A clang in the door draws my gaze, and I tighten as it swings open, revealing a face I never want to see again. Dad saunters across the threshold, proud of himself, with a badge-wearing thug in tow.

  “Belle, sweetheart,” Dad greets me, crossing the small room to cup my face in his large hands. He swipes his thumbs down my cheeks and collects my tears. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

  He perches on the edge of the table, and the door clangs again, locking me inside with this…this…stranger. I lift my gaze to meet his, and my blood cools in my veins, then I pull my face out of his hold and shove my chair back, creating distance between us. Dad threads his fingers and rests his hands on his lap. Exhaling, he tilts his head and pins me with his blue stare.

  “I know you’re upset—”

  “Upset?” I shout, my voice cracking. “Upset doesn’t begin to cover it. How could you?”

  For a flicker of a moment, sympathy flashes over Dad’s features only to be swallowed up by his resolution. He doesn’t care about me. Not at all.

  “Do you remember the story we read together during your freshman year? Faithful Elephants?”

  I cut my eyes at him, my gut turning as I recall the story. It’s a true tale about elephants in a zoo in Tokyo during World War ll. The zookeepers were ordered to poison their large and dangerous animals to prevent harm to the general public if a bomb were to detonate near the zoo and the animals escaped. It’s a tale about murder for the greater good.

  “Don’t you dare tell me what you’ve done is for the greater good.”

  “I made a promise—”

  I shoot out of my chair, and the back of my thighs hit the plastic, and the chair falls over, slapping against the concrete floor. “I am your daughter! Not a pawn, not a cog, not bait—”

  “I know.” Dad lifts himself off the table.

  I tighten my shoulders as he approaches with caution then surrounds me with his arms, pulling me close to his chest. I inhale. He smells different, and his hug isn’t bringing me the same comfort it did as a child.

  “I’m sorry.” He kisses the top of my head and holds me tight. “You can fix this, Isabelle. You can help me make it better, help me keep my promise so we can go back to normal—”

  Fix it? I shove him, the heels of my palms hitting him hard in the chest, forcing air from his lungs. He stumbles back, his eyes wide. I’ve never felt anger so potent, so thick, in my veins.

  “I’m not going to help you. This is your mess. Fix it on your own.”

  Dad’s expression shifts, and shadows pool under his eyes and in the hollows of his cheeks as he lowers his chin. “You’ll make a statement—live.”

  “A statement?” I scoff, crossing my arms over my chest. “About what?”

  He takes a calculated step forward, sending chills down my spine. “You’ll tell the town, the whole United States, what you suffered at the hands of those men.”

  I frown. What is he talking about? “You were there when the police pulled us over. Did I look like I was suffering?”

  He took another step, clenching his hands at his sides. “They kidnapped you, Belle. They hurt you, raped you—”

  I balk. “What? No, they didn’t.”

  The officer by the door shuffles around the edge of the room, moving closer to where I stand opposite my dad. His dark features are zeroed in on me, his bushy brows furrowed, his lips pursed into a thin line. Hairs lifts on the back of my neck. Is he going to hurt me? I look at my father. His expression is much the same. Agitated.

  “They hurt you, Isabelle,” Dad insists, resolute. “Real bad.”

  I square my shoulders and lift my chin. “Do I look hurt?”

  It hits my face without warning, a fist so hard my jaw is thrusted from its natural position and cracks in my ears. I hit the floor, only just managing to get my hands out in time to catch myself. Pain radiates through my wrists, my face, and down my spine, and I taste blood. It’s metallic and gross on my tongue. I lift my head and peer at the man towering over me, the one Dad brought into the room with him. He clenches his large fist at his side, his knuckles pink. Tears of surprise and pain pool in my eyes.

  “What are you doing?” I cry, feeling the right side of my face throb and swell.

  “They hurt you,” Dad repeats, and I shake my head, turning my body. “He hurt you.”

