Alessandra Torre - End of the Innocence

“I’ve had pussy. I don’t feel the need to jeopardize my relationship for subpar ass.”

“Then take us out so we can get some. I’ll take subpar over none. And your definition of subpar is another man’s dream.”

Brad took a long drag of his beer. “You have nothing to bitch about. There were plenty of girls at the party we had last month.”

The man snorted. “And guys. A joint bachelor party? I don’t understand how you guys can let loose and have fun when the other person is there.”

Brad laughed. “Yeah. A couple doing things together. Doomed.” He leaned back in the couch. “I hate to break it to you, Stevie, but my life as a slut is over.”

“And you seem remarkably calm about it,” Ben remarked, walking into the room with fresh beers and passing one to each of them before settling into one of the large leather armchairs.

Brad shrugged. “You know Julia. I don’t deserve her as it is. This is the happiest I’ve ever been.”

“I’m not saying it doesn’t make sense. I’m just surprised that you recognize it.” Ben leaned forward, clinked his beer against Brad’s. “You hit a home run with her.”

Stevie groaned. “This all is great, but let’s at least order a stripper. Get a PG-rated lap dance, and then let me take her upstairs.”

“The man owns a strip club. He’s not going to get excited about some tits bouncing up and down,” Ben said dryly.

“Owned a strip club,” Brad said, finishing the bottle and setting it on the counter.

Stevie glanced over. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Didn’t seem like something a husband should have. I signed it over to Julia.”

Stevie coughed hard, sitting up and setting his beer on the floor. “Holy shit. You really are whipped.”

“Don’t give me that. You handed Nikki your balls in a velvet sack on your second date.”

The man shrugged. “Hey, she handles them better than anyone else.” He stood. “That doesn’t mean I’m turning down blowjobs from strangers. I guess I just assumed that if Brad-fucking-De Luca ever froze over hell and got remarried, that he’d go out with a bang.” He laughed. “Or five or six bangs, given your reputation.”

“Sorry,” Brad said shortly. “Guess Ben will have to be the new wild man.” He leaned forward, clapped the man on the back and stood. “Martha made some carrot cake this afternoon. You guys want some?”

They moved to the kitchen, Stevie bitching the whole way about the unnaturalness of cake at a bachelor party, before pouring a big glass of milk to drink. They drank, ate, smoked cigars on the porch, and then crashed, the two men heading to the guest bedrooms while Brad climbed the stairs to spend his final night as a bachelor, alone in his big bed. He glanced at the clock. 1:35 a.m. Too late to call, but he needed to hear her. Already missed her. He rolled over in the silent dark and tried to fall asleep.

♦♦♦

The seven month old BMW X5 4.41 was wrapped in plastic and loaded onto a vehicle transporter, along with other cars of questionable origin. It left town less than two hours after Julia Campbell’s capture, traveling north on a busy interstate, headed for Canada.

WEDDING DAY

I woke up in pure blackness, my senses reengaging one by one, slowly reporting grim details of my surroundings. Sight. Pure dark, so complete in its entirety that I felt a wave of claustrophobia hit me. Sound. Muffled voices, hard tones filled with anger, hate, and—most terrifying of all—glee. The rustle of fabric against my ear as I twisted my head, the sound informing my brain that I was, in fact, blindfolded. Smell . A sickly, sweet scent, coming from the blindfold, almost, but not quite, overriding the dirty, masculine stench that reeked in this room. Taste . Wet cloth in my mouth, tugging at my skin, keeping my tongue in place, the horrible aftertaste of vomit in my mouth. Touch . Hands bound behind my back with rough, scratchy rope. Ankles spread and secured to chair legs beneath me. Sitting upright, utterly secured, my body recognizing, even without sight, the bruises that covered me.

My brain understood everything about the situation immediately, bursting into reality in one, horrific instance, like stepping into the harsh sun, painful in its strength. I screamed through the cloth, my effort producing only a small sound, and strained every muscle, thrashing my body from side to side, trying to free some small part of my body in at least one minor way. The chair rocked, tipped, and in an agonizingly slow motion, tipped back and crashed to the concrete floor. The impact slammed my head backward, and with one painful crack, my body stilled, all senses instantly snuffed.

♦♦♦

I was taken for a reason. To win a battle, a battle of control and emotions and pride. Step one was to take me. Step two involved making sure I would never be a part of the Magiano family. That step could be accomplished in two ways, one of which was death. The other option’s viability would depend on how I reacted to my capture.

I did not react well.

“Did I miss something?” Becca barged through the doors of Noche with a ferocity that startled half the women in the spa’s lobby.

Olivia shot her a look of warning. “Stop yelling. This is the type of place where you whisper.”

“Ten, right? I checked my text messages. We were going to meet here at eleven. Look.” She thrust her cell out, forcing Olivia’s eyes to focus on it. “Hair and makeup appointment at eleven at Noche. From that scary ass assistant of Brad’s. Did you get one?”

“Lower your freaking voice,” Olivia hissed, sending an apologetic look to the woman to her right. “Yes, I got one. And I talked with Julia last night. She said she’d be here.”

“So where is she?” Becca didn’t wait for a response, she pressed a button and held the phone to her ear. “I’m calling her again. She hasn’t responded to my texts.”

Their names were called, and they stood, Becca taking a long look at the clock before following the uniformed attendant through the frosted doors. 10:19 a.m. Julia was late.

As they walked through the quiet hall, Becca’s phone buzzed, her eyes catching on the lit screen and reading the message quickly, then passing it to Olivia.

I won’t make it to Noche. I need time to think. I’ll call you later.

Their eyes met in the dim light, and Becca frowned.

♦♦♦

White uniforms converged on Fleur De Lis like maggots, bits of white weaving with a rapid pace through the stone halls, placing gloved hands on every available surface. Flower arrangements were wheeled in, tablecloths ironed, place cards straightened, then straightened again by nervous fingers. Corsages were pinned, bobby pins placed in curled hair, and wedding programs were unwrapped and placed in the hands of eager ushers. The final moments were completed in an orderly and excited fashion, everything unfolding exactly as to plan. And, an hour before the ceremony was to begin, limos began the slow, precise journey through the front gates. The guests were starting to arrive.

The world ran on appearances, and that day was no exception. Brad disagreed with that mandate, but you had to play the game to win it, so he played along. And, as usual, he seemed predestined to win, the details handled perfectly by Rebecca and the two wedding planners’ capable and expensive hands. And, as he glanced through the open doorway off the lobby, everything seemed in place. Just missing one thing . He moved into the drawing room, set off to the side of the chapel and scowled, settling into one of the high stools. Lucas walked over with a smile, moving around behind the bar. He poured a shot of whiskey and held it out.