Текст книги "Sins & Secrets"

Автор книги: Jessica Sorensen

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Sins & Secrets
Sins – 1
Jessica Sorensen

Seduction & Temptation
 (Sins, #0.5)

Prologue

This day is turning out to be the strangest day of all days. It all started when I overheard my mother and father fighting, which is nothing new. My father had said something about giving up on my mother, making me worry that they’re going to get a divorce. Then the mafia families showed up, one of which was my dad’s sworn enemy and they locked themselves in my house and Layton and I out. I’m desperate to see what’s going on; desperate to know what on earth they could all be doing together.

“What do you think they’re doing in there? Something illegal I bet,” I say to my best friend, Layton Everett, as I try to peer through the window. The wooden box I’m standing on is wobbly and the window is so high up that, even on my tiptoes, I can’t see anything except the tops of people’s heads through the window.

Layton shrugs, glancing nervously around the backyard. “I don’t know Lola, and honestly, I don’t really care.”

I peek over my shoulder at him. “Your dad and mom are in there, too, you know. You have to be curious what they’re doing. All of them under one roof together. It’s weird”

“Not really.” He shakes his head and stuffs his hands into his pockets.

Layton is unlike most of the fourteen-year-old guys I know. He acts older, more mature. Even though I won’t admit it to him, it’s one of the things I like about him the most—that he acts more grown up and takes care of me and is always there for me when I get myself into trouble, which I’ll admit, is a lot.

The longer I stare at him, the more uneasy he becomes. He constantly has trouble telling me no, especially when I give him “the look.”

“Lola, please don’t look at me like that,” he says with a sigh. “I know you want to know what they’re doing in there, but…” He massages the back of his neck tensely. “Didn’t you notice they were all carrying guns?”

I shrug as I hop off the box and dust the dirt off my hands. “They’re always carrying guns. That’s what they do.”

“Yeah, but…” He seems way too tense, even for him, as he looks around the yard again. There are so many places for someone to hide back here. The yard is over-flourished with trees, shrubbery, a small vineyard, and acres and acres of flowers and grass; so I don’t get what he’s expecting to see.

Sighing, he leans in and lowers his voice, his silver-grey eyes filled with worry. “They’re all in there together. My dad and mom, your mom, your dad, Frankie and his guys, even the Defontelles are in there. There has to be something going on—something dangerous. You know they just don’t meet up like that.” He swallows hard. “In fact, the last time they were all in the same building together, people got killed.”

“How do you know that?” I wonder. I rarely know anything about my mother and father’s business world, and what I do know is from digging around; drug lords, dealings, bodyguards, guns—they’re always carrying them—stuff that I’m sure is illegal.

“My dad tells me stuff.” He looks sad as he says it, too. Without saying another word, he grabs me by the elbow and guides me over to the trees, away from the house. Once we’re hidden in the shadows, he lets go of me then sits down on the ground and stares at the land. “Sometimes I wish he wouldn’t.”

Confused, I sit down beside him and crisscross my legs. “Sometimes you wish he wouldn’t what?”

He picks at the grass. “Tell me stuff… I hate hearing about it… hearing about what I’m going to have to grow up to be.”

“You don’t have to be anything but what you want to be.” I grab his hand and hold onto it.

He shakes his head, staring down at our fingers laced together. “I have to, Lola. I don’t have another choice. It’s my destiny, or whatever, to live here, die here, and do exactly what my father does.” He seems even older at the moment; an adult trapped in a teenager’s body.

I sit there, listening to the wind blow, the grass dancing with the breeze. “We could always run away together,” I suggest. “You and I. If they can’t find you, they can’t make you take over the family business.”

He glances up at me, and for the briefest instant, he looks like he’s considering it, but then he frowns. “If I ran away from it, then it’d all fall on my brother’s shoulders. And could you imagine Benton in charge of things…?” He laughs, but it sounds completely off pitch, completely wrong. “That’d be a mess in the making. God, he’d probably get himself killed in a day.”

“He could change. He’s only twelve right now.” Layton gives me a sad look, however before he can protest, I add, “Just think about it.”

He hesitates then nods. “Okay, I will.”

