Blood Phoenix ：My Fiancé Sold Me To My Eighteen Mafia Fathers Chapter 02
The SUV doors flew open all at once.
A dozen tattooed enforcers piled out, radiating pure menace.
“You got her?”
The one in front had a long scar down his cheek and a cigarette hanging from his lips. He strolled over like he owned the pavement. Everyone called him Scar.
Julian was already bowing, all smiles, all teeth.
“Got her, Scar! This is the one the Don wants. Look — phoenix tattoo!”
He ripped my sleeve open again and shoved the blood-red phoenix into the floodlights.
Scar blew out a slow ring of smoke. His eyes crawled up and down my body.
“Pretty little thing. Question is whether she can survive the night.”
I lifted my head, locked eyes with him, and laughed right in his face.
“You piece of trash. You look at me like that again, I’ll pluck those eyes out myself.”
The air went dead.
A dozen guns came up. A dozen slides racked back at once.
Julian nearly wet himself.
He spun around and drove his boot straight into the back of my knee.
Pain exploded through my whole body. I dropped hard into a bed of broken glass.
The shards drove through my skin. Blood soaked through my jeans in seconds.
Julian pinned the back of my head and shoved my face into the dirt. His voice was a snarl.
“You stupid bitch! You wanna die, don’t drag us down with you!”
“Kneel! Kiss Scar’s ring, now! Or I’ll end you myself!”
Scar kicked Julian off me. Then he crouched down, grabbed my chin, and turned my face side to side.
“Huh. Phoenix looks pretty legit.”
He gave me a cruel little smirk.
“Lucky night for you two.”
“The Don’s been losing his mind hunting for his principessa. Skinned three of his own Capos alive this week.”
“You hand this girl over, calm him down — maybe your Vance family gets to keep breathing.”
I stared at him. Ice cold.
This idiot was fresh off the street. Bottom-of-the-barrel muscle. Doesn’t even know what the phoenix means.
If he had any clue that the eighteen “psychos” he was gossiping about were currently tearing the country apart because I was missing —
He’d need ten heads to cover how many times over he’d be executed for looking at me sideways.
Julian saw me standing there, silent. He backhanded me across the face.
“You deaf?! Scar just complimented you! On your knees! Now!”
I licked the blood off the corner of my mouth. And laughed. Low. Quiet.
Chloe was already hiding behind Julian, staring at me like I was rabid.
“What’s so damn funny?! You lost your mind?!”
I stared right back. Eyes burning.
“I’m laughing because you two are about to get exactly what you asked for.”
Laughing because they’d just delivered the devil to her own front door.
Laughing because they had no idea what kind of hell was waiting on the other side of those gates.
Scar waved his hand, bored.
“Bring her in. The Don’s at the estate tonight.”
Chloe’s eyes lit up.
She thought the danger was over. She sauntered right up to Scar, chin up, entitled as ever, angling for a piece of the action.
“So Scar — what’s the Don want with some girl with a phoenix tattoo anyway?”
“Some trashy little slut with a fake tat piss off the Moretti princess or what?”
Crack.
Scar’s backhand caught her across the face and sent her flying.
Chloe screamed. Half her face swelled up in seconds — purple, red, split at the lip.
Scar drew his gun. Jammed the barrel against her forehead.
His voice came out low and lethal.
“The Moretti principessa — is not a name that comes out of trash like your mouth!”
“Those eighteen men? They’d burn down a country for her. She’s their whole goddamn world!”
“You breathe her name one more time, I put a bullet in your skull right here!”
Julian went sheet white.
He crawled over, threw himself in front of Chloe, and started bowing to Scar like his life depended on it.
“Scar, please! Please! She’s just a stupid kid! She doesn’t know the rules!”
He didn’t dare take his terror out on Scar. So he turned it on me.
He stomped over, grabbed a fistful of my hair, and started dragging me toward the estate gates.
My scalp felt like it was tearing off my skull.
The broken glass still lodged in my knees carved a long, ugly trail of blood behind me in the gravel.
The massive wrought-iron gates of the Moretti estate groaned open.
The weight of the place hit me before the light did. Old money. Old blood. Old power.
Through the archway, deep in the great hall, I could already see it — Papa’s chair. Carved mahogany. Blood-red velvet. The most feared seat on the East Coast.
I smiled. Silent. Ice cold.
Miss me, Papa?
Miss me, boys?