Chapter Six
Normandy kept her eyes closed tight, trying to forget about the rain of bullets and blood she’d been pulled from moments before. Large hands had dragged her from the apartment, from Michael’s abdomen, moments after he’d been shot. All she’d seen was the area around his body turning bright red as he’d bled out. Her scream still ricocheted through her head.
The first time she’d ever laid eyes on him, back when she was only twelve and he was fifteen, she’d fallen for him hook, line, and sinker. While all of her junior high friends were drooling over the latest boy band or Hollywood heartthrob, she’d been fascinated by the surly teenager who ran errands for her father. He’d come from southeast Missouri, dirt poor and full of anger, to the big city of St. Louis to live with his grandmother when his father was taken back to jail. On one of his trips back to Rider Pass, he’d become a member of the local motorcycle gang. He’d had a hard childhood and she thought she could make it all better with her love.
For a time, she thought she had.
Then, when he’d left her, she believed she had failed him. Failed being a wife, a lover, and his confidant. Failed at wiping out the past and making him happy. For two years she prayed that she wouldn’t receive divorce papers, afraid every time she went to the mailbox of what she’d find. Yet when she had nowhere else to go, her first thought had been to run to her erstwhile husband, but she had no way to get to Rider Pass, Missouri, so she headed to the nearest place she could think of. Puddin’s had been their secret special bar where no one would ever think she’d be hiding.
How did they find her?
And who were they?
Were they the same men who murdered her father and brothers? Did they come for her in order to wipe out the last of the DiLuca family? Her mind swirled with the enormity of what the past two days had wrought, and she wasn’t sure if she could handle one more thing. Fear, sadness, pain, anger … it all fused together to form a rock sitting in her belly. She no longer felt strong. She no longer felt like a proud woman, filled with confidence and drive. Now she wore dirty clothes with no underwear, no shoes, stuffed in the trunk of a car and headed to who knows where. Would her life also end at the end of the car ride? Did she even care at this point? Her family was dead. Michael was dead. Would it be cowardly of her to just follow them into death?
Tears leaked from her eyes, but she held back her sobs. The desire to just give up was tempting, much like the devil holding out his hand to help her up. For a long time, she wallowed in pity, until the car hit a few bumps. The jolts irritated her, causing her crying to come to an abrupt end, and only then did a few other things begin to bother her. The trunk carpet roughly rubbed her legs and some sort of metal object poked her hip. She shifted until she lay on her back and pushed the cylindrical rod away. A tire iron? Or a crowbar perhaps? Her fist closed around it as she thought about hitting the men who had killed Michael.
Just thinking his name caused her heart to hurt. She knew it always would.
The fear and sadness began to die away as fury heated her blood. The history of her father’s business made her realize the men who had come into the apartment with guns blazing were nothing more than lackeys to the person who had ordered the hit on her family. They were now taking her to that person and a crossroads was laid out before her, to take the path of giving up … or try to hurt the motherfucker who had killed everyone she cared about. She could almost hear Michael in her ear, yelling at her to fight. To avenge him, her father, and her brothers. He was the type of man who believed an eye for an eye, as well as fucking someone up who deserved it.
Her father believed that as well.
And she was her father’s daughter.
She brought the metal rod up to her chest to wait until she had the chance to use it. The assholes were going to be sorry sons-of-bitches when she got done with them. Some time later, the car came to a stop. The engine cut off. Car doors opened and closed. The tension snapped along every muscle as she waited for the trunk to open. Muffled voices grew louder as they neared the trunk.
As the lid popped open, Normandy jabbed the iron bar toward the nearest person. Satisfaction rushed through her as she felt the tip sink into flesh and heard the screech of pain. Using the moment of surprise, she tried to get out of the trunk as quickly as possible, but hands grabbed her arms. She swung the crowbar again, but the uninjured thugs grabbed hold of it and yanked it from her. She was plucked from the trunk as easily as an apple off a tree. Not giving up, Normandy leaned over and bit the hand holding onto her, and it released her with a howl of pain.
“Bitch!”
A fist came up to punch her.
“Stop!”
The man looked behind him and slowly lowered his arm. Normandy followed his line of sight and shock hit her between the eyes. Sweeney Barese stood there, with his pointy nose lifted slightly. She wanted to punch him so hard the damn thing would be shoved up into his brain. But she figured with a man so slimy, the nose would snap off under pressure and grow back like a damn severed lizard tail.
“It was you?” she asked. Her mind couldn’t process all the questions at once, so she went with an easy one.
“I knew there would be only one way to take over the full distribution of St. Louis,” Sweeney murmured. “The DiLuca family had to fall.”
“We had a peace agreement-”
“One my father failed to realize would limit our trade by forcing us to stay on the wrong side of the Mississippi.”
“Are you implying there aren’t any heroin addicts in Illinois?” she asked sarcastically.
“It’s not about numbers, my dear. It’s about distribution. The poorer the sections, the greater the dependence. Your father refused to grant me the route I wanted.”
“So you killed him?”
Sweeney shook his head sadly. “I’m sorry for your loss, but it had to be done.”
She tried to rush up to him, to smack the smug off his fat face, but the brute holding her back easily subdued her impulse. “My father had friends. You will not live long.”
“My dear, the unfortunate truth is that friends can be bought off.”
“I don’t believe you,” she whispered, shaking her head. “My father had loyalty.”
“And yet,” he said, opening his arms wide, “here you are. There are two reasons I spared your life, Normandy. The first was at the request of your father’s so-called loyal friend. The second was the fact that by bringing you into the Barese family, it cements my legitimate claim to the DiLuca trade route.”
“But … but…”
“Imagine my surprise when I learned of your husband.” He spat the words as if it offended him. “I had my men stake out your house until he showed up because I figured that would be the easiest way to find you. And I was right.”
“I. Will. Kill. You.” She vowed. “I will never marry you.”
Sweeney smiled. “I had no plans for you to marry me, my dear. You will marry Damon.”
“Never.”
“Time will tell.”
He nodded to the men holding her before turning and entering the house. She fought against them, but her puny attempts to break free were worthless against their brute strength. She was led up the steps and the front door slammed shut behind her.