I don’t believe him. Layton is the most loyal person I know, and I doubt he’ll ever actually run away and bail out on his family. Me? I don’t really have anything to run away from. My father’s business will go to his younger brother when he dies, not me.

“We should go do something fun.” I give Layton’s hand a squeeze.

“Like what?”

“I don’t know… maybe go downtown and see what kind of trouble we can get into.” I smile the smile I know he can’t say no to.

He tries to restrain a grin, but it eventually slips through. Then he gets up and pulls me to my feet. We start to walk back toward the house, holding hands, Layton’s mood lightening with each step.

“We should do this all the time,” he remarks, giving my hand a swing.

“Hold hands?” I question. “But then, wouldn’t people think we were like dating or something?”

He shrugs. “So what if they did?”

I look at him, wondering if he’s kidding. He seems dead serious, though, which confuses the shit out of me. I mean, we’ve been best friends for almost forever. And yeah, he’s cute and everything, with dark hair and gorgeous eyes—a lot of the girls at my school have crushes on him—yet I’ve never thought of him that way. I’ve never thought of anyone that way honestly, mainly because my mother has told me time and time again that I’m not allowed to date. Sometimes she gets so intense about me just being around guys that I swear she hates men.

I’m about to slip my hand out of Layton’s when I suddenly hear a scream. My head whips in the direction it’s coming from—the front area of the house.

“Just wait a minute,” Layton says with worry, but I’m already jerking my hand out of his and running for the front gate. “Lola, wait! You can’t just…” He trails off as he rounds the side of the house, just steps behind me.

I’ve stopped dead in my tracks. My mother is laying in the driveway, my father holding her lifeless body in his arms. I race over to them without thinking, tears already pouring out of my eyes.

“What happened?” I ask my father, the gasps in my voice alarming, unfamiliar. There’s no blood, no wounds on her. Her eyes are open and vacant while her lips are slightly parted and tinted blue.

He’s rocking her as he cradles her head in his arms. “She’s dead… I think she had a heart attack.”

“Call the ambulance then!” I cry, sinking to my knees. “Dad…” Oh, God, it hurts so much. I can’t breathe. The pain… I’ve never felt anything like it.

“Lola, it’s too late,” my father says with watery eyes as he nuzzles his cheek against the top of her head. "She's dead.”

I want to shout at him for giving up on her so soon. For not holding on. For letting whatever happened to her happen.

“I’ll call 911,” Layton says from behind me before I can start yelling at my father.

More tears pour from my eyes and I feel like I’m drowning in them. “Don’t give up on her, Dad. Don’t let her go.” I know that’s not what he meant when they’d been arguing this morning, but still, he needs to try harder. “Fucking hold onto her!” I scream.

His face drains of color as his eyes widen. His lips part to say something, but then he presses them together and starts to cry. Strangely, his eyes remain tearless, though.

I remain kneeling on the driveway in front of the house, confused, hurting, the pain crushing me, and I feel as though my world is shattering around me. I can barely see anything through the tears, but I do notice when Frankie Catherlson comes walking out of my house with his men. He doesn’t say a word to my father, just heads for his SUV parked amongst a line of similar ones. As he’s getting inside the passenger seat, he glances over his shoulder at me and gives me this look. It’s not quite a smile, yet it seems like he wants to, and then… he fucking winks at me.

My blood burns. My temper simmers. I start to rise to my feet to… Well, I’m not sure just yet. However, as I start to walk over there, Layton’s arms wrap around me. “Stay here, Lola.”

“I want to punch that grin off his face,” I growl, glaring at the back of the SUV. “He had something to do with this… I want to rip his throat out, Layton.” I’m shocked at my words, so venomous and full of hatred. So unlike me.

“Lola, calm down. It’s going to be okay. I promise. Just calm down, please, and let me take care of you.” He kisses the back of my head as I tremble from head to toe. Layton continues to hold me, saying things I can’t hear through the strange, strangled noise my father is making. I want to sit down by him, yet I can’t bring myself to take my eyes off Frankie’s SUV. I’m not sure what happened, but something tells me he had a hand in it.

After minutes go by, my legs grow weak against the shock settling in my body. I’m about to collapse into Layton’s arms when his father and mother come hurrying out of my house.

