Maniacs (Depraved Sinners 4)

Shit. So much has gone down, so much that I haven’t had a chance to work through shit with the boys, but what’s the point? What’s the point of suffering through all of this if it’s only going to end in tragedy?

My heart races with the unknown as I worry my lip, biting it until it begins to swell. I have no fucking idea how all of this is going to go down. I don’t know if it’s going to be violent or if I’ll be drugged. I don’t know if he’s going to claim my name and then throw me aside, or if he intends to destroy me on a much deeper level. Perhaps he’ll just sign the marriage papers and immediately put a bullet through my head … A girl can only dream.

I can’t find it in me to give a shit about what a marriage between us truly means for the Moretti family. Maybe a week ago I would have given a shit, but I’m being used as a pawn in a war that was never mine, and I simply don’t give a shit anymore. If Giovanni wants to infiltrate the Moretti fortune, then that’s Gia’s problem. As for me, I’ll fight my own fucking war the only way I know how—me with the fucking boys at my back. That’s all I’ve ever needed in this world.

Hours pass as I lay in this stupid bed, a bed that holds so many of my darkest secrets and memories with the boys, but I don’t dare allow myself to fall victim to them. Time and place, and this isn’t it.

The quiet footsteps of servants pace up and down the hall to tend to the baby, but no one comes to check on me. His raspy wails calm momentarily, only for him to be left alone again to scream. His poor cries play like a torturous loop over and over again.

There are murmurs outside my door which quickly fade away, only to return minutes later. The soft voices in the hall come more often, and I can’t help but feel that something is happening. My time is quickly running out.

My fingers bleed from trying to break through my binds, and by the time my wrists and ankles are red and raw, my bedroom door flies open, three of Giovanni’s men storming toward me. My eyes widen, and I let out a piercing scream as a blade catches in the light.

Fuck, I’m dead.

The guards bear down on me as sheer panic and terror take over me. I watch the guy with the knife as his friend grabs hold of me and presses his weight down. “GET OFF ME,” I scream, certain that I’m about to become a toy for them to pass around.

The third guard strides through to my private bathroom as the big one keeps holding me down, my eyes flicking from left to right. The one with the knife steps into my side and I watch him like a fucking hawk, waiting for the right time to bring my knee up and crush his nose back inside his skull, but it never comes. Instead, the sharp blade slices through my binds.

For a moment I stare in surprise, wondering if these are Gia’s men coming to take me back to her prison, but when the big guy grabs me and hauls me off my bed, all sense of false security falls from my mind.

I barely get my feet under me as he shoves me hard toward my private bathroom, jabbing me in my bruised ribs. “STOP,” I scream, fighting his hold, but my body is too weak, too heavy from whatever Giovanni shot into my neck. “GET OFF ME. LET ME GO.”

The asshole rears back and slaps me as I dig my nails into his face, then he shoves me through the bathroom door with a grunt of disgust. Hot steam flows through the room, and I hear the familiar sound of a shower. The biggest guard holds me still as the third man steps in behind me and grips the back of my training crop, tearing it down the center. While I struggle against my assailant's hold, desperate to keep the scrap of fabric in place across my chest, the third man fists the material of my shorts and slides his blade straight through them. The big guard rips the dangling scraps of clothing from my body until I'm bare in front of them.

All three of them look at my body with disgust before the big dude grips my arm and launches me into the scalding water. I try to scramble away from the burning water as the big dude glares at me, letting me know that the task he’s been given is clearly beneath him. “Bathe,” he spits. “You have two minutes.”

Not one of them goes to move, and humiliation washes over me as I commit their faces to memory, knowing that I will take sweet pleasure in ending their lives when the time is right. Having no choice, I quickly wash myself and shampoo my hair. Just when I think I’m done, a razor bounces across the floor of the shower, clattering against the tiles. “Shave,” the big guy says, his eyes sparkling with a silent, wicked laughter. “Everything.”

Clenching my jaw, I cower in the corner as I scoop up the razor, doing everything I can to keep my most private parts hidden. I drag the razor over my legs, trying hard not to think about what they’re preparing me for.

With humiliation brimming high in my chest, I make quick work of it, knowing damn well that if it were any of the boys I was preparing for, I would have put a lot more care and attention into it, but I honestly couldn’t give a fuck right now.

Insisting that I’ve been in the shower long enough, the dude who stripped me reaches in and grips my arm, yanking me back out, scoffing as I slip across the wet tiles. A towel falls over my head and I quickly collect it, wrapping it around me the best I can. “Can I pee, or do I need an audience for that too?” I snap.

Big dude waves his hand toward the toilet. “By all means, princess. Ain’t nobody stopping ya.”

Fucking hell.

If I thought I’d get a chance to pee later, I’d hold it, but it’s been hours, and my body is starting to ache. It’s well into the late afternoon and Giovanni took me in the early hours of the morning. I’ve already lost all sense of dignity after having these assholes standby to watch me shave, what else have I got to lose?

I make it quick, dropping down on the toilet and using the towel to cover me as I try to tune them out, but that’s easier said than done. Three sets of leering eyes are hard to ignore at the best of times, but when those leering stares are from assholes like this, all I want to do is slit each and every one of their throats.

Scrambling off the toilet, I quickly flush and pull the towel tighter around me. The big guy in charge grips my arm again, pulling me through the door and into the bedroom as my hair drips all over the shitty carpet. I’m thrown down against the bed as one of the guards moves into my closet and appears a moment later with a big box. He dumps it at my feet before pulling out a hair dryer and curling iron and thrusting them at me. He tips the box upside down, letting hair pins and makeup sprawl across the floor. “Get ready,” he says, looking at all the stuff as though he has no idea what any of it is actually for.

Letting out a huff, I rifle through the contents, knowing all too well that if I don’t look a particular way, I’m only going to be told to start again. I hesitantly rise and move across the room to the dresser, dumping everything on top of it and staring at myself through the mirror. The guards hover way too close, but as long as they keep their hands to themselves, this is a task I can oblige without argument.

After drying my long hair, I plug the curler into the outlet and picture how good it would feel to shove the searing hot tongs up each of their asses and burn them from the inside out, but then the smell of burning shit would probably scar me for a lifetime.

I make quick work of putting my hair up and slathering on a face that doesn’t reflect my own with false lashes and smokey eyeshadow. I don’t bother with lipstick, just put a soft gloss over my lips before brushing a light blush over my cheeks. I don’t put much effort into it, but they look at me with dead eyes, having no idea if what I’ve managed to achieve is actually considered good or not.

Turning to face them, I cross my arms over my towel-covered breasts. “What now?” I spit, not wanting to prolong the inevitable. The sooner I face my demons, the sooner I can figure out how to defeat them.

The guard who came in with the knife indicates toward my closet, and I see a white garment bag hanging over the open door. My stomach sinks.

A wedding dress.

“Fucking hell,” I mutter, shaking my head in understanding. “That asshole doesn’t waste any time.”