushes his spunk back inside me tenderly with one finger like some possessive caveman.
He owns my body completely. There's no use fighting it. I'm in too deep, lost in this criminal who devours me, body and soul.
Passing me my uniform he quickly puts his own clothes on. I'm buttoning up my blouse when he puts his hands over mine and pulls me into his chest. His chin rests on top of my head.
"You chose me," he murmurs before kissing my forehead. Something slots into place as I realize that if I had lied about my suspicions, about my feelings, he would see it as me not choosing him—choosing them — and then he would never trust me. He squeezes me tighter, and I inhale the scent of sex that clings to his skin.
My arms wrap around his back. I want him closer.
It’s quieter now inside my head as I realize I hadn’t been living my life, I was simply coasting through it untethered.
I’d been so focused on trying to please my father and trying to find a middle ground where I could still be who I wanted to be, that I hadn’t registered how tired I was of pushing back against the expectations hanging around my neck like chains until Creed. Elijah had unleashed something inside me. Now I wasn’t pushing, begging for space—I was starting to cut the strings binding me. I wasn’t going to go back in my box. I couldn’t be some pretty little housewife. With Eli, I felt like I could be anything.
Glancing at the clock, he sighs, “It’s time to leave…”
His reluctance to leave our little bubble makes me smile. While we were together, it was so easy to get caught up in the fantasy and let the reality fade away. There was nothing but us. This.
However, the sound of footsteps down the corridor, hushed voices and even the odd alarm somewhere in the distance intrudes, reminding me that we’re actually in a prison and the man holding me isn’t Prince Charming. He’s the bogeyman.
“Rabbit, I…” he growls. Cupping my face, he kisses the tip of my nose. “You’re mine. You got that?”
This was as close as Creed got to any kind of declaration of his feelings, but it was enough for now.
Creed has barely gone an hour when Gibbs comes to find me, and tells me I’m needed in the warden’s office. My heart races in my chest, banging against my ribcage with each step closer.
Was it Creed? Had he attacked someone? Or been attacked? Was something wrong? Did the warden know about us? Had we been seen together?
A million things flash into my head, rapid fire, and it’s like there’s a lump in my throat trying to suffocate me. I can’t swallow. I can’t think straight.
Cautiously, I enter Warden Williamson’s office and take a seat opposite him. Unlike the last time, his cold eyes are focused on me the second I step into the room.
My hands are clenched in my lap, to try to stop the trembling as I force myself to calm down. My brain is firing on all cylinders, each confusing thought barreling.
We sit in almost silence. All I can hear is the blood rushing in my ears, the tick of the clock on the wall, the hum of his computer system. My mind latches onto anything and everything.
The warden sighs. “I had hoped it wouldn’t come to this, but I’m afraid we’ve decided it’s time to part ways.”
What?
I blink.
What did he say?
Pushing a stack of papers towards me, he refuses to look me in the eye. “Here is the documentation for our termination process, it’s all very clear cut.”
“I’m sorry...pardon?” My heart almost stops. He was firing me. If he fired me, how would I see Elijah?
“Officer Gibbs is waiting just outside to help you gather your things and escort you to your car. Please do not stop to talk to any former colleagues or inmates as you vacate the premises.” He fidgets with his hands and shuffles some more papers before putting them back on the desk. Still, he avoids my gaze like a coward.
My tongue feels thick and heavy in my mouth as I stare at the man sitting before me. “I’m being fired.”
Would Eli think I’d just left him? After all our talks about trust, would he know I wasn’t choosing to leave him? Or would he think it was some sort of betrayal?
I’m no longer nervous or anxious. I’m pissed.
Warden Williamson loosens his tie slightly, a layer of sweat forming on his forehead.
“How many others?” I ask curtly as I cross my legs and fold my hands on my knee.
He glances to my left and clears his throat.
“How many others are being let go?” I demand, sick of the games. “Is it just me?”
“Well...I can’t disclose…that…information.” His words are stuttered and shaky. Why had I ever been intimidated by this man? He was all about appearances, and underneath it all he was just a limp, soggy noodle of a human.
I nod, clicking my tongue, unimpressed. “Just me then.”
One nil to the Judge.
He was only cementing what we already knew, that my father was involved in whatever this was up to his neck. His attempt at trying to control me only revealed his involvement further. There’s no other reason he’d interfere like this. It also tells me that Warden Williamson is clearly in my father’s pocket somehow. Bribery? Blackmail? Perhaps they played golf together? Something wasn’t adding up.
However, my father was mistaken if he thought I was going to sit around while he ruined my life. If he wanted a war, I was only too happy to oblige. Even hell couldn’t keep me from Elijah Creed. It’s time my father learned that.
I ’d carried all my belongings out to my car in a large plastic box, Gibbs trailing behind me with more. During my time at Ogmore Grange, I’d accumulated more than I originally thought.
Gibbs’ face had been apologetic, and I knew he wanted to ask me what was going on, but the warden had been very clear in his instructions not to talk to me when he showed me out of his office.
