Sordid (Sordid 1)

Luka shook his head as he marched behind my chair and shoved me back up to the table. “I can handle her.”

As he dropped down into his seat beside me, my hands clenched into fists on the armrests and my fingernails dug into my palms. The pain kept me centered and my vision from going red. I’d never been so embarrassed or humiliated in my life.

“Fine. I’ll help you make your point with her,” Dimitrije said. He turned and called out through the arched doorway which lead to the kitchen. “Michael.”

Luka’s voice was tight. “It’s not necessary.”

But it was too late. A brawny-looking man appeared, who seemed to have a permanent scowl on his face and ears too large for his head. He wore slacks, a black polo shirt, and a gray sport coat. When Dimitrije summoned him, he stood right beside his boss’s chair, looking alert and wary.

“Take out your gun,” Dimitrije said, “and set it on the table.”

Michael didn’t hesitate. He reached inside his coat and produced a very black and very scary looking gun. It had heft to it, because it made a deep thud when it was set down with the barrel pointed toward me.

“Do you have a family—” Dimitrije glanced at his son. “What did you say her name was again?”

Luka stared blankly at the weapon. “Addison.”

His father resumed his focus on me. “Do you have a family, Addison?”

My vocal cords pulled as tight as piano wire. “Yes.”

“Good,” he said. “That’s good. Family is important.” I didn’t miss his thinly veiled threat. He set his elbows on the table and leaned forward. “I don’t know what you think happened, and I don’t really give a shit, but you should know I’m not going to let you put my family in jeopardy.”

His face was menacing and almost as scary as the gun that rested between him and Luka. Dimitrije’s gaze was consuming, and the walls of the dining room closed in.

“If you try to destroy my family,” his voice was a low growl, “be assured I’ll return the favor. My family owns Chicago. There’s no escaping. You can’t hide from us.” His head cocked to the side as he scrutinized his son. “And you should keep in mind, Addison,” the long, drawn-out way he said my name was chilling, “Luka is particular. Do what he says, or I’ll make him put a bullet in you.”

The emotional impact was so strong, so overpowering, my shoulders collapsed under the weight. I couldn’t look at anyone, and although my eyes filled with tears, I tipped my head up to the chandelier and blinked them back. I willed the tears back into my body by shear force. Crying wouldn’t help my situation. It would only waste time, and give both of the Markovic men more power over me.

I was smarter. I would survive them.

The final word was a sneering challenge from Luka’s father. “Understood?”

My teeth locked tight together as I pinned my gaze on Luka. I said nothing with words, but hoped my determined look was enough for Dimitrije to receive my confirmation. Luka wouldn’t meet my unforgiving gaze. He sat motionless with a blank expression, not even blinking.

“Fine,” his father snapped. “Michael.” He gestured for the gun to be removed, and then asked for dinner to be served.

I had no appetite, but a meal was placed before me, and Luka ordered me to eat. I did, only so I could keep my strength, but my brain refused to acknowledge the taste. The men spent most of the dinner speaking in the foreign language. Tori drank three glasses of wine and picked at her nails that were painted a garish orange-red.

The gun was gone, but I still felt its looming presence.

My skin had hardened into a shell and I retreated inside until the horrible dinner was over. I didn’t fight Luka’s hand on me as he grasped my wrist and dragged me up the stairs. My feet shuffled over the carpet in the hallway and into the room he’d been keeping me in. It wasn’t until the door was shut that I came back to life, and Luka seemed to fall apart.

His hand remained on the doorknob, his head turned away from me. “Jesus fucking Christ, Addison. I told you not to say anything.” His face was a mystery to me. He looked both angry and relieved at the same time. “Are you all right?”

Was he serious? And . . . when did he start caring about that? He’d hit me so hard, I still felt the dull heat on my skin.

When I had no response, he let go of the door and encased me in his arms. “You don’t know how dangerous that was. I’m sorry if I upset you, but you didn’t leave me a lot of options.”

I pushed his arms away, but they came back, stronger and persistent. They kept me captive in his embrace and pressed the length of my body against his.