“Layton, get over here,” his father, Mr. Everett, barks at him, snapping his fingers. His father has never been a nice man, but he and my father have a decent relationship. Although, as he dismisses my father and dead mother in the driveway, all I see is an enemy.

“I promise I’ll be back in just a second,” Layton whispers in my ear, then his arms leave me and he heads over to his father.

I feel incredibly cold, incredibly weak, incredibly unstable, and I have no choice except to sink to the ground and watch in horror, anger—many different emotions—as Layton’s father orders him to get in the car with Frankie and then climbs in himself. As Layton gives me one last look as he gets in the back, his expression is filled with terror, sorrow, and remorse.

Then the door shuts, and moments later, the SUVs are pulling away. One by one, they leave me in the driveway with my father and dead mother, the sounds of screeching tires and ambulance sirens filling the air.

Chapter 1

Seven years later…

My day has been mellow for the most part, a rare but welcomed occasion. Ever since my mother died, good days are far and few between. But today seems so good it’s left me hoping that perhaps it would continue.

I wake up with no hangover, even after partying way too hard the night before. Then I manage to avoid my bodyguards, which is going to get me into trouble when I got home. But I’m in desperate need of some alone time to clear my head, so I sneak out and head to the cemetery to put flowers on my mama’s grave. Then I have a nice, long, one-sided conversation with the engraved stone. It’s something I’ve been meaning to do for a few weeks now, ever since I found the letter.

That goddamn letter that had flipped my already chaotic life upside down even more than it already was. I’d found it hidden in one of my mother’s jacket pockets while I was cleaning out her closet, something that should have been done a long time ago, but I had been holding on to the stuff that belonged to her.

It was written by my mama to a man named Everson Milantes, divulging to him that she thinks I might be his daughter, not the man I thought was my father and who had raised me for the last twenty-one years. The letter was never sent, probably because my mama passed away before she ever got the chance. It was strangely dated the night before she died—the night before I found my father holding her lifeless body in the driveway from what the paramedics declared a heart attack.

The letter changed everything in an instant—myself, my life, my father, my mother—which is exactly what I decide to tell the gravestone.

“I just don’t understand,” I say as I kneel down in the dirt, grasping a bouquet of sunflowers in my hand—my mother’s favorite flower. “Why did you never tell me… I thought you told me everything.” Which always seemed true when I was younger. To me, we’d always had more of a sisterly relationship than a mother/daughter one, which was good in the sense that it made up for me not having any siblings. We so open, without secrets, or at least, that’s what I had thought. But now, well, the letter unfortunately was just a number on an ever-growing list of secrets that I’d been discovering since my mother left this world, her death something that still haunts me to this day.

“I’m starting to wonder what else you didn’t tell me. What other lies I’m going to find out. There’ve been so many… And with the way you died… It’s just so hard to accept that it was a heart attack. I just want some answers to what happened that day.” I shake my head as tears start to sting my eyes. I refuse to go down that road again, a one-way road I was stuck on from the ages of fourteen to sixteen when I wouldn’t let my mother go. I became obsessed with why she died, refusing to believe anything. Even though I still don’t believe the lies, I have moved on because it was killing me inside.

And I think it’s time to do it again, to let go and move on, just in a different way.

I glance around the empty cemetery; the grass covered in headstones, the trees flourishing with leaves. It’s a beautiful, summer day, yet I feel so cold inside—so hollow. Just like this place. I simply want to get away, be somewhere else, and even though it sounds crazy, I swear the wind whispers that it’s okay to go.

Sighing, I set the flowers down in front of her headstone and kiss the tips of my fingers before pressing them to the stone, silently telling her what I think may be my final good-bye. Then I get to my feet and head out of the cemetery; not to my car, but to the park down the street. I need more time to think, to process, to work up the courage to finally do what I’ve wanted to do since I found the letter, maybe even before that. I think part of me has always wanted to do it since the day I suggested it to Layton, to just up and move. To leave everything behind. My life. My friends. My family and all the money and connections that come along with it. To run away.