It’s on the drive to my father’s house that I come to the revelation that I no longer have a job. I have nothing to prove to my father except that he once again underestimated me.
Parking my car away from the house, three streets over in case my father returned earlier than usual, I walked over to my childhood home. I’d found a black hoodie in my car boot, and armed with a pocket knife, a USB stick, and a lot of repressed rage, I let myself in. I usually knocked and waited to be let in, out of respect for my father, and of course Elsie more than anything, but today was different. Today, all the rules have changed.
As I push open the door quietly, I hear the vacuum being used upstairs and thank my lucky stars I don’t have to face Elsie. It wasn't fair to involve her in the battle of wills between my father and me, especially not when he was more volatile than ever.
My father’s office is just to the right, on the ground floor. It’s a large room overlooking the front garden and filled with floor to ceiling bookshelves. On one wall, there’s a huge print of an old world map, probably brought in by my mother. She loved decorating, and the neutral tones combined with all the dark mahogany woods and gold accents in the room seemed like something she would have taken hours over, considering. My father was less particular about how the rooms looked as long as his chair was comfortable.
His desk sits perpendicular to the window and is one of the most chaotic things I've ever seen. For a man so particular about every other aspect of his life, his workspace was a mess.
Switching on his computer, I almost bury my face in my hands and laugh when it logs me straight in. My father was in a position of power, had an important career and had for over twenty years, yet he couldn’t even password protect his desktop?
Pulling the memory stick out of my pocket, I slide it into the USB port. I don’t have time to play around. I was just going to copy what I could and get out.
As the files copy across, I comb through his emails. They’re mostly boring, discussions with legal people, lobbyists, campaigners, some from members of the public. SolTech seems to creep up repeatedly. Amongst the drudge are a few odd ones, so I forward those to myself. Stumbling across some sort of member subscription for a service called Toska, I shudder.
What if it was a porn subscription?
Ew.
My eyes water when I notice the total on the bottom of the page. No porn was that expensive, was it? No, I wasn’t going down that rabbit hole. Not today.
Once I’ve finished with his emails and his online calendar, I start on the physical papers scattered all over the place. There are several sheets of paper with his chicken-scratch handwriting scribbled everywhere, as if he was furious when he was writing on them. His rage really had permeated and tainted everything. How had I not seen it that way before? If I had, would I have tried to fit into the mold of a perfect daughter? Or would I have told him to sit on it and spin years ago?
As I scan the documents with my phone, deciding that no; it was too late to dwell on what-ifs and maybes. I was going to pull the rug out from under his feet and show him I may not have a bark, but my bite was deadly.
If Creed could see me now, would he still call me his White Rabbit? I originally thought the drug related nickname was an odd choice from the mafioso, but it made some sense now that I knew how the dots connected.
Julian Asaro was the main shareholder for a holding company called WunderLnd Corporation.
He was also the head of the mafia.
His wife was known as the Queen of Hearts.
One of their main products was called…White Rabbit.
What kind of world was I getting myself into?
Were they all mad here?
Sitting back in my father’s worn brown leather chair, I realize the background noise of the vacuuming has stopped. A few minutes later, I hear Elsie lugging the vacuum downstairs, judging by the banging and thumping.
Shit, it was time to get out of here before she came in to clean up and found me. Grabbing my memory stick and phone, I shove both of them in my hoodie pocket. Cracking open the office door, I listen to her pottering around in the kitchen. I wait for her to turn the radio on before I sneak over to the front door. As she sings along to some upbeat pop song, smiling to myself, I use the noise to slip out.
Half-way down the street, the hair on the back of my neck rises and footsteps on the sidewalk make me think someone is following me. Who the heck would follow me?
Shaking my head, I slide my hands into my front pocket and wrap my hand around my knife. I was just being paranoid, but even just holding it made me feel better. Exhaling, I straighten my shoulders and keep walking. The steps continue, keeping pace with me.
Glancing towards an alleyway up ahead, I change direction and duck down it, picking up the pace. When I reach the end, I stand with my back against the building, waiting to see if someone emerges behind me.
As those familiar footsteps get closer, I hear someone hiss. “Shit, we lost her.”
Maybe I wasn’t so paranoid after all.
Turning back into the alley, I charge, tackling whoever was following me against the wall. We grapple for a few minutes, pushing and shoving until I force them back. I hold my knife against their neck as my other arm presses against their chest, pinning them in place.
“Woah!” Hazel eyes, similar to mine, narrow in warning as a perfectly arched brow rises. “You almost took my eye out.”
Another person enters the alley and I glare between the two of them. “Who the fuck are you and why are you assholes following me?”
The figure pinned against the brickwork is dressed far too stylishly to be a thug looking to mug me. Dyed green hair is artfully pinned up in a messy bun that’s held in place with two black and gold hair sticks. Their clothes are all black, but there’s a lot of silver jewelry, from the lip ring and the many studs and hoops in their ears to the rings on their delicate fingers.
