Merciless

CHAPTER 2

                              Aria

There are a few things you should know about me. I like to wake up with a hot cup of coffee every morning. Preferably with enough creamer and sugar to drown out the taste of the bitter caffeine addiction. I love red wine at night. I can’t have white; it gives me a headache and a hangover that will leave me miserable when I wake up.
Well, those aren’t things that really matter. They’re the superficial
details you give people when you don’t want to tell them the truth. What do you really need to know? My name is Aria Talvery and I’m the daughter of the most violent crime family in Fallbrook.
The reason I like to have wine at night is because I desperately need it so I can get a few hours of sleep. My mother was murdered in front of me when I was only eight years old and I’ve never been okay since then, although I’ve learned to be good at pretending I am.
My father’s a crook, but he kept me safe and tolerated me even though every day he reminded me how much it hurt him to look at my face and see nothing but my mother. It’s because of my eyes. I know it is.They’re a hazel-green concoction, just like hers were. Like the soft mix of colors you’d see in a deep neck of the woods when looking up at the canopy of leaves in late summer, early fall. That’s how my mother used to
describe it. She was poetic that way. And maybe some of that rubbed off on
me. Fact number… whatever we’re on: I love to draw. I hate the life I live and hide away in the sketches and smeared ink. Away from the madness and danger my existence inherently brings.
And that love of art, the one thing I have that still connects me to my mother, is why I ended up at this bar, tracking down the asshole who stole my sketchbook from me. The prick who thinks he’s funny and that I’m some stupid joke or a toy he can play with because I’m a woman living in a man’s world, a dangerous one at that.
But I inherited my temper from my father. And that’s why I ended up at
the Iron Heart Brewery on Church Street. Yes, a bar on a street called
“church.” What’s more ironic is how much sin has seeped into these walls.
And so I went willingly, after my precious notebook that was stolen and
walked right into the enemy’s arms.
It was a setup, but my mother would have called it kismet. You should
know I’m smiling now, but it’s a sarcastic smile as a huff of feigned
laughter leaves me. Maybe all of this is her fault to begin with. After all,
that notebook was irreplaceable to me because the only picture I had of her
was tucked into the spine.
The last thing you should know, and the most important of them all, is
that I refuse to break. I don’t give in and I don’t back down. Not for anyone,
and especially not for Carter Cross. The bastard who took me from my
family. Locked me in a room and told me in simple words that my life was
over, and I belonged to him.
It won’t be his cutting words from his sharp tongue. Or his broad
shoulders and muscular arms that pin me down and trap me. It won’t be his
charming smile that utters filthy words that makes me cave. And it won’t be
that spark in his eyes, the flames licking and flickering brighter and hotter
every time he looks at me.
No, I refuse to give in. Even if that same heat echoes in my chest and
travels lower.
But there’s this thing about breaking; the more you harden yourself and
try to fight it, the easier and sharper the snap is when you inevitably break.
And I know this all too well.
The day my life changed forever…
THERE’S a constant ringing in my ears. My fists are clenched so tight that
my knuckles have turned white. Every time I have to face these assholes my
father works with, this is how it feels.
Like I’m on edge.
My heart thuds, thuds, thuds as I pass the all-glass front door to Iron
Heart Brewery and keep walking like I’m not going in. The front exterior is
all windows, so they can easily see who’s coming and going; bulletproof,
too. Because of the clientele. Word is my father fronted that bill, but that
seems overly generous for a man like him.
Cold. Selfish. Greedy. That’s how I’d describe my father, and I hate
myself for it.
I should be grateful; I should love him. But I’m loyal at least, and
loyalty is all that matters. When you grow up in this life, you learn that little
tidbit quickly.
Resting my shoulder against the dark red brick just past the windows, I
take a look at the parking lot across the street. They aren’t here yet.
A frustrated breath leaves a trail of fog in the tense fall air as I cross my
arms.
This is where my father’s men go on a night off and I know Mika is
going to be here.
I hate being here alone, but I can’t wait for someone to save me. I hope
Nikolai will come with them too. He’s a childhood friend, although now a
soldier of my father’s, and my saving grace. Really, he’s my only friend and
he’s put that bastard Mika in his place more than once when my father
wasn’t there for me.
Even knowing that to be true, that if Nikolai comes there won’t be any
problems in the least, I hate that I have to be here at all. My thumb runs
along the tips of my cold fingers, remembering how I held the notebookonly moments before Mika came into the room. The photograph was tucked
safely inside. Waiting for me to be inspired by it.
A notebook is only a notebook, but that photograph is the only one I
have of my mother and me the year she died.
My father didn’t have time for my “meaningless shit,” as he called it,
and the vise around my heart tightened at his response.
A shiver runs down my shoulders and I let out another heavy breath. I
can feel the chill on my nose and cheeks. My thin jacket isn’t doing a damn
thing to help me. I hadn’t realized fall had come with intentions of revenge
on the smoldering summer.
Peeking up through my lashes, I read the chalkboard sign above the bar
