Autumn Karr - Vendetta

I shake my head, unable to speak of terror. The hand holding the gun comes flying out, and he punches me across the face. I can feel my cheek pulsating where he hit me.

“You love it, don’t you, you little whore?”

I nod. What else can I do? If he hits me again, or something worse, there’s no way out. I could pass out. I could get seriously hurt. At least this way I’m conscious, and I can still figure out a way to protect myself.

“Get on your fucking knees!” When I don’t move, he brings the gun under my chin and digs it into my flesh. “I said, get on your fucking knees.”

I get on my knees.

He starts unbuckling his belt, looking at me with disgusting lustful eyes. How can he take pleasure knowing he’s about to rape me?

“You know, when I realized what was going on, that you were fucking that son of a bitch, I was so disappointed in you, Leighton.” He unbuttons his jeans, one excruciating button at a time. “I really thought you were better than that. But I can’t hold it against you. I know you girls fall for that brooding shit. God knows how much pussy he got just because he’s depressed.” His laughter comes out strangled as he pulls the jeans down together with his boxers and his cock springs out, just inches from my face. “But you should have known better. Now suck it, bitch. See what a real man can give you,” he says, guiding his cock with his hand toward my mouth.

I don’t want to do it. I don’t.

In a desperate move, I reach out with my hand, covering his to stop him. I make eye contact, letting him know I’ll comply with whatever he wants. He moves his hand away and I fight vomit as I grasp his length into my fist.

“That’s right, baby,” he says through a groan as I stroke it one time fast.

And then I snap it sharply, crushing his balls with my other hand. He screams like a fucking girl, the gun clattering to the floor as his hand flies out to hit me again. I scramble away on my knees for the gun, and just shoot, without thinking. Once. Twice. Three fucking times, each echoing in the small space of bathroom. He slumps over me, his jeans around his ankles.

I move his heavy body off me, knowing I’m running out of time before someone comes to check what the gunshots were. I scramble to my feet and punch him in his exposed groin anyway, just for good measure. Fucking son of a bitch rapist asshole.

The gun still in my hand, I run out of the bathroom. I have no idea where I am, what this place is, where to go. I run across the suffocating hallway, and then George comes out from the room they held me in. I raise the gun, grasping it in both my hands and aim it at him.

“You’re not a killer, Leighton,” he says, his condescending tone pissing me off further. He probably doesn’t know I just killed a man.

Oh my God, I just killed a man.

“How do you know what I am, George?” I ask, buying myself some time. What the hell do I do now? My finger hesitates over the trigger and then I make the mistake of looking into his eyes. I’ve known this man my whole life. He's right; I can't kill him.

Suddenly, the gun is knocked out of my hand. It clatters to the floor, the sound echoing ominously against the walls.

“Fucking bitch,” Stevie yells, twisting my arm. I cry out in pain, sure that he’s about to break it. George comes forward, kicking the gun away from me.

“Should have taken that shot,” he says.

DEVON

“Okay, talk.”

Frank looks around the room, as if drawing inspiration, but I know he's just avoiding looking at me.

I wince in pain as I reach for the glass of water, getting his attention. My uncle looks pointedly between me and the pill bottle on the bedside table, but I ignore him. I'm not taking anything they give me until I get an explanation of what's going on.

If the pills knock me out, there's no way of getting out of bed, either. And Leighton is out there . . .

Finally, he makes eye contact. “Eleven years ago, my—” he begins, then swallows hard, looking away. “Your father called me to tell me we're finally out.”

My father wanted out? But that’s ridiculous. The only way out is in a coffin.

When he doesn't say anything else, I nod, urging him to continue.

“He didn't want this life for you kids. Hell, he didn't want this life for me. Our parents died young in a car accident, and he was left, barely legal, to take care of me. Joe didn’t want the legacy of our father, or to end up the same way he did.”

I frown, thinking how familiar that story is. My dad was a kid taking care of a kid.

“He was always taking care of me.” He smiles affectionately, his features taking on a boyish appearance. Then his eyes go blank. “All my life I resented him for sending me away, away to boarding schools, away to travel abroad, away to college . . . until I got it. When he did the same to you, I got that he didn't hate me or didn't not want me around.”

This also sounds awfully familiar. My mother liked to travel, or so I thought, always taking me with her wherever she went, and we would be gone for so, so long. Dad was always busy, had work, and he never came with us.

When I was ten, I was told I was going to an all-boys school. I remember the temper tantrum I threw, like a spoiled little brat, punching air and slamming doors. Joey was just born, and I thought they were getting rid of me because they got a new kid. The jealousy was eating me up.

My father wasn't a man that showed emotion. He did things, rather than said them, to make you feel loved. A new toy, a pat on the head, letting me play in his office. And when he said I'd only ever be home during school breaks, well, I thought it said a lot about their love. Child logic.

“Your mother knew what he was doing when she married him, but after you came, she wanted out as well. So, he did what he had to do, and he made it happen. Almost. He worked out a deal with Keith Moore.”

“A deal with Keith Moore,” I repeat, disbelieving.

“Yes. When he told me I didn't actually think it would happen. For so long our family has been in the business —” He makes air quotes and it strikes me as so out of character when it comes to him. “—the idea of getting out was just impossible. Once you’re in, you’re in. He made it happen for me. He sent me away and I had a normal life, for the most part. I got through college and had a bright future ahead. Mac—Hayley’s father, he helped, but still.” His voice turns sad, almost wistful. He shakes his head, as if to clear it.

No wonder he resented me. I pulled him out of his life, even though it wasn't my fault.

“What kind of a deal did he make?”

“He would just hand it all over, and in return he'd get protection for his family,” he says, as if that explains it all.

Then it dawns on me. The warehouses in Chelsea. It's definitely something a Moore would bargain for with an Andre, if only to prove they were right. That, and giving up all that power. The lesser the players in this game are, the more powerful you are.

“That's all there was to it,” he continues. “We had money, dirty as it was, but we were good with that. All we needed was for everyone to know we've got the Moore protection.”

“And what of our men?” Because I know with all of them set loose, there would have been anarchy, free, out-of-control players doing whatever the hell they wanted.

He looks at me knowingly, then reaches for the bottle of water and drinks from it. “The day after it happened, I got a call from Mac. He said to drop everything, go straight to your school and pick you up, and then come and see him.”

I remember that day, too. The numbness I felt as I looked out of the car window, the passing scenery a dizzying blur. Walking by my uncle and wanting so bad to reach for his hand, but his cold eyes telling me not to do it. Sitting against the wall, listening to the hushed voices that told me nothing.