Dark Deception (Vampire Royals of New York #1) - Sarah Piper Page 0,109
down into the seat, but it was no use.
They knew she was there.
They were looking for her.
What happened next is part of the haze, mixed up in her mind after years of reliving it in every nightmare, of scrubbing herself raw in the shower, of trying to outrun the ghosts that always seemed to track her down, no matter how much time passed.
But what she remembered clearly, even now, was the smell of garlic and sweat and cheap booze as the men climbed into the backseat and surrounded her, slamming the car doors behind them.
She remembered trying to reach for the door handle, desperate to escape.
Where you off to, little girl?
She remembered crying and begging as one man pinned her down on her back, the other shoving a hand up her shirt, squeezing her tiny breast.
Not so tough when Daddy’s not around, are ya?
She remembered screaming and kicking, remembered biting the meaty hand that clamped hard over her mouth.
She remembered the man yanking off her jean shorts, her underwear. When she wouldn’t stop kicking, he pulled out a knife.
Don’t struggle, D’Amico bitch. I will make you bleed in more ways than one…
She did struggle, though. Knew if she didn’t, they’d kill her.
Or worse.
She kicked and fought and scratched and bit for all she was worth, landing a hard kick in the balls.
The man groaned and grabbed her thigh, then shoved the knife into her abdomen, the pain eating through her body like acid, like teeth, like claws.
Stars danced before her eyes, and she thought it was the end. Death was breathing on her neck, waiting to take her.
But seconds later, she felt the rush of air as the car doors flew open. She heard two pops, felt the warm spray of blood on her face. The bodies slumped on top of her, making her gag. Her father stood behind one of them, his face ashen, the gun trembling in his hand.
She’d never seen such fear in his eyes.
Such ice-cold rage.
Such shame.
The next thing she remembered, she was waking up in a hospital bed thirty miles away, her father filling out a fake police report about a random attack in a random town they’d never even visited. When they finally left the hospital, it was in a different car.
Charley was fifteen years old.
In all the years that passed, she never had the courage to ask her father or uncle about that day, and they never had the courage to bring it up.
It existed only in her memory, the story written above her hip in a silver scar.
She never found out what happened to the bodies.
She never found out what happened to the car.
She never found out why they’d taken so long with the delivery.
She never found out whether Rudy had killed the second guy, or whether he’d just opened the door before her father shot them both.
She never found out who the men were, or why they’d targeted her.
It was the worst day of her life—worse, even, then the day her father died. And all she had left of it now—aside from the ghosts and the scar—was the name of the client who’d asked for the special delivery.
Alexei Rogozin.
Chapter Forty-Six
city streets run red with blood; ‘crimson city devil’ eludes authorities
August 11, 1972 - The mutilated body of a thirty-nine-year-old Manhattan father of two was found in a service alley on Canal Street in the early morning hours of August 10th. Witnesses who made the grisly discovery claim the man was lying in a pool of blood, with severe lacerations on his neck and shoulder. Police have not made an official statement, but an NYPD officer who agreed to speak on the condition of anonymity confirmed that the death has been ruled a homicide and shares many of the same markers as the previous twenty-seven murders attributed to the so-called Crimson City Devil. Authorities are urging extreme caution and have asked anyone who has information about this or any of the previous crimes to contact them immediately…
Sitting at his desk in the den, Dorian tipped back his scotch and flipped to another article in the bound leather book, each headline carving a fresh wound in his heart.
summer of slaughter earns new york ‘crimson city’ moniker; no end in sight for grisly crime spree.
crimson city devil strikes again.
police exhausted after three-state, six-month manhunt brings no closure on unsolved murders.
Every article had been meticulously clipped and mounted—a gruesome scrapbook created first as a souvenir and saved, later, as a reckoning.