  He? “James didn’t hurt me. He kept me safe. The Devil’s Cartel—”

  Dad’s thug bends and bunches my dress at the collar, I lift my hands to shield my face, and he swats them away with a growl then backhands me in the mouth. I shout as my lip splits against my teeth, and more blood saturates my tongue. I squeeze my eyes shut. The pain that explodes from the impact is sharp and brief, morphing into numbness.

  “He hurt you. Raped you.”

  Why does he keep saying that? I spit blood on the floor and open my eyes. I can’t see Dad through the blur of my tears, but I keep my stare firmly locked on his fuzzy shape regardless.

  “Rape? I begged him to take whatever he wanted from me, and he did, multiple times, and I loved it. Does that sound like rape to you?”

  He sucks a sharp breath between his teeth. I’ve hurt him with my confession, but it’s true. Creed didn’t have to persuade me to sleep with him or force it. I’ve been ready and willing from the moment I laid eyes on Creed. Dad must know that. He listened to all my therapy sessions, after all.

  Dad nods, a slight movement I barely catch, and I’m hit in the face again. The sound is sickening as something in my nose pops and hot liquid gushes down my face. My head spins, and I try to lift my hands to protect myself, but they don’t budge. Soon, the thug’s violent hands are swapped for brutal kicks, and each boot to my body sends unbearable pain through me. I weakly clench my body as best I can as my ribs are cracked, my organs pummeled, until agony-laced darkness envelops me.

  I’m not sure how much time passes before my lids flutter and I catch a blurred glimpse of expensive, black shoes by my face and the hemline of Dad’s luxurious pants. I try to speak, try to tell him to get away from me, but only a whimper falls out. I’m badly hurt, my body silently screaming with every breath I take.

  The loud clank from the door clangs around the room, then there’s a crack from Dad’s knees as he bends low and brushes hair from my cheek. I wince at the acute tenderness of my face and the gross feel of my hair sticking to drying blood.

  “It’s for the good of the town,” he whispers. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

  I shiver, closing my eyes. “I hate you.”

  “You don’t hate me.”

  “I do. I hate you. Creed will murder you for what you’ve done.”

  “You really think he cares? He’ll be onto a new clubwhore as soon as he’s out of prison.” Dad smirks. “That’s if he gets out after the story you’re going to tell.”

  “I’m not doing anything for you.”

  “You will.” He flicks my forehead, and I open my eyes. He holds his phone screen in front of my face, but I can’t make out the video playing. “You see that?”

  I blink, long and slow, until my eyes focus. It’s a woman tied to a chair. Her head hangs forward, her long, brunette hair dangling in front of her and her beige pants dirtied and spattered with blood. Shadows move around the poorly lit room, and for a moment, a tattooed forearm is all I see. Sighing, my eyelids fall shut, and I doze off, only to be flicked on the nose. I yelp, my eyes shooting open.

  “Watch,” Dad demands. “Then you can sleep.”

  The man, with the snake forearm tattoo, saunters toward the woman in the chair whose shoulders shake like mine. I glance at his leather cut, at the blurry insignia on the back that I don’t recognize. The man grabs the woman by the hair, and she shrieks as he forces her head back.

  “Please,” she sobs, and my skin prickles as ice slides through my veins. “No more.”

  I continue to watch the video and the violent events that unfold. It takes me forty-three seconds to realize who the woman in the chair is. Chelsea. A choked noise leaves my throat, and Dad turns off the screen, lowering his hand.

  “You’ll make the statement, sit through all the court proceedings, and do exactly as you’re told, or Chelsea dies.”

  Dies? I’m going to puke. How did this get so out of control? When did my father become a murderer? I close my eyes as my body violently trembles. My thoughts scatter, and I’m powerless to organize them again. I close my eyes as tiredness zaps me and my consciousness is siphoned. I feel like my bones are crumbling. I don’t want to lie and betray Creed, Judge, or the Devil’s Cartel crew…

  …but what choice do I have?

  Chapter Fourteen

  Creed

  Two days.

