A Crack In The Mirror

by tfbl

This is a crossover between the show Once Upon a Time and the film Human Trafficking. It is not labled as such because Human Trafficking is not a choice. Please read the AN and WARNING before reading this story.

WARNING: This is a crossover of Once Upon a Time and Robert Caryle's 2005 film Human Trafficking, with the pairing of Belle/Sergei. As such, there will be strong language including the use of many derogatory terms for women, graphic scenes or descriptions of murder and torture (including a few animal deaths as a result of torture), the rape of young women and men as well as children, and graphic scenes of consensual sex. If you do not wish to read these things, then do not continue further. Note: Apart from the consensual sex, none of these things happen directly to Belle, herself.

AN: AN: Bold conversation is Russian

Nothing you recognize from either show is mine. No money is being made.

This is my first attempt at a crossover, so bear with me if this is not in the "correct" style.

Also, as the film is very long I only included the scenes in which Sergei appears. I tried to make them as clear as possible, but it might help to rewatch the film to get a better contextual reference. You can find it on YouTube.

Oh, and I know that my grammar is very bad, but I've given up on trying to fix it, so if you review please do not mention it.

A Crack In The Mirror

Shutting off his motorcycle he dismounts, feeling himself sink heel deep into a puddle that had gone unnoticed thanks to the dark visor on his helmet.

Any other time perhaps, he'd take a moment to wonder if the almost priceless leather that make up his boots would hold up to the damage. Now? He couldn't give less of a fuck. Not when there's six hours left.

IIIIIIII

Prolog

She is the first one whom he notices upon entering the study.

Belle Rosalie-Lilith French, the sixteen year old daughter of Moe French, one of his Australian associates.

A pretty, dark haired thing whom displayed more intelligence and wit than her dolt of a father within three minutes of conversation.

A tiny slip of a girl with blue eyes and a razor tongue hidden behind an innocent angel's smile, whom had him flat on his back with a knife to his throat and a dislocated knee seconds after his hand ventured beneath her skirt.

As he laid there on the floor, gritting his teeth against the fire in his limb and freezing as the sharp pressure against his throat increased in warning, he'd felt oddly intrigued by this girl.

It had been a long since anyone, especially a woman, had not cowered before him. Had not spoken meekly while obeying his every whim and spreading their legs for him.

It wasn't as if the girl didn't know whom he was and what he could do, either.

No.

She knew full well that he was the wealthiest and most powerful trafficker on six sides of the damn Atlantic and that he wouldn't hesitate to take her on her father's dismembered corpse before shipping her off to some Middle-eastern slum where she'd spend the rest of her life as a fuck toy.

She knew all that and had done it anyway. He hadn't been able to decide weather was she brave or just plain stupid.

IIIIIIIIIIIII

Before he can reach for the doorknob the door swings inward, reveling Andri waiting for him, drink in hand.

Removing his helmet he takes the liquid offering, giving some automatic response to Andri's inquiry. Something about not wanting to miss the new arrivals or some other shit. In truth he'd rather be anywhere else, preferably on a plane, but he can't miss the last shipment, not now. It would look far too strange if he did, seeing as no more shipments would come through Jersey for at least three years.

Fuck, he wants this over and done with.

Chapter One

He's willing to admit it.

He's bored, sitting here next to Mimi and smoking his second fag as he watches these young Ukrainian bitches model themselves. Oh he's doing his job, of course. Picking and choosing, looking at their bodies and faces, deciding which ones are good enough for the runway and those that will be among the next shipment of whores. That doesn't mean that that he's enjoying it.

Not at this time, anyway.

As he listens to a young curly redhead's naïve, idiotic, and routine dribble concerning her dreams for a modeling career he allows himself to gaze past her for a moment. Unexpectedly Belle comes into focus, and with a slight start he wonders how long she has been standing there. Most likely since they started, knowing her. Honestly he should have expected it. She does like to get a first hand look at the possible merchandise, after all.

Belle is leaning back against the window ledge on the opposite wall as she watches the proceedings, playing idly with her sunglasses and taking no notice of the fact that her position is causing her dark floral print dress – already form fitting – to mold even tighter across her stomach and breasts. She looks entirely fuckable and so damn beautiful that, if she had not objected to the idea when he suggested it previously, he wouldn't have a problem with taking her right there against the fucking wall in front of them all.

Belle suddenly straightens, her eyes shimmering with excitement as she bites on the outer rim of her glasses to stifle her smile.

He knows that look. She has seen something she likes. Something that she can't wait to see taken, to see the tears on their face as they wither and scream.

