Reign of a Billionaire : A Dark Mafia Enemies-to-Lovers Romance

Chapter 2Liana

The Godfather was the most expensive and elitist restaurant in Washington, D.C., located smack-dab in the heart of the city. You’d think the restaurant name would make it clear who ran it, but people flocked to it eagerly, ignorant to the fact that it was run by the mob families.

I hated this place.

Every single thing about it—the atmosphere, the criminals who frequented it, the corruption. That this restaurant was one of Perez Cortes’s favorites made me hate it even more. The fucker wasn’t here, but his presence was felt at the table.

Sinister. Deadly. Fateful.

He and his men were scum of the earth. It sickened me that my mother made deals with him. Even more, it sickened me that I sat at this table without slicing all their throats.

The ache in my wrist throbbed. Both hands on my lap under the table, I wrapped my fingers around it and massaged the tender skin while listening to my mother’s plan, clenching my jaw. They held a conversation in various codes related to their latest shipment that had just arrived into the city, full of young women destined to be forced into serving sick men.

Speaking freely in front of me, unaware I broke their codes years ago, I listened and memorized. I understood that “The Raven” meant the Canton Docks in Baltimore. “The Monument” was a prostitution ring led by the Tijuana cartel using the Port of Washington yacht club. Just like Cortes, the Tijuana cartel loved to use young girls as entertainment for their soldiers. Fucking sickos. And then there were the Marabella Mobster arrangements that negotiated for high-prized girls. The negotiation took place in Brazil, and its code name was “The Dock.” If only I could get coordinates for it so I could blow it all to pieces.

Locations were shared. Specifics like dates and times weren’t. Much to my dismay.

“The women are of the highest quality,” Mother stated coldly.

Bile rose in my throat, but I forced it down. One would think I’d be used to it by now. Instead, every fiber of my being fought against it. I sat there, listening to the men and my mother talk, and kept my expression blank while staring out the window. Happy people strolled by, unaware of the evil happening inside. Unaware of how empty I felt inside.

Ever since the day I lost something priceless.

My mother handed me a piece of paper. I took it with a steady hand, my eyes skimming over it. It was a bullshit agreement between Perez Cortes and my mother for the transport of drugs, alcohol, and other products. Translation: humans.

I used to hope Mother would get us out of the underworld, but that girl died a long time ago, right alongside my twin. My other half.

My chest twisted, the pain notched up in full. I’d been left with an aching heart and bitter truths. Guilt became the only constant in my life; grief, my penance. This was my misery—dark and poisonous—crawling under my flesh like a snake.

I fisted my hands in my lap, my nails cutting through my skin. The physical pain was better than the one in my heart. It was distracting. It was necessary. It coaxed me into someone I had to be.

“Liana.” My mother’s voice pulled me away from my self-pity and spiraling thoughts, only to find five sets of eyes on me.

“You look beautiful.” One of Perez’s men complimented me, bringing my attention to him and leading me to believe he’d repeated those words one too many times. His ogling agitated me, the urge to dig out his eyeballs consuming my every instinct. He viewed me like I was a piece of meat. I guess in a way I was. In this world, women were just that. Used to show off and abuse.

I refused to be either.

I shot to my feet, giving everyone at the table a full view of my outfit. I wore a sleeveless blue dress with straps that hugged my body above my torso like a second skin and fell to my knees in waves. My favorite pair of nude pumps gave me an extra three inches.

My mother wore a Valentino dress similar to mine underneath her signature fur coat. She refused to take that off even while seated at the restaurant because of what hid beneath it.

I barely held back a sneer at men who were too blind to see her arsenal.

Silence fell upon the table, until I broke it with my words. “Excuse me, I have to use the restroom.”

My mother gave me a terse nod, the carved line between her brows the only indication that she wasn’t happy. She was never happy. Not with me. Not with my twin. Not with her lovers. This life had stained her soul and destroyed her innocence. Assuming she ever had any to begin with.

Taking a deep breath, I turned around and headed toward the bathrooms, my heels clicking against the polished marble floor. The knots in my stomach seemed forever present.

I hated how my mother remained unaffected by it all—trafficking humans, being far too comfortable with the level of collateral damage her dealings accumulated.

And most of all, I hated how she seemed so unbothered by the death of my twin. It had been years, yet the wound inside my chest refused to heal.

She was my other half. The day I saw the video of Lou’s death was my last straw. I died right along with her.

Unfortunately, my body and my mind continued living. Remembering some things and forgetting others.

So, since destiny refused to be kind and kill me off, I had to make a difference. Make my sister’s death count. So I played my part. I stayed silent and betrayed no emotion. They would never see me coming.

Disgust thick in my veins, I held my clutch as I stalked toward the washroom. My nape prickled. My steps slowed. I could feel eyes on me. I turned around, but everyone at the table was deep in their dirty business. I skimmed over the restaurant, but nothing seemed amiss. Yet, I could feel it. It made every single hair on my body rise.

My hand reached up, twisting the single diamond stud earring—once, twice—before I gave my head a subtle shake and my hand fell to my side. Another throb in my wrist and I gripped it tightly as I rounded the corner.

Once I entered the restroom, I finally released a heavy breath and started to pace. The energy brimming beneath my skin was restless—I needed to get a handle on it, if not to preserve my cover.

I stopped in front of the sink and met my reflection, my hands on either side of the fancy marble counter steadying me. I looked like me, but I didn’t feel like me. Who am I? I wondered. What am I doing?

No matter what I did, it didn’t seem to make a difference. More women were found. More flesh was traded. I couldn’t save them all.

I leaned my forehead on the cool glass and closed my eyes, remembering the first time I’d found them. The innocent, broken girls made to move like cattle.

No, it was worse.

The stench was the first thing that registered when I opened the door to the container. The terrified whimpers were what followed.

My eyes adjusted to the darkness and my heart stopped. It fucking stopped beating, seeing girls and women with bruised faces huddled around each other, bodies angled to shelter themselves from what lay on the other side of the door. From me.

Some were lying in a fetal position, wearing nothing but filthy oversized shirts. Others sat with knees raised to their chest, their eyes glossed over and vacant.

It was then I saw their collars—the thick metal gripping their throats.

My nostrils flared, fury surging through me. “I’m going to help you.”

And I’d make them pay.

Someone banging on the bathroom door pulled me out of my trance, my heartbeat racing at the onslaught of bitter memories. Disgust and disappointment swirled like a category-five hurricane inside of me. Unstoppable and destructive.

I’d saved some, but I’d failed more. Including my sister.

My hazel eyes, misty at the reminder of my failures, stared back at me.

With hate. With resignation. With sorrow.