  Two days had passed since Izzy and I were pulled over by those pig-fuckers under her father’s instruction. I grew angrier with every second I was stuck in this tiny cell. They wouldn’t give me my phone call. I hadn’t contacted anyone, not Judge or our lawyer, but that didn’t surprise me since the building I was being held in wasn’t the police station or the courthouse. I’d been in those buildings more times than I could count, and they were nicer than this shithole.

  Not for the first time, my mind drifted to Blondie. Was she safe? Was she worried about me? Was her father filling her head with more lies or, worse, physically hurting her? I drummed my fingers against the metal edges of my mesh cot and exhaled. Outside the entrance to my cell, a small television sat on a stand with wheels. It’d been there for hours, rolled in by a short guy with bright red hair. I asked him a few questions, and he ignored me, the dick. I exhaled again, more dramatic this time. I could go with a goddamn cigarette…

  A few heartbeats passed before the sound of shoes tapping along the concrete floor echoed through the building. Then in entered the redhead. I sat forward, resting my elbows on my knees, and watched as he stalked toward the TV and turned it on. What I was about to see had something to do with the club or Blondie. I didn’t give a shit about anything else.

  I held my breath as he flicked through the stations, stopping on our local news channel. The backdrop was a hospital, further wrenching my stomach, and the man the camera was steadily focused on was Jonathan. My ears twitched, and I lifted myself off the cot, the metal bars squeaking under my weight. I sauntered closer, and Red’s eyes were on me, smug as he surveyed me.

  “It’s a battle we’ve fought for a long time, and at cost to my family, it’ll finally come to an end,” Jonathan said as he swallowed hard and avoided looking into the camera. “I didn’t want to do it this way, but my daughter nobly insisted she address the public about the horrors she’s suffered at the hands of the Devil’s Cartel in hopes to ignite change and encourage the government to better aid us in our fight to clean the streets once and for all.”

  What the fuck? I grabbed the cold cell bars as movement in the background drew my attention. I flicked my stare over the shoulders of a man wearing an expensive navy suit. He was slightly hunched forward, pushing something. Jonathan’s entourage moved out of the way, giving the man space to move through. I saw her then…and my heart fell into my boots. Most of Isabelle’s small, battered body was hidden behind a blue hospital gown that looked more like a queen-sized bedsheet on her. For the limbs that did show, they were more purple than pale. What the fuck did he do? Izzy hid her face, her long, blood-stained blonde hair working as curtain between her and me, and concerned whispers floated from the small speakers. Jonathan kneeled beside her, touching her hair, playing the role of concerned father when he was the reason she was in this mess in the first place. The more he touched her, the more defeated she looked. He brushed her hair away from her face, and my breathing stopped. I swore. Her pretty face was beaten and bruised, her eyes almost swollen shut, her nose hidden behind gauze and tape. There was a huge lump on her cheek, and I could see the cracks in her lips from here.

  “Jesus,” Red said on exhale, moving in front of the TV, blocking my view. “He did a number on her, didn’t he?” I clenched the bars harder. “Serves her right.”

  Red straightened his black tee and went back to leaning against the stand, his arm draped over the top of the TV. There was an amused glint in his eye, one that begged me to take the bait, but I couldn’t drag my stare from Isabelle. What this fucker said to me wasn’t a priority. I’d disembowel him once I got out of here; that was a fact.

  Jonathan lovingly cupped Isabelle under the chin and made her look at him. She trembled and tried to pull her face away, but he moved to whisper in her ear. Her swollen and terrified gaze flickered to the camera, and my heart smashed into my ribs, filling my veins with…with…her pain. I was helpless—useless. I couldn’t help her. When Jonathan was done whispering to her, he stood and detached the microphone from the stand and lowered it to Isabelle’s mouth. He patted her hair and gently touched her arms. Izzy opened her mouth, and all that came out was a cracked sob. Her bruised face crinkled in pain, and she hunched her body and clenched her ribs.

  “Perhaps she needs time, Mr. Mayor,” a woman in the sea of reporters who stood behind the camera shouted.

  “She’s fine,” Jonathan insisted. “She wants to do it now.”

  He nudged her, and she breathed heavy into the microphone.

