Dubious (The Loan Shark Duet 1)

“They ripped off my clothes and held me down.”

Enough. I can’t stand it, but I can’t let it go, either. “What did he look like?”

“I kept my eyes closed. I couldn’t look.”

“Only the one?”

“Yes,” she says meekly.

I bite back my fury. “What happened after?”

“They left me.”

“How did you get home?”

“I woke up in an alley. It was dark.”

“You woke up?”

“They beat me. I must’ve passed out.”

God help me, I will tear their limbs from their bodies and make them swallow their dicks before I skin them alive.

“I tried to walk, but I was hurting and bleeding. I didn’t get far. That’s where my brother found me. When I didn’t get home, my mom got worried. She called my father. They started looking.”

“He took you home?”

She nods, exhaling a shaky breath. “Mom treated my wounds. I stayed home until the bruises were gone. My father said he’d find the men responsible.”

“Did he?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t want to remember. I didn’t want to ask.”

“Can you remember the date, Valentina?”

“Thirteenth of February.”

Two months later, her father died in the car crash, and her brother suffered brain damage. The mafia who was supposed to be their family rejected them, and here she is, on her knees in front of me. I hook my hands under her arms and lift her onto my lap, cradling her head against my chest.

“They’re going to pay.”

The tenseness eases somewhat from her small frame as she sits in my arms, allowing me to soothe her and keep her safe.

I kiss the top of her head. “I won’t let anyone ever hurt you, again.”

For the first time in my life, I have no desire to take cuddling further than holding a woman in my arms. There’s satisfaction greater than the high I get from sex in providing her with strength and protection. Even better is that she allows me take care of her, to be the man for her I couldn’t yet be for any woman.

We sit together like this for a long time. My only desire is to carry her upstairs and lay her down on my bed, to hold her until the day breaks, but it’s close to eleven, and Carly will be home soon.

My thought is scarcely cold when the front door bursts open, and Carly flies through it, sobs and tears following in her wake as she runs through the entrance and up the stairs. Valentina jerks in my arms. She scurries off my lap as fast as I’m trying to get to my feet with my useless leg. She looks at me with wide eyes, concern etched on her face.

“She hasn’t seen us,” I say.

I have to leave Valentina to go after my daughter. If that dickhead of a pretty college boy touched her, he’ll get what he deserves. On the landing, I hear her door slam. My hip aches as I rush to her bedroom.

“Carly?” I call, knocking on the door.

“Go away.”

I try the knob. It’s locked. Her sobs reach me through the wood.

“Open the door, Carly.”

“I said go away!”

“If you don’t open this door right now I’m going to break it down.”

“I don’t care. I don’t give a damn.”

“Carly!” I’m more worried than angry, but it’s the anger that sounds in my voice. “You have three seconds.”

“Go to hell.”

That’s it. I take a few steps back and get ready to charge. I’m about to throw my weight against the door when Valentina comes running up the stairs.

“Gabriel!” She grabs my arm. “What are you doing?”

“Stay out of this.”

“You’ll scare her.”

It’s the plea in her eyes that makes me pause. I don’t want to frighten Carly, but my fatherly instincts are in overdrive.

I drag my hands though my hair. “Something’s wrong.”

My concern is mirrored on Valentina’s face. Maybe it’s the subject we discussed just before Carly’s turbulent entry, but we’re thinking the same thing.

Valentina walks to the door and taps gently on it. “Carly? Are you all right? Your dad’s really worried about you. Please come out and talk to him before he does something stupid.”

A hiccup and a snort-laugh comes from inside.

Laughing is good. Whatever happened can’t be that bad.

“I don’t feel like cleaning up the mess he’s about to make,” Valentina continues, “not to mention facing your grandmother when he wakes her up with the noise.”

The mention of Magda does it. Footsteps approach the door. The key turns. The door opens on a crack, and Carly’s tear-streaked face appears around the frame, black mascara smeared under her eyes and her hair a mess. I have to clench teeth, hands, and muscles not to shove the door open, and march into her room.

Carly sniffs and looks between Valentina and me. “I don’t want to talk about it, Dad. Go to bed.”

“Not until you tell me what’s wrong.”

“Nothing.”

I motion at her face. “This doesn’t look like nothing.”