I’ve been living a life of lies and deceit for too long, and I want to start over and perhaps go find this Everson guy, find out what he knows about the letter; if he knows I may be his daughter. I’m curious what he looks like, who he is, what kind of person he was and is now. Is he like my father, good to his family but his morals and choices perhaps a little twisted and dangerous, or does he simply live a quiet, boring life? I did some searching around for him, however I didn’t find out anything. The only thing I have is the address on the envelope the letter was in, but that was from over six years ago.

After wandering around for about an hour, I finally gather enough strength to go back to my car to go home and pack up my shit. I turn around and cross the grass toward the exit area of the park. Although, right as I’m stepping out of the security of the gated area and onto the sidewalk beside the street, a sleek, black, and very expensive SUV with tinted windows pulls up to the curb.

I know this life well enough to know what’s behind those doors—I’ve been warned by my father since I was five and seen firsthand what kind of people drive around in them. They are the type of men who are the reason I usually have bodyguards with me.

I whirl around to run, but I barely have time to react as two very large, bulky men wearing black suits and sunglasses, all Men in Black-like, jump out of the car and come barreling at me. I open my mouth to scream, yet they grab me by the arms and one of them slaps a hand over my mouth, right there in broad daylight, which means they have nothing to fear. And no fear means they have connections, probably to one of my dad’s many enemies. The question is, which one? It might not seem important, but at the moment, it’s more important than breathing. Who it is could be the difference of whether I’ll walk out of this alive.

I have hardly any time to come up with an answer, though, as I’m roughly forced into the backseat of the car. As I land face first, bumping my head onto the roof, I try to get a few kicks in, but my struggles are effortless. Before I know it, I have a bag over my head, my hands are tied behind my back, and the car is speeding off.

“Who the hell are you?” I growl through the dark fabric, hoping for someone to reply, then maybe I can figure out who it is. However, the only thing I get in response is a low chuckle and a brush of a finger up my bare thigh to the edge of my shorts. When their hand slips up the front of me and cops a feel of my breast, the touch stands the hair on the back of my neck on end and my stomach churns. I vow to myself that, if I get out of this, I’m going to make the fucker pay.

Instead of causing more drama, I bite down on my lip and force myself to stay silent and remain still. This is what I have been taught to do as a defense mechanism. The last thing I need is to piss the wrong person off or get so worked up I can’t think clearly. It’s in the Preparation for When Kidnapped Handbook, and I’m not talking metaphorically. There was an actual handbook, given to me by my father on my eighth birthday.

“Lolita, nothing will ever conquer you if you don’t show any fear,” my daddy said as I’d torn the wrapping paper off the present then frowned at the thin leather-bound book inside. “In our world, never show fear. Never let it own you. Always be strong or else you won’t survive. This book will teach you to do just that.” It was a family heirloom, and honestly, I’d thought he was insane, but I still read it. I wanted to make him proud, up until my mother passed away. After that, our relationship turned rocky.

Now, I can’t help thinking how right he was, though. Fear is the enemy. Fear is making my head foggy, making me think irrational ideas like throwing myself forward and trying to escape blind. Crying. Screaming. I need a level head if I’m going to accomplish anything.

Deep breaths.

Stay calm.

Breathe.

Twenty minutes later, I’m still sitting in the backseat of the car, squeezed between the two sweaty, smelly men. My heart’s racing in my chest, despite how much I’m telling it to shut the fucking hell up. I try to steady my breathing, stable my heart rate, inhale through my nose and exhale through my mouth, let my muscles unravel. Think of something relaxing. Reading… sleeping… taking a bath… They all seem okay, somewhat relaxing, but if I’m honest with myself, I need to think of something that actually relaxes me—the real me, the one hardly anyone knows. Drinking… shots… beating the shit out of the guy beside me… sex… hot, sweaty sex. It might be messed up, yet it makes me feel the slightest bit content.

After I get about as calm as I can—still somewhat jittery, though, and with way too much adrenaline pumping through my bloodstream—I sink back in the seat and assess what I can about my surroundings.

The engine is humming and I can hear the sound of the wind, which means the car’s moving and the windows are rolled down. I think about the weapons I have on me. Brass knuckles and mace in my purse, but I dropped it when the guys grabbed me back at the park. I do have a small knife in a holster hidden inside my boot, but how the hell am I supposed to get it out when my hands are bound and I can’t see a damn thing?

