Morelli will soon learn you don’t poke a bear.
This bear will rip his fucking heart out and not feel one ounce of remorse.
I’d rather sit my ass in jail for eternity than let him get the upper hand.
“Scout!” he bellows, charging out of his office after me. “Stop!”
Screeching to a halt, I turn on my heel and wait until he’s inches from me. I tower over the man and I let him feel every bit of my rage, pulsating from me like fiery heat from a volcano about to erupt.
“You will stand the fuck down, old man, while we work on getting her back.” I sneer at him. “Understood?”
“Or what?”
“I will go to the police or the motherfucking FBI,” I warn, spittle flying from my lips and showering his face. “Or maybe I should just tattle to your sons. Let them know what a monster their senile daddy is. What do you think they’d do to you, hmm? Are they loyal dogs?”
His face blanches and I know I’ve hit him where it hurts.
“You pulled the trigger too soon,” I spit out. “Because you were pissed at Leo for intervening. You’re going to pay for that mistake.”
“Now listen here, son—”
“I’m not your son. I am done with you. You will back the fuck away or I will expose every nasty secret in your life. And, Bryant?”
His jaw clenches. “What?”
“If Landry’s father hurts her because of your stunt, I will hurt you in kind. An eye for an eye, motherfucker.”
Chapter Nineteen
Landry
Yesterday was a nightmare.
My fantasy nothing more than a rug being yanked out from beneath me. Today is reality. Cold, bitter, lonely. I wallowed all night in my sadness, but today my senses are sharpened with the pain from the assault. Bruises mar my lower back, ass, and thighs making me wince every time I sit down or move. Anger at my situation is slowly replacing fear, infecting my every cell with bitterness.
We deserve a better life than this.
Sure, we have endless amounts of money.
Money means nothing to me. I would rather have not a single dime and be happy than be forced to live another second with a wealthy monster.
Della needs me to be strong.
I need me to be strong.
Which is why, rather than curling into a tiny ball, crying my eyes out, I’ve straightened my spine and made a promise to myself.
I’m going to get us out of here. The first step is getting out of this room. I have to stop feeling sorry for myself. These bruises hurt, but I can’t let it stop me. There will always be bruises with Dad. There will never be a good time. I have to act.
He’ll go to work eventually. And when he does, we’ll bolt. I can do something extreme like set the kitchen on fire. The security guys will be forced to evacuate us. Making the slip would be easier then. I’d just have to run like hell.
I have to get access to the kitchen first.
Unfortunately, that means biding my time. I’ll play Dad’s games, keeping Della as safe as possible, until the time is right. I won’t be afraid. Not like before. Staying with the triplets taught me something. That we’re capable of being loved and cared for without malice.
I want those guys back.
I will get them back.
When I got out of my shower earlier, I found several things on my bed. A beautiful dress, matching undergarments, and a killer pair of shoes. My makeup and hair stuff was also returned to me. The note Dad left me angered me and I wanted to rip it to shreds.
Dinner tonight with some important people. Prove to me you’re not the whore from yesterday and an actual lady. Perhaps you’ll be treated like one.
I finish the last of my makeup and walk over to my full-length mirror. It took a lot of concealer to hide all the hickeys on my neck, but I eventually made it work. The dress fits me like a glove. Seductive red, formfitting, but also still chaste enough that it hides my cleavage and hits my knees. The black Jimmy Choos give me several inches on my height. With my blond hair straight and smoothed down coupled with my flawless makeup and daring shade of red on my dress, I appear to be fierce. Not some demure toy meant to be paraded around like a show pony.
Beneath the silky material of my dress and panties, bruises tell the real story. The slight wince every time I move or sit reveals Dad has attempted to break his toy. Despite how much it hurts, I refuse to be broken.
I have claws.
Rage inside me is the color of my dress.
Fiery. Volcanic. Explosive.
A knock at the door has me lifting my chin and tightening every muscle in my body. The door creaks open and Dad steps in, immaculate in a bespoke navy suit. His eyes rake over me, scrutinizing every detail.