  “I’ve suffered for days,” she wheezed, her voice sounding nothing like her. “I was beaten…”

  I frowned, feeling my face screw up. She wouldn’t lie to appease her father, would she? She had to know we were stronger than him. My blood ran cold. Did she know what would happen to her if she spoke our names on television? The men would call for her head, and there’d be nothing I could do about it. The Devil’s Cartel had a chapter in nearly every state. They’d come for her, and they’d make her pay. They’d make this whole fucking town pay.

  I waited with bated breath as Izzy took her time to recover between every word she spoke. I silently willed her not to say it, not to lie and put a target on her back, when banging sounded off in the distance, growing closer and closer. Red noticed it too and turned toward the door.

  “What the hell is that?” he wondered aloud, pulling his handgun from the waistband of his black cargo pants.

  The door to the sector I was held in swung open with enough force to drive the door into the concrete opposite, and I saw the manbun first then the rifle. Light exploded from the end of Armi’s rifle, and a juddering bang rang out, leaving a ring in my ears. Red crashed to the floor, and the fucking TV blew up, sending me back a few steps as glass cut at my face and neck.

  Judge barreled in behind Armi and tugged on the black skull bandana covering his mouth. I took them in in their colors, proud as fucking punch to call them my brothers. Didn’t expect them to come looking for me, not in the middle of an FBI sting or while I was in custody, but here they were, raising hell.

  Armi moved toward Red and bent low, patting him down. While he did that, I scowled at Judge, and he grinned. “Thought we forgot about you, did ya?”

  “Two fucking days, Judge.”

  He shrugged his shoulders, stuffing his handgun into his cut then into the waistband of his black jeans. “Quit your bitching. We had the FBI to deal with.”

  I straightened. “They didn’t find anything?”

  Judge smirked. “Didn’t find nothing. We’re good.”

  Good. We kept the clubhouse clean, mostly, but sometimes things got delayed and left for longer than they should.

  “Shit,” Armi shouted, standing up. He turned and flashed us a police badge before he dropped it onto Red’s lifeless body. “He’s a cop.”

  Judge shrugged. “Not the first cop I’ve shot in the last forty-eight hours.”

  I arched a brow. “Aren’t they all cops?”

  Armi shook his head and dangled a set of keys between his fingers. “Twisted Sons mostly.”

  I grunted. I hated that they were on our territory, on our side of the country. “I wonder how much Jonathan is paying them and what they’re getting out of it.”

  As Armi approached my cell, his boots crushed glass and left bloody imprints on the concrete floor. He unlocked my cell, and I stepped out.

  He smiled and clapped me on the shoulder. “Good to see you, VP.”

  “Yeah.” I shrugged him off and headed toward the door.

  I had to get to the hospital. Izzy needed my help. When I was done helping her, I’d pull her father’s spine out through his stomach.

  Armi and Judge followed without a word, and in the halls, the carnage they left was sprayed up the walls. I stepped over every dead body as they came. I’d seen grosser, more twisted things in my time. Blood was as traumatizing as water to me.

  Outside, I was surprised to see an empty parking lot in the middle of nowhere. I turned to look at the building. It was tall and made of gray stone. It had turrets either side of the roof and bars on its windows. It reminded me of my time in the detention center when I was a teen.

  “What the hell is this place?” I asked Judge.

  Was I even still in Exeter? I lived here most of my life and had never seen this building before.

  “It’s a home for troubled youth.” Judge shrugged his large shoulders. “Or it was meant to be.”

  “Jonathan and the council had it built a long time ago,” Armi chimed in.

  “What happened?”

  “Investors dropped out, and he couldn’t keep it running on his own funds, so he canned it.” He spat on the floor and scratched at his forehead. “Heard they were gonna bulldoze it and turn it into a youth camp site.”

  I paused then, as we walked further onto the parking lot. “Where’s my bike?”

  Judge laughed and shot me a look over his shoulder. “You’re riding on the back of mine.”

  Over my dead body. I stopped in my tracks and turned around. Armi laughed as I headed back toward the entrance of the building.