Turning my head to the side, I strain to see through the bag. The sunlight faintly slips through the fabric, and I can make out the top of one of the guy’s heads beside me. I wonder if he’s watching me; if he’s thinking about touching me again. I want to rip his hand off for touching me already.

I’m evaluating my options—keep sitting, try to fight blind, cause a scene—when the car comes to a screeching halt. I hear the driver mutter something, then a door opens and the guy to the side of me gets out. I start to let out a breath of relief, but then he either climbs back in or someone else takes his place.

Moments later, the scent of cologne and cigarettes grace my nostrils. I realize there’s definitely someone different sitting next to me since the previous guy stank like BO. There’s something very familiar about the scent, too… I know it from somewhere. I try to think of all the parties I’ve attended, the “family gatherings.” Is that why the person smells familiar? Have I met them at one of those perhaps?

I feel the person shift in the seat and I cringe as their warm breath caresses my cheek. “Just calm down, Lola,” they whisper softly as I clench my hands into fists. Then, their finger brushes the inside of my wrist, a comforting gesture only one person in my life has ever used on me, and suddenly I realize who it is. “Everything will be okay.”

Boy, oh, boy, do I know that voice. What’s more, now I know just how much trouble I’m in, who’s behind the kidnapping, and how slim things are looking for me ever seeing the light of day again. Dead—I’m pretty sure that’s how I’m going to end up.

Sitting beside me is Layton Everett, a guy who used to be my best friend when we were younger, but now he works for my family’s enemy, the Catherlson. Frankie is their leader, the guy who grinned and winked at me the day my mother died. He has despised my father more than any other drug lord on the east coast and has been trying to set my father up and get him killed. He even put a hit on my father once when I was about seven, but it was quickly taken off when my father retaliated, which has always made me question why the hell Frankie was at my house the day my mother died. Of course, I’m not supposed to know any of this, however the house I grew up in had cathedral ceilings that caused every conversation to carry throughout the rooms and hallways.

“I should have known you had something to do with this,” I say spitefully to Layton. My words carry no truth to them, though. Even after my mother died, Layton and I still remained friends for quite a while. He never would tell me why he got into the car with Frankie that day or what his father said to him. And about a week after the funeral, all was well in our drug lord world again. Mr. Everett and my father were friends once more, both despising Frankie Catherlson. No more strange meetings were held.

All was right in our crazy, mad world, up until a couple of months ago when I heard from one of my few female friends that Layton had shown up at a party with Frankie’s men. He didn’t even have the balls to tell me himself, nor did he offer me any explanation when I confronted him, nor have we talked since. I’ll admit, part of my anger stems from the fact that I’ve always believed Frankie had something to do with my mother’s death, and Layton knows my theory, even though he doesn’t believe it.

“Lola, don’t start with me, please,” Layton warns, his fingers leaving my wrist. “You’re only going to get yourself into trouble if you get that mouth of yours going.”

“Fuck you.” I lean into him, lifting my leg and moving my foot around until I find his shin, and then I kick as hard as I can. “You traitor.”

“Dammit, Lola,” he curses, jerking his leg away from mine. “Stop acting like a psychopath.”

“Stop acting like a psychopath? Are you serious?” I’d gape at him, but it’d be pointless since he can’t see my face beneath the bag. “I got picked up while I was innocently walking in the park, felt up by a middle-aged man with the worst combover I’ve ever seen, then bound and thrown into the back of a car, and now you show up and what? Expect me to act sane? I’m not even sane when everything’s fine. You know that.”

There’s a pause. “Innocently walking in the park,” he mumbles, his voice dripping with playful sarcasm, the tone he used to use with me all the time. “I highly doubt that. You’re never doing anything innocently.”

He’s right, but I’m not about to admit that to him. “Where are you taking me?” I ask, slumping back in the seat, pissed off that I feel more relax about this situation now that he’s sitting here beside me. He’s always had that way about him; which was fine when we were friends, but now it just makes the situation more dangerous. It makes me more trusting towards someone who’s my enemy. Remember who he is now. “I’m assuming to Frankie, but I’m wondering why. Did he decide to finish the rest of my family off?”

