the Mafia's Mercy

⊰ 4 ⊱ My Brother's Keeper

No one talks about how the first man that you choose to give yourself to holds power over you—even if it's the slightest bit of it.

I guess that's why you're not supposed to give your virginity to a man you've just met.

Although, the problem wasn't that I gave it to him. The problem was that it was him I gave it to.

Still, he was kind to me. Instead of up and leaving immediately after deflowering me, he stayed and held me until morning came and I sprung up from my bed when I heard my brother's car pull into the driveway.

I gasped loudly, my hands trembling with adrenaline as I tapped on Marcel's shoulder, anxiously calling, "Marcel! My brother's home!"

When his eyes snapped open, he didn't seem remotely fazed, and in that moment, I should've known. I should've known that the man who merely appeared interested in the fact that the girl sitting in his car was the sister of the town's infamous thug, and not cautious, was someone who was far more menacing than the thug himself. After all, he did warn me that he was dangerous. I just didn't think he could be much worse than the man I was living with.

But I was wrong.

He was worse.

He is so much worse.

My gaze lingers on the pair of men laying out the money from the duffle bag on the kitchen counter, counting it for Marcel as he eyes me. With my arms crossed beneath my breasts, I occasionally shoot him a sideways glance, attempting to swallow the dryness in my throat. While I'm sure that I have an idea of what the gravity of the situation is, I'm almost desperate to walk to the fridge and grab a cold bottle of water.

That is until I remember that there's a half-full glass still sitting on my nightstand.

Am I allowed to move..?

My gaze falls back to Marcel as he leans back on the black stool. After releasing me from his hold, he pushed me back onto the bed and sat back down without saying a word. Well, without saying anything other than his command to his minions, telling them to count his money.

I'm just drinking water. Where the hell am I gonna go?

I swallow my cowardice and reluctantly stand up, straightening on my feet. The pair of eyes that scrutinize me make me falter, and as a shaky breath passes my lips, I reluctantly turn on my heels and cautiously move to the nightstand. Outside of my skin, you can hardly see the quiver in my hand as I reach for the glass and bring it up to my lips.

It's puny, but the cold water kissing my tongue is a relief that briefly makes me forget that there's a bullet in Marcel's gun with my name on it.

It's funny, really.

That day, I thought that there was a bullet in my brother's gun with his name on it.

I had considered begging him to jump out the window until I remembered that my bedroom didn't have a window and his best bet was to sneak out the backdoor while I attempted to distract Levi.

Out of my bedroom, I hurried to the front door, practically sprinting down the hall only to find that Levi was already standing in the kitchen. His hand, bruised and bloody, was wrapped around the refrigerator handle, his gaze fixed on the leftovers from the rice and honey garlic chicken I'd made the night before he left.

"Hey..." I called nervously as I looked at his swollen knuckles. "Are you okay?" My voice quavered ever-so-slightly as I furrowed my eyebrows in concern.

He arched a brow, averting his hazel green eyes to meet my own. I didn't notice the bruise on his cheek until he turned his head to me, allowing the refrigerator door to shut before him. "I'm good," he responded nonchalantly as he lowered his wounded hand, subtly attempting to hide it from me. "You're up early."