Shattered Prince

But my life was over. It was over, completely and entirely. Oscar wouldn’t forgive me for this, and there was no way I could explain the cuts on my leg to Carmine, and he’d find them eventually. Everything was out of control, and I didn’t know how I could stop this from crumbling to dust.

I’d been so close. I had a taste of freedom and a decent life. Oscar was still around, blackmailing me—but I had Cap and Mal as friends, and Carmine as something more, and college made me feel like a regular person. I thought maybe, just maybe, I might be able to fulfill my dream to become a doctor.

Maybe I could do something decent with my miserable existence.

But no, that was over now. I was dead. It was only a matter of time now.

“What happened, Jules?” He tugged me to the elevator, his arm tight around my shoulder. He pulled me close. I spotted blood speckling the floor. My blood from earlier. “The place is a wreck.”

I squeezed my eyes shut. Do I lie? Or tell him the truth?

“I don’t know,” I said, shaking my head. “It wasn’t bad when I left.”

“What about the blood? Something happened.” He tightened his grip around me.

“That’s my blood.” I whispered the words.

We reached the top and the doors slid open.

I stared in horror. The apartment was a wreck. Everything was broken and tossed around like Oscar had gone into a frenzy. After I got away, he must’ve lost his mind and decided to try to make it look like a break-in of some kind. But that only made it ten times worse. Paintings were wrecked, dishes were smashed—even the coffee table was in shambles. I stared around with my mouth hanging open.

Carmine steered me down the hall and to my room.

The only room that hadn’t been touched.

I walked to my bed then turned to him. He lingered in the doorway, looking at me with those beautiful eyes, and I felt the years of fear and anger and resentment bubbling deep inside. I was dead, dead, dead, finished, so what did it matter? What did any of it matter now?

I pulled up my skirt.

Carmine’s eyes went wide. He looked at my legs, at my panties—but his face hardened when he saw the bandages.

“The blood’s mine,” I said.

He came closer. “Jules.”

“Oscar cut me. You’ll find he knife in the sink.”

His face tore into a snarl. “He did this? Oscar? Your fucking guard?”

“He figured you wouldn’t see.” I laughed, shaking my head. “Bad call on his part, right? Considering everything.”

He stared at me. “It’s not funny. Where is he now?”

“I don’t know. He must’ve trashed the apartment after I got away. I managed to escape, but when I reached the parking garage, Nervosa’s men were there. They took me away. Heck, they might’ve saved my life.”

Carmine trembled. Anger bulged the muscles in his throat. He pulled out his phone and typed something.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Making sure Mal finds him alive.” He shoved the phone away. “Why did he do this? I don’t understand. Your father sent him.”

I felt dizzy. The immensity of everything was too much. I sat back on the bed and pulled my knees to my chest. “He’s been doing it for a long time,” I said quietly. “I hoped Papa would send someone else, but no, he sent Oscar. The one man I didn’t want to see. The one man I tried to escape.”

Carmine knelt in front of me. “What did he do to you, Jules?”

I met his eyes and something inside of me broke. Whatever was holding me back and keeping the secrets at bay finally snapped, and I felt it all flood out, washing away through my soul like a swollen river.

Carmine might be the death of me, but I didn’t care. He brought me so much already. Pleasure, pain. Joy and hope. He made me dream of a future where I was happy and decent again. He gave that to me, and now it was time to give him my truth.

My darkness.

“I’m a traitor,” I whispered, staring into his eyes. “Ever since I was a little girl, after the accident that ruined my leg, Oscar’s been blackmailing me into stealing for him. I’ve been taking drugs, and money, and all sorts of things. He wanted me to do the same to you.”

Carmine shook his head. “I don’t understand. Blackmailing you? For that long? Weren’t you a little girl?”

“I was ten. It started with a recording. I told him what happened after the accident—what really happened. I gave him the truth, and he used that against me. I was too young and dumb to realize my father wouldn’t be angry. I was too traumatized and in too much pain. So I did what Oscar asked. I stole for him, and once that started, it was too late. I’d gone too far. I could never look back, because if I did, Oscar would tell me father what I’d been doing. He’d kill us both.”