Perfect Monster: A Fake Marriage Mafia Romance (The Oligarchs)
Perfect Monster: Chapter 22

Three Years Earlier

I blasted “Despacito” as I rolled down the quiet Boston streets. It was late, a little past ten on a Wednesday, and the hard-drinking crowds weren’t out. I was exhausted, running a little ragged, my head filled with math equations from the college course I was taking at night to get extra credits before I started at Boston University in the fall.

It was deep summer. Crisp in the evening, humid during the day. I pretended to sing along, putting my Spanish to the test—and mostly failing.

I felt good.

Things at home were decent. Dad had been out a lot, putting in long hours at wherever he did his business, which suited me fine. He was always on my case when he was home, bugging me about grades and friends and my future, and no matter how hard I worked myself, how raw and burnt-out I felt, it was never enough for my old man.

Tonight, I wouldn’t let it bother me. Class was going well, even if it was a lot of work, and I was making new friends. I planned on hanging out with a nice girl name Lorrie and a couple guys this weekend, in theory to do homework together, but I doubted we’d get much done in a packed bar on a Saturday night.

I rolled up to a stop sign, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel. Life was looking up. I’d leave for college soon and then I’d be out of my dad’s reach—he wouldn’t be able to obsess over every little thing I did. I had insisted on living in the dorms, and although that’d been a big fight, he eventually gave in.

I was going to have a life. I could be a normal person for once.

Someone tapped on my window.

I jumped and reached for the volume. I turned the music down and stared at a smiling man—dark eyes, dark hair, pale skin, early thirties at most, a little scruffy looking, his beat-up denim jacket and tight jeans artfully torn, but otherwise harmless. I was in a quiet neighborhood not far from home, and although nobody else was around, I felt safe enough to roll down the window.

“Excuse me, I’m so sorry to bother you,” the guy said. He smelled like cigarettes and cheap alcohol. “I know it’s creepy to just knock on your window, but I could really use some help.”

“Um sorry, what do you need?”

A bad feeling crept up my spine. It was the way he smiled at me, so benign, but it didn’t reach his eyes. And I couldn’t see his hands.

“Directions. Do you know how to get to the river from here?”

I frowned and leaved toward him as if trying to hear better. “Sorry, did you say, the river?”

He reached in and shoved a gun against my head.

I’d seen guns before. My dad had them in the house. Hidden, but accessible. My father was the kind of man that always kept a weapon nearby.

Not me. I hated guns. More people ended up dead with guns around than without them.

I had a can of Mace in the dash that Dad insisted I carry with me. That wouldn’t be much use to me now.

“Sorry, girly, but I need you out of the car.”

“Okay, okay, okay, okay.” I couldn’t say anything else. I was broken, stuck, a wheel spinning in mud. “Okay, okay.” I pushed open the door.

He stepped back and kept the gun aimed at my chest.

My hands shook. I stumbled as I stumbled onto the curb. I wanted to scream—where was everyone? How was this street completely empty?

“Open the back door.” He gestured toward the car. “Fucking move.”

“You can have it. Just take it. You can have my wallet, whatever you want—“

“Back door, right now, or I blow your brains out.”

I opened the door. He shoved me roughly onto the seat, and for a panicked moment I thought he planned on kidnapping me, stealing me away, maybe some enemy of my father’s or maybe a random psychopath out on the hunt.

But then he crawled in on top of me and it was worse, so, so much worse.

He shoved the gun into his waistband, and I felt a surge of hope—

Until he pulled a knife from his pocket and flipped it open.

“Don’t want to risk killing you by accident before I finish, but I need to make sure you’re listening.” He wrapped one hand around my throat and squeezed. I gasped, tried to suck in air, but couldn’t. His other hand started to open on my jeans, unbuttoning the top button—

“Please,” I choked. “Please don’t. Please don’t touch me, please, please.” Tears rolled down my cheeks.

He ripped the front of my pants open. I felt him grind against me—felt his disgusting erection—

“They didn’t tell me you were so pretty.” He tightened his grip on my neck. I couldn’t breathe. My eyes bulged out. “Go ahead and scream. I like it when a pretty bitch screams. Makes you clench down while I fuck you”

I was going to die.

This man was going to rape me, and I was going to die.

He pulled my shirt up.

He wanted to violate me.

Take me, ruin me, desecrate me, this creature, this fucking animal, he was going to murder me if I didn’t do something, if I didn’t at least try to fight back.

I had no other choice.

I could roll over and accept this abuse and die, or I could take a risk.

He reached down, unzipping his jeans, and I slammed my knee up as hard as I could into his crotch.

He must not have expected it. Maybe he thought I was too passive, too scared. And he was almost right, I almost didn’t do it—some stupid part of me believed getting raped was better than getting killed.

But it wasn’t one or the other.

The dead look in his eyes—it would be both. He’d have his fun then dispose of me.

His hand released from my throat and I coughed and sucked in gasping breaths. He cursed and brought the knife down as I popped open the door behind me, but too slow—

The knife bit into my stomach and ripped to the side.

I gasped as it cut me clean across. Sliced me hip to hip. It burned, like he lit my intestines on fire, and I fell backwards out of the car.

Blood bubbled up, so much blood, drenching me.

I scrambled away. Not thinking, just reacting. He came after me, cursing the whole time. I ran to the front of the car, leaving a long smear of red behind me.

“Get back here you stupid bitch,” he said as I reached the front door.

I threw open the passenger side and shouted in pain as I jammed the button to open the glove box. The front fell forward and I reached in for the metal can—

He grabbed my hair and yanked. I screamed and turned, shoving the Mace in his face and pushing down the trigger.

A gunshot blast. If the bullet hit me, I didn’t feel it. The can sprayed directly into his eyes and he gasped in the thick liquid, pawing at his face. Rebound spray misted into the car and I gagged on it, but kept spraying, the bastard, the sick bastard. I leaned back against the car and kicked him, shoved my feet into his chest and sent him sprawling. He hit the curb, tripped, and smashed his skull into a parked car.

I crawled into the passenger side. More blood drenched the seat. I got across, behind the wheel. Groaning and in pain, so much pain. My eyes watered like crazy. Stupid pepper spray. That stuff saved my life.

Hospital, I needed a hospital. I started the engine, hands slick with blood, almost unable to turn the key.

He appeared in front of me, the gun aimed at my face.

“You fucking bitch,” he screamed, his eyes red and swollen.

I slammed on the gas.

Another gunshot. The bullet cracked the window and lodged somewhere in the back seat.

I smashed into him then hit the brakes. He flew off the hood and bounced on the pavement twice.

He tried to get up and I slammed the accelerator again.

The second time he made the car bump wildly. I sped off, flying around the corner, one hand pressed against my belly trying to keep myself from bleeding out, the other barely steering, his body a lifeless lump in the rearview mirror.