Page 13 of Lust and Honor

Now, five years have passed since those days, years filled with a peace I never dreamed possible. All because of this woman who kneels before God every night, begging to be kept away from sin. A woman I’m sure is one of God’s wingless angels on earth… though I doubt she even knows it herself.

When I’m done, I pull her blouse back down and wish her goodnight. As I do every night, I check the locks on the doors and windows before heading to my room to sleep. I slip into my soft blue terrycloth pajamas and rest my head on the pillow.

Like every night these past few weeks, the first image that flickers behind my closed eyelids is long red hair soaked in blood, sprawled across the floor. And a pair of lifeless blue eyes, their spark of life snuffed out.

Those eyes belonged to my mother. My poor mother, whose tragic life ended in an even more tragic death. A life and death caused by the man whose blood, unfortunately, runs through my veins.

My father is a key member of a massive syndicate called the Black Demons, whose profits come from trafficking innocent people. Their filthy operations stretch across Europe, dealing in every kind of crime: from kidnapping women and children to selling them as sex slaves, to murdering people and harvesting their organs.

My mother was one of their victims. An Irish woman with pure red hair and a face like an angel. She was only sixteen when she was stolen from Ireland, and just thirty when she died. My father kept her for himself, using her like a slave.

I didn’t have a happy childhood. We lived in cramped, shitty houses, always haunted by the fear of my father—drunk, angry, and cruel. On nights when he and his friends stumbled into the house, my mother would hide me in the closet to protect me from their drunken violence. Her body was always bruised and battered from the beatings she endured.

One night when I was thirteen, my father came home and asked where I was. One glance at the man with him was enough for my mother to understand his intentions. Before that man could lay a hand on me, she drove a kitchen knife up to the hilt into his throat.

When she and my father grappled, he turned that same knife on her, plunging it into my poor mother’s heart. By the time I realized what was happening, I’d already slammed the heavy wooden cutting board into the back of his skull.

He collapsed, unconscious. But it was too late to save my mother. My beautiful mother was gone. The only thing she left me was her face, and that cascade of wine-red hair we both shared.

I knew that house was no longer my home, so I grabbed my backpack and fled. For six months, I survived by begging outside Naples’ churches, scraping by until I met an angel. Sister Maria. The woman who saved me.

I don’t know what time it is when I feel the weight of a hand clamping over my mouth. My eyes widen in terror, and I try to scream, but that strong hand stifles me. It belongs to a hulking man I don’t recognize, but I know exactly who he works for.

He’s found me, and the realization sends a wave of icy dread through my entire body.

My frantic struggling ends with a sharp sting in my neck. My eyelids suddenly feel too heavy to keep open. What follows is a numbing wave that washes over my body, and within a second, everything goes black.

***

I wake to the sensation of wetness and panting against my face. The first thing I see is a black snout licking me. I scream in terror and bolt upright.

It’s a small brown dog with stubby legs. Startled by my reaction, its ears pin back, and it lets out a few feeble barks before scurrying out of the room. I wipe the dampness from my cheek and scan my surroundings.

I’m in a shabby, rundown room flooded with sunlight streaming through a large window. The room is bare except for an old trunk tucked in the corner. I press my hand to the floor, ignoring the dryness in my throat and the throbbing pain in my head, and push myself up.

The window is wide open, revealing a view that’s completely unfamiliar. Mud huts, dusty ground, and a few old men in traditional clothes tell me I’m in a village, but not my village.

Footsteps approach, and as I turn, my eyes lock onto a pair of wild black eyes I’d hoped never to see again. Cruel eyes belonging to a heartless man. Nico Fidenco, my bastard father.

He hasn’t changed much in five years, just a few gray strands sprouting among his jet-black hair, his face more weathered by the sun, and a slight beer belly hanging over his belt. Seeing him makes my heart leap into my throat, my mouth going dry.

I ignore the mocking smirk on his face and summon my courage, “What did you do to Sister Maria?”

He stares at me for a long moment, his gaze so piercing I want to melt into the floor and disappear. Finally, he shrugs. “Nothing. What would I want with a wrinkled old cunt?”

I let out a tense breath, and press on. “Why did you kidnap me?”

He takes a few steps forward, stopping right in front of me. I glance around, searching for anything I could use.

He seems to catch my intent and sneers, “There’s nothing here you can bash my head with, Ava. And I sent your mother to hell already. There’s no one left for you to hide behind.”

The memory of what he did to my mother surges up, and before I can stop myself I spit right in his face. His reaction is exactly what I’d expect. He backhands me so hard I crumple to the ground, the taste of blood flooding my mouth. I glare up at him with pure hatred, sizing him up. Maybe I could take him in a fight. Nico’s of average height, never been one for exercise, and with his lifestyle, he can’t be that strong anymore.

“What do you want from me? Why did you kidnap me?”

He raises an eyebrow. God, I’m so glad not a single feature of that repulsive face shows up in mine.

“I didn’t kidnap anyone. You’re mine. I just brought you back to where you belong.”