through the windows. They’re all locals, all drafts. I guess I could have one
drink while I wait.
The smooth music hits my ears as I walk into the bar, my heart beating
faster as I take in a few of the men seated on the stools. It’s funny how a bar
being mostly empty sends greater fear through me than one that’s packed.
One where I can blend in.
Right here, right now? I don’t belong, and every soul here knows it.
Maybe this is why Mika thought he could get away with it, I think
bitterly as I try to ignore the scared little girl inside of me. He thinks he can
steal from me because my father won’t stop him and I’m too spineless to
even come out of my room unless called upon.
I force myself to straighten my back as I move closer to the bar and set
down my clutch. I have a plan and I go over it as I try to swallow, form a
smile, and order a drink.
“Vodka and Sprite,” I order easily as I slip onto the barstool and meet
the bartender’s eyes. With a nod he moves seamlessly to the glasses,
making them clink and then filling one with ice.
I’ll wait for the guys. Even if they scare me because I know what
they’re capable of. I’ll look Mika in the eyes and tell him to give my
sketchbook back to me by tomorrow. And then I’ll walk away. No threats.
It’s a simple request. He wants to play around and tease me and I won’t give
him the time to do so. That’s the only reason he took it.
He gets a thrill from goading me.
The wind batters against the glass windows to my right and it startles
me. None of the men lining the room seem to have noticed it.
I’m too busy watching the hanging sign for the brewery banging against
the window that I don’t see the bartender come up to me.
The sound of the glass hitting the hard maple bar top sends a spike of
fear through me and I jump in surprise.
The sudden stillness and immediate silence that accompanies all of their
eyes on me force me to tense. I can barely form a smile as I stare straight
ahead and thank the bartender.
First, I feel a rush of embarrassment, followed by fear that they know
I’m weak. Then that all-consuming anxiety that everything is going to go
wrong washes over me. Very wrong.
It makes me want to throw up, but instead, I lift the cold glass to my
lips. One sip of the sweet cocktail does nothing. Two, and my throat still
feels dry.
I’m a foolish girl. I lick a bit of soda from my bottom lip and set the
glass down on the counter as I stare at all the colorful labels of liquor
bottles lining the shelves.
There’s no one who will stand up for me and I can’t even bring myself
to think about confrontation without getting jumpy. Trying to swallow
proves useless and so I push myself off the stool with both hands clinging to
the cold bar.
My palms are clammy, and I nearly tell the bartender I’m just going to
the restroom as if he’d care. As if anyone cares.
That feeling of complete insignificance follows me with each step to the
left of the bar as I head down a skinny hallway. It’s the only way to go, so
the restrooms must be there. I only make it a few steps before I think I hear
a shot. My body tenses and my heart goes still. It knows that if it were to
beat, I wouldn’t be able to hear a single thing else.
There’s no scream. There’s nothing but the sound of the music. I must
have only thought I heard one. It’s all in my head.
My eyes close as I will myself to breathe. But then they bolt open at a
familiar noise.
It’s not the harsh sound of a gun going off. It’s the whiz of a gun with a
silencer, followed by the thud of a body hitting the floor.
Bang, bang! Two of them back to back, and this time everything sounds
closer. Another shot. My body clings to the wall as if it can hide me.
I force myself to move, to head to the back and find a way out or place
to hide. I might be a scared little girl, barely surviving in my father’s world,but I’m not a fucking idiot.
I quicken my pace as I round the corner, motivated by the sheer will to
live. But every bit of strength I have, even if it is minuscule, is for nothing.
The scream that’s torn from my throat is barely heard as a thick bag
covers my head.
My clutch falls to the floor, hitting my thigh as I kick out and miss the
man in front of me. My heels go with it, each kick accompanied by the
rough laughter of several men.
I try to fight, but it’s no use.
It’s more than one man, I know that. Their hands are strong and their
bodies like bricks.
I don’t stop and won’t, but nothing I do is helping. I punch and yell and
kick as terror flows through me, begging me to push them away and run. I
can’t see, and my arms scream in pain as they’re pinned behind me.
I only know we’re outside because of the wind slicing through my thin
jacket. I only know I’m in a trunk because of the telltale sound of it opening
before I’m tossed in, my small body crashing against the back of it as it’s
quickly shut.
Silence.
Darkness.
My breathing is ragged, and it makes me lightheaded.
When my screaming stops, my voice is hoarse, and my throat burns
with harsh pain every time I try to swallow. When my banging ends, my
wrists are rubbed raw and cut from the cuffs and my muscles are aching
with the type of pain that’s scorching hot and forces me to tremble.
Another feeling takes over. It’s not quite panic. It’s something else.
It’s not a sense of hopelessness. Not that either.
When you’re alone and you know nothing is okay and nothing’s going
to be okay, there’s this feeling that’s overwhelming and inescapable.
My heart keeps ticking along despite everything. But it’s going too fast.
Everything is going too fast and it hurts. And I can’t stop it. I can’t stop any
of it.
When you’ve done everything you can, and you’re left with nothing but
fear of both the unknown and the known, there’s only one way to describe
it.
That feeling is true terror.

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