“Lola, please don’t start with that,” Layton begs. “Your mother died of a heart attack. You need to accept that.”

“Keep her quiet, Layton,” a deep voice advises from the front seat.

It takes Layton a second to answer, the rhythm of his breathing surprisingly unsteady for him. “It has to do with your father,” he says quietly. “He’s in trouble.”

My entire body goes rigid, my already amped-up adrenaline skyrocketing. “What does Frankie want with my father this time? Money? Drugs? Revenge? More Anelli blood on his hands? Usually he’s more set on getting my father killed, not kidnapping his daughter, but I guess his many failed attempts have probably made him desperate.”

Another maddening pause from Layton, then I feel him slant closer to me, his body heat potently familiar. “It’s not what Frankie wants from your father, but what he wants from you, which is for you to pay your father’s debt.”

“Debt?” I’m thrown off by this bit of information and my voice comes out way louder than intended. “Since when does my dad owe Frankie anything?"

“Since he came to him to borrow money about six months ago.” He pauses while I try to wrap my mind around the idea, yet it doesn’t make sense.

“But we’re wealthy…” I try to argue. “What did he need the money for?"

“I’m not sure exactly.” His voice is tight, tense.

“What aren’t you telling me?”

He sighs heavy-heartedly. “Look, Lolita, your father’s in some serious trouble. And I mean really big trouble. ”

“Don’t call me that,” I mutter, loathing that he used the full name my mother used to call me all the time. Ever since she died, it doesn’t feel right for anyone to use it. “It’s Lola. And what sort of trouble? Tell me what’s going on.”

“Keep her damn mouth shut, Layton,” the same person warns again, and this time, I recognize the baritone voice. Tony Madman Makafee, one of Frankie’s guards, the one who does his “dirty work.”

Shit. I’m now officially dirty work. This is bad. Worse than what I originally thought. People who go with Tony not only never ever seen again, but get tortured in the most painful ways possible until they take their last breath.

“What does Frankie want from me?” I whisper to Layton, scooting closer to him on the seat until our shoulders and legs our touching.

Layton blows out a stressed breath, and I can almost visualize him running his hands through his hair, like he used to do all the time whenever I was making him anxious. “Lolita, please just be quiet.” He gently puts a hand on my leg. “This will all be over soon, and if you cooperate, then it should go smoothly.”

“I told you to stop calling me that.” I jerk my knee out from under his hand. “And I highly doubt this is going to go smoothly. In fact, I’m guessing this is probably the last time you and I will talk ever again. And the last time I’ll be breathing.”

“You think I’m going to kill you?” He sounds so shocked and appalled.

“Maybe not you, but I know that’s Tony up there, and he’s infamous for his whacks.”

“Lola, I would never let that happen to you. I swear to God, I’d kill myself before I’d kill you, and it hurts that you don’t know that.”

“You’re letting me be here,” I snap. “Bound and blindfolded in the backseat of the car. That’s not any better—”

“God fucking dammit, Layton! I told you to shut her the fuck up!” Tony growls. I hear the sound of fabric brushing against leather, then the light through the mask dims.

“Tony, that’s not necessary.” There’s an edge to Layton’s tone. His body heat is suffocating me as he slants nearer to me, our shoulders pressing together and his arm aligning with mine, our fingers inches apart. If I didn’t know better, I’d guess he was trying to comfort me. However I do know better. I won’t make the mistake thinking Layton will put me before his job and the duty he feels toward his family. “She’ll be quiet.”

“I already gave her three chances,” Tony replies. I hear him climb over the seat. Moments later, he plops down beside me so close his knee is crushing against mine. “This way’s a lot easier.”

“What way?” I flinch back, trying to get away from Tony and closer to Layton. “Don’t fucking touch me, douche bag, or I swear to God—”

Before I can finish the sentence, a needle pricks my forearm then enters my vein. Shit, this isn’t… good…

“Layton… help…” I hate the plea in my voice, but I have no other option at the moment. I’m slipping out of consciousness. I’ll be more helpless than I ever have… weak… “Please… do… something…”

And he does. He catches me as I fall back and black out.