“I’m Cato. They/them.” Their melodious voice sounds amused as they gesture to the other person in the alley. “That’s Nicco.”
Now Nicco is what I imagine when I picture a member of the mafia. He’s got dark chestnut hair that swoops back off his forehead as if he’d recently run one of his large hands haphazardly through it. His suit is smart, but not designer, and he’s got three buttons undone on his shirt, revealing a smattering of chest hair and a gold chain with a pendant of some saint. He’s also a big boy, six foot three, with broad shoulders and a muscular frame. The fear I feel creeping in vanishes when his handsome face cracks into a wide, friendly grin.
“He/him,” Nicco supplies helpfully before winking at Cato. “Did I do that right?”
“Yes, you did, love.” Cato rolls their eyes, with an affectionate smile ghosting their lips. “Are you going to lower your knife? You seem a little twitchy and I’d rather not get blood on my blouse. It’s Tom Ford.”
Wait…Where had I heard that name before? Stepping back, I lower my weapon and take a closer look at them, recognizing the green hair from the charity auction. “Cato? Ro’s Cato?”
“Oh fuck.” Cato places their fingers just above their eyebrows, making circular rubbing motions. “What’s she been saying about me now?”
Folding my knife away and sliding it back into my pocket, I check that my phone and memory stick are where they should be and I hadn't lost them during the tussle. “You still haven’t explained why you’re following me.”
“We were watching over the house, and you surprised us. You're not supposed to be here.” Nicco and Cato share a look, some sort of telepathic conversation happening between them I’m not privy to. Cato crosses their arms, giving me an accusatory stare. “Why aren’t you at work?”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but I was fired today.” Huffing, I kick some garbage near my feet. I wasn’t that angry about my job. I really wasn’t. But I was going to miss my art class. I was trying not to think about how Eli was still behind bars for God knows how long. “My father said if I didn’t quit, he would make me. The next time I go into work I’m called into the warden’s office and the rest is pretty self-explanatory.”
Cato’s lips twist in a grimace. “Hmmmm. Naughty daddy.”
Curling my lip in disgust, I grumble, “Don’t say it like that.”
“Yeah. Sorry, that was too far, even for me.” Looking sheepish, Cato shrugs and the nonchalant action makes them seem younger. “So, what’ve you got in there?”
They nod to my pockets, and reaching in, I pull out my phone and the USB.
“I copied files and emails from my father’s office. I didn’t quite know what I was looking at—but I think it links him to The Cartel and some international business called SolTech.”
“SolTech?” Nicco and Cato share another look. Another silent conversation.
“And what were you planning to do with these files?”
It’s my turn to shrug because, in all honesty, I haven’t gotten that far yet. All I had been focused on was actually getting the information—I was running on adrenaline and rage, and planning had gone out the window. “I was going to go to the authorities.”
“Are you listening to this?” Cato shakes their head with a sneer as they walk back and forth, muttering to themselves. Finally whirling to a stop in front of me, they jab a finger into my shoulder angrily. “An artist wades into the middle of a turf war, has proof of shady dealings linked to a D-list celebrity judge and thinks she can just drop this at a police station and be done with it? Wake up sweetheart.”
Nicco coughs awkwardly, gesticulating slowly with his large hands as he says, “I think what Cato means is that those files would mysteriously vanish and you’d be dead by sunrise, probably in a ‘burglary gone wrong’. That’s if they can identify your body. You might just be chopped up, wrapped in chicken wire and dropped in a barrel in the dock. It happens.”
I don’t think he realizes his words aren’t any kinder or more understanding than Cato’s. In fact, I think I’m more disturbed as I stare at the couple.
Cato also seems to stare at Nicco with concern. “Anyway…This world isn’t a game. Either you’re in it, or you’re blissfully ignorant. This is the only chance you’ll have to go back. Do you understand that?”
Go back?
Go back to what?
A boyfriend who wanted me to be someone I wasn’t, while he fucked around, being part of a throuple with someone I thought was my best friend?
The job where I was handled like glass, kept away from any real responsibilities or opportunities, and discarded easily because of who my father knew?
And let’s not start on my mess of a family. My father treats me like a second class-citizen, who’s only worth is as an extension of him. Constantly overlooked. Constantly criticized. Held up against my brother—who is an addict of some kind, slowly coming unglued and hates me for reasons he doesn’t feel the need to explain.
Then there’s him.
Elijah Creed.
Left Hand of the Family.
A man who takes what he wants and leaves very little room for discussion. Claims what he thinks belongs to him with teeth and nails, clawing to keep hold of it like a wild animal.
I chuckle. “We both know there's no going back from someone like Eli.”
“No, there isn’t.”
“Here, you can do something more useful with it.” Handing the memory stick to Cato, I open my phone and begin preparing the emails and files to be sent.
They nudge me with their shoulder, the corner of their mouth lifted into a wicked smile. “Welcome to WunderLnd, Bishop.”