Too Late For Regret: The Mafia King's Despair
Chapter 4
"Get on your knees," Kane ordered.
I stood my ground.
"I didn't do it," I said.
My voice was quiet, but it didn't shake.
Jameson nodded to his bodyguards.
Two men I had known for years-men whose children's birthdays I had memorized-grabbed my arms.
They forced me down.
My knees hit the hardwood floor with a sickening crack.
Blake walked into the room.
He was holding something in his hand.
It was a dog whip.
Old leather, braided tight.
Our father used to use it on the hounds when they disobeyed.
Now, apparently, it was for the sister who didn't fit the script.
"This is for disrespecting the family," Blake said.
He sounded bored.
Like he was taking out the trash.
Jameson stood with his back to me.
He was holding Haleigh, stroking her hair while she sobbed fake tears into his chest.
He didn't look at me.
He gave the order with a dismissive wave of his hand.
"Teach her."
The first lash hit my back.
It felt like a hot wire slicing through my skin.
I bit my lip so hard I tasted copper.
I wouldn't scream.
I wouldn't give her the satisfaction.
"Confess!" Derrick yelled.
"I didn't do it," I gasped.
Another lash.
This one tore the fabric of my dress.
I felt warm blood trickle down my spine.
"Disgrace," Kane spat.
"Poison."
"Useless spare."
The words hurt more than the leather.
Maria burst into the room.
"Stop! Please, stop! She's innocent!"
"Get her out," Jameson said.
He didn't turn around.
The guards dragged Maria away.
Her screams echoed down the hallway.
I took five lashes.
Five stripes of fire across my back.
Then they dragged me to the guest room.
They locked the door.
No food.
No water.
No doctor.
I lay on the floor in the dark.
My back throbbed.
My hand burned.
I listened to the sounds of the penthouse.
I heard them ordering dinner.
I heard champagne corks popping.
I heard Jameson laughing.
It was a deep, rich sound.
A sound I used to love.
Now it sounded like a death knell.
Three days passed.
I drank water from the bathroom tap.
I stared at the ceiling and counted the cracks.
On the third morning, the door opened.
Haleigh stood there.
She was wearing a white bikini and a sheer cover-up.
She looked radiant.
"Get up," she said.
"We're going on the yacht."
I tried to sit up.
The world spun.
"I'm not going," I whispered.
Jameson appeared behind her.
He looked at me with disgust.
"You're coming," he said.
"You're going to serve your sister. You're going to show her the respect she deserves."
They forced me into a long-sleeved dress to hide the bandages and the blood.
The car ride to the marina was silent.
The yacht was gleaming white against the grey water.
The Lady Haleigh.
He had renamed it.
It used to be the Isabella.
We sailed out into the harbor.
The salt air stung the open wounds on my back.
I was made to stand by the rail while they lounged on the sun deck.
"I'm hungry," Haleigh announced.
"I want barbecue."
The wind was picking up.
The sky was turning a bruised purple.
A storm was coming.
"It's too windy," the captain called down.
"I want it!" Haleigh whined.
She stomped her foot.
Jameson signaled the crew.
"Do it."
They set up the charcoal grill on the lower deck.
I was standing nearby, holding a tray of drinks like a waitress.
The boat hit a swell.
It lurched violently to the port side.
The grill tipped.
Glowing red coals scattered across the teak deck.
One of them hit the hem of my long dress.
The fabric was synthetic.
Cheap.
It caught fire instantly.
I dropped the tray.
Fire crawled up my legs.
I screamed.
It was a primal sound, ripped from the bottom of my lungs.
Jameson and my brothers were ten feet away.
Haleigh shrieked.
"A spark! A spark hit my hand!"
Jameson, Derrick, Blake, and Kane threw themselves around Haleigh.
They formed a human shield.
"Are you okay, baby?" Jameson yelled.
"Let me see! Let me see!"
They were checking her hand for a speck of ash.
While I was burning alive.
I fell to the deck, clawing at the flames.
The heat was searing my skin.
"Help me!" I screamed.
Jameson looked at me.
For a split second, our eyes met.
He saw the fire.
He saw me.
And he turned back to Haleigh.
A body slammed into me.
It wasn't Jameson.
It was a deckhand.
A boy of maybe twenty.
He threw his jacket over my legs and rolled me.
He beat the flames out with his bare hands.
I lay on the scorched wood, gasping for air.
The smell of burnt fabric and burnt skin filled my nose.
The boy was coughing.
I looked up.
Jameson was kissing Haleigh's forehead.
"Thank God you're safe," he whispered.
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