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Empire The Cartel 3 - Lili St. Germain Dokument: pdf 1. Same goes for vengeful beasts. Slept in his bed, sewn up his wounds, tasted his blood, seen inside his soul. I was the mistress of a monstrous man. Dornan Ross, vice-president of one of the most feared biker gangs in the United States. Son of the most powerful drug kingpin along the West Coast.
His dead eyes haunted her as they stared in her direction. She could still hear his voice in her head, terrorizing her, telling her that she would never escape, and she felt nothing but utter hopelessness, because she knew that no one even knew where to begin looking for her. Without food she was weak, but she knew that she could not give into death.
She had to make it out of this alive.
She had come too far to die now. All I have to do is hold on. Someone will come, she thought. They have to.
She sucked on the wet dirt beneath her to provide herself with some type of water. It was all that her body was surviving on, but she knew that it would not be enough for her to make it much longer. Being trapped beneath the steel and concrete was like being buried alive. Physically, she knew that she was injured, but she blocked out the pain as she tried to keep her mind strong. She knew that once her will disappeared she would die, so she tried her best to remain calm. I loved him so much that he became a part of me.
I loved him despite his darkness, despite the impossibility of us ever being able to have a real life together. I fucking worshipped the man. But false Gods always betray your devotion eventually. They peel off their mask, and you stare at a stranger. They are the shark and you are the prey, and you wonder how you ever thought you could trust them not to devour you on sight.
Covered in tattoos, smoking, the crest of his brotherhood inked on the flesh above his heart.
That tattoo was hidden from public view as we stood side by side on the Santa Monica Pier and watched his daughter and my kind-of-not-really stepson ride the Ferris wheel, two teenagers clearly experiencing the first stages of love.
Fifteen and sixteen.
Junkie mother. A father who presided over criminals and murderers. Despite her beginnings, she still had traces of the naivety that summer love and an overprotective daddy provided.
She still slept soundly at night, from what I could gather. Beside me, leaning against the railing that flanked the pier, the man I was secretly in love with shook his head.
Or smiling at all. I gestured to the two teenagers as they rode in a carriage high atop the Santa Monica coastline.
John appeared pained. This was our eternal impasse, our universal hesitation. We were in love. We wanted to run away, to flee Los Angeles and the eventual death it promised us. And so we were stuck. My heart squeezed painfully. It was a rare day for any of us to be out, but the weather was so beautiful, John had collected us all in his beat-up car and brought us out into the sunshine for some fudge sundaes and a chance to dip our toes in the cold water.
Yes, I was sleeping with two men. I was in love with one of them, and I was terrified of the other. I was ready to leave him, or kill him, or both. Anything to get away. But the world kept spinning, and the cartel kept trading, and I kept my feet on the ground, too scared to make a run for freedom lest a bullet find its way between my shoulder blades. And she was, to him. That made me fall for him even more than I already had, to see the love he had for his daughter.
He was only sixteen, but already well taller than me, and the picture of his father — all olive skin and deep brown eyes, a product of their Italian heritage. Jase flinched when I touched him; I pulled my hand away and smiled instead. Juliette grabbed his hand — the contrast between them night and day, what with her bamboo green eyes and straw blonde hair — and pulled him towards the beach.
He was barely forty, but the lines around his eyes told a story of far more trauma than a man his age should have seen. I loved his hands. Rough palms from the mechanical work he did, but smooth on top. I lived for his brutal touch. I was addicted to it. But the addiction had become too dangerous.