My Husband Sold Me To The Mafia King Who Turned Out To Be My Daddy Chapter 02
The guard with the scar across his face throws out a hand and shoves Damon back like he’s some stray dog.
“The hell is this? You bringing us garbage now? You know where you are? You know what happens if you piss Mr. Whitmore off?”
Damon’s face burns red.
He can’t hit the guard back. So he turns on me.
He grabs a fistful of my hair. Yanks my head up hard.
Then he rips the watch off his wrist — a six-figure Patek — and slides it into the scarred guard’s palm.
“Come on, brother. Work with me here.”
“She’s not fresh, I know. But trust me — this one’s a slut down to the bone. Knows exactly how to please a man.”
“Mr. Whitmore’s a busy guy. Let him blow off some steam.”
“And hey — if he breaks her? Kills her? Not your problem. On me. I swear.”
Scar-Face weighs the watch in his hand. Looks me up and down like I’m a piece of meat.
“Good boy.”
“You know the rules. Door shuts, she lives or dies on his mood.”
“She fights? Cries? Even whimpers? I cut her tongue out first.”
I swallow the blood pooling in my mouth. Drop my eyes.
Rules.
That “brutal code” the whole city shakes over?
I made it.
Seven years ago. To keep gold-diggers away from my dad after Mom died.
And now they’re using my own rules against me.
Cute. Real cute.
Damon thinks I’m shaking.
He grips my collar. Leans in. His breath makes my skin crawl.
“When we get in there? You crawl. You beg. You do whatever he wants.”
“Don’t screw this up for me.”
“You pull one stunt in there — one — and I dump every last one of those photos online tonight. Your whole family. All over the internet.”
I’m not scared.
I tilt my chin up. Smile at him. Slow.
“Damon. I really hope you’re still smiling when that door opens.”
He goes still. Something in my eyes crawls under his skin.
Vivian slides up. Hooks her arm through his. Beams at me.
“Baby, don’t waste your breath on her. Sweetie can’t wait to get in there.”
“She should be thanking us. Dying in Mr. Whitmore’s bed? Most girls would kill for that.”
Scar-Face flaps a hand at us.
“Enough. Move it. There’s a line tonight — half the city brought girls. Take a corner and wait your turn.”
A line.
I actually laugh out loud.
Three years I’ve been gone, and Dad’s been living his best life.
I straighten up. Look Scar-Face dead in the eye.
“We’re not waiting.”
I dig into my pocket. Pull out a heavy black-gold ring, still smeared with dried blood. Hold it up to his face.
“Take this to Vincent Whitmore. He’ll come running.”
Scar-Face freezes.
Then his eyes bulge, and he smacks the ring out of my hand.
“The hell — some psycho off the street, waving a knockoff around, throwing Mr. Whitmore’s name like she owns it? You got a death wish?”
Damon goes chalk white. Jabs a finger in my face.
“Cora! Have you lost your mind?! You want to die, fine — don’t drag us down with you!”
I ignore him. Eyes locked on Scar-Face. Cold smile.
“Knockoff? Then those eyes of yours are wasted. The Whitmore signet — the ring that means everything in this city — and you don’t recognize it?”
Dead silence.
The two guards glance at each other. Something shifts in their faces. Doubt. Fear.
Because everyone in this world knows the rule: whoever holds the Whitmore ring is next in line.
Scar-Face stares at the ring on the floor. Sweat pops out on his forehead.
He grits his teeth. Points into the room.
“You three. Inside. Wait. Don’t move.”
“I’m getting the housekeeper. You pull anything, I skin you alive.”
He scoops up the ring and bolts down the hall.
I watch him go, and inside, I’m laughing.
Dad. Three years.
Your baby girl brought you a present, Daddy.
The cheating bastard and his whore.
Gift-wrapped.
You’re gonna love them.