Bound By Blood To The Mafia King

Ashlyn pulled the conservative, long-sleeved silk pajamas tightly around her body. The thick fabric perfectly hid the bruised puncture wound on her arm. She took a deep breath, filling her lungs with the humid bathroom air, and pushed the door open. She stepped out barefoot onto the hardwood floor of the hallway. She deliberately stomped her heels slightly, making sure the soft thud of her footsteps announced her approach. In the massive living room, Alex was sitting on the edge of the black leather sofa. He held a heavy, square bottle of high-proof bourbon in his hand. No glass. He tipped the bottle back and took a long, brutal swallow directly from the neck. He heard her footsteps. He didn't turn around. The muscles in his back were coiled tight beneath his ruined shirt. In the dim, ambient light of the living room, the jagged silhouette of his scarred jaw looked even more menacing. Ashlyn stopped exactly three steps away from the sofa. The absolute limit of a safe distance. She twisted the hem of her silk top around her fingers, her knuckles turning white, radiating pure, nervous anxiety. Alex lowered the bottle. He slammed the heavy glass base down onto the solid marble coffee table. The loud crack made Ashlyn physically flinch. He turned his head slowly. His dark eyes dragged over her like broken glass. Ashlyn immediately averted her gaze. She let her eyes dart nervously toward his chin, then quickly looked at the floor, acting as if looking at his mangled face for more than a second would give her nightmares. That blatant, physical display of disgust was the spark that hit the gasoline. Alex let out a harsh, grating laugh. The sound was like sandpaper rubbing against bone. "Why are you standing all the way over there?" he sneered, his voice thick with alcohol and venom. "Afraid the ugly is contagious?" Ashlyn bit down on her lower lip. Tears, perfectly timed, spilled over her lashes and hit the expensive rug. Her shoulders hitched in a violent sob. "You..." she choked out, her voice shrill, pitching into the tone of an unreasonable, terrified girl. "You look terrifying! You look like a... a monster!" Alex exploded. He shot up from the sofa. His massive frame instantly blocked out the overhead lights, casting a huge, suffocating shadow that swallowed Ashlyn whole. He closed the distance between them in two heavy strides. His tactical boots stomped against the floor. Ashlyn stumbled backward in perfectly choreographed panic, retreating until her spine hit the freezing surface of a concrete structural pillar. There was nowhere else to go. Alex's large, calloused hand shot out. His fingers clamped around her jaw like a steel vice. He forced her head up, making her look directly into his ruined, stitched-up face. The pressure on her bone was agonizing. Ashlyn felt like her jaw was going to snap. She gasped in genuine pain, the tears flowing faster now. Alex leaned in. His face was inches from hers. The heavy stench of cheap bourbon, dried blood, and raw fury blasted against her nose. His eyes were completely black, swirling with a violent storm. "This monster face," he gritted out, every syllable dripping with acid, "is what kept me alive on the streets. It's what pays the massive wire transfers into your blood-sucking bank account every month." Ashlyn's chest tightened. She knew he had taken those hits to pay for Diana's medical bills and to secure his place in the syndicate. But she couldn't show a shred of empathy. She had to be the shallow, ungrateful bitch. She thrashed against the pillar. Her small hands slapped wildly at his rock-hard forearms, her nails scratching against his skin. "Let me go!" she screamed, her voice echoing off the high ceilings. "Let me go!" She twisted her face, fighting his grip, and screamed the line she had been preparing since the bathroom. "We're terminating the contract! I never want to see your terrifying face again!" The air in the living room instantly died. Alex's body froze completely. His pupils contracted so fast it looked painful. He stared at her as if she had just spoken in a dead language. Slowly, the pressure on her jaw released. His hand hovered in the air for a second before his fingers curled inward, forming a fist so tight the knuckles popped. Thick blue veins bulged against the back of his hand. Ashlyn brought her hands up to massage her throbbing, red jaw. She took a ragged breath and threw the final match into the fire. "I don't even want this month's final payment," she cried, shrinking against the pillar. "I just want to leave this horrible place!" Alex stared at her. He watched her desperate, pathetic need to escape him. The last shred of human warmth in his eyes completely evaporated, leaving behind nothing but a freezing, lethal emptiness. He spun around. He lifted his heavy tactical boot and kicked the solid marble coffee table with devastating force. The heavy stone flipped. The bourbon bottle smashed into pieces. Amber liquid and shards of glass exploded across the floor. The violent crash made Ashlyn scream. She dropped to her knees, covering her ears with her hands, curling into a tight, trembling ball of absolute helplessness. Alex stood over the wreckage. He looked down at her, his chest heaving. He raised his arm and pointed a single, shaking finger toward the front door. "Get out," he said. His voice was no longer a roar. It was a terrifying, dead whisper. "Get the fuck out." Ashlyn didn't hesitate. She scrambled up from the floor, her bare feet slipping on the rug. She didn't grab a coat. She didn't grab a bag. She ran toward the heavy oak door like the devil himself was behind her. She ripped the door open and sprinted into the dark hallway, leaving Alex standing alone in the ruins of the living room.