Following the direction of her gaze his eyes land on the redhead directly in front of him.

Well. So Belle likes her, does she?

He feels a smile cross his face in response to Belle's excitement, his own interest rising as the images of what Belle has planned for the soon-to-be whore flutter through his mind.

At Mimi's inquiring look he nods slightly, the bouncy haired little bitch continuing to stand in front of him in her childish skirt, hands clasped behind her back and blue eyes wide and hopeful.

Yes. She will do for his little Belle.

Chapter Two

This is what the world sees;

A personal whore, owned and controlled by him.

In a lot of ways she's as helpless as a kitten. Hell, she can't even throw a punch and gets squeamish at the sight of little blood and gore for god's sake.

Despite being surrounded by young cunts, any of whom he could have his pick from, she is the only one whom he chooses even though the unspoken rule says never the same whore twice. He gets away with it because not only is he the motherfucking boss but he likes to know that the bitch he's fucking doesn't have any STDs. True, he's had her a long time, but it helps that she's gorgeous as hell.

The little dark haired chit is just as jerked around by his strings as all the other merchandise, perhaps even more so because he controls her every move and if she so much as went to the bathroom without his approval it'd be the end of her.

He is a man whom holds positive feelings for no one, least of all her. It's impossible for him to actually care about another person anyway, being whom and what he is and all.

This is the reality;

Belle is his wife. She has been Belle Rosalie-Lilith Karpovich for the past sixteen years – by her own choice no less. They may not wear rings or had the ceremony performed in a church or even used their real names but that doesn't matter. Belle is his and he is Belle's and not once has he ever raised an un-performing hand to her. Never has he taken her without her consent or twisted her mind, emotions, or self worth with curl words and horrible actions. She has never been, nor will she ever be, a whore even though that is the image that they must maintain for the public so they act and put on shows and pretend until the burn out is clear in their eyes and only when they have privacy do they set their performance on fire for a good long while.

Belle as far from helpless as it is possible to get. She can hold her own against a man twice her size and slice someone to ribbons in seconds and commit murder with the same amount of regret as if she'd stepped on a bug. Of course she doesn't always win, but with their lifestyle where her rape or death is a very real possibitly despite his protection – neither of which have ever come close to happening, thank fuck - it's vital that she knows when and how to go down swinging and when to submit in order to give herself a fighting chance.

Belle is a sadist. Causing pain and fear turns her on and anything from torture to the sound of agonized screams can get her off. The first time he'd seen that gleam in her eyes as she watched some fag get raped in her father's study he thought he was mistaken, that he was seeing what he wanted to see.

As it turns out he wasn't.

Over the years he watched her rip the wings off moths, touch herself while sawing off some poor bastards' leg, set a cat on fire, and commit countless more acts that caused her face to flush and her pussy to drip. If all of that had failed to convince him, then the intensity with which she came when they were making love on her twentieth birthday and he shot her bodyguards would have done the job.

Now, there's few things that he finds more erotic then when Belle approaches the cunt or dickhead employee of her choice with a knife or the cat o' nine tails in hand, and the expression in their eyes when they realize that she is not on their side or is being forced but that she is doing this because she wants to?

Fucking beautiful.

He remains faithful to Belle not because he is trying to stay clean, but because he wants to be. Oh yeah, he notices the others' often enough. Sees their pert little asses and curvy young bodies and the sway of their hips and is aware of how tight their pussy would be around his dick.

That is all that he does.

Notice.

He doesn't touch, dream, look, nor enjoy their shows.

Belle is the one he wants. She is the woman who gets him hard and whose body he craves and whose ass and hips captivate him, she is whom he imagines wrapped around him and can't keep his hands off of and wouldn't say no to one of her shows if they were in the middle of a fucking daycare center.

As for her age? That doesn't matter to him. Yes, she does look a good eight years or so younger than she actually is, but he would want her even if that wasn't the case. If her hair was graying and there were lines at the corners of her eyes or her breasts weren't as perfect as they once were. She would still be as beautiful then as she is now.

Besides, if anyone should be complaining about their spouses' age and appearance than it should be Belle. He has never heard a word out of her, so he knows that she doesn't care, either.

Knows that although she notices other men – younger, stronger, more dignified – that is all that she does, just as with him and the whores. Belle doesn't look nor touch or think about them.

Yes, she does touch the merchandise, causes them pain and shoves toys or her fist inside them and sometimes will make them come using her fingers. That type of touching – noticing, looking, enjoying - , however, is not the same as with him.

When Belle's focus is turned to one of them there is no love in her actions, no compassion in her gaze. She does not lust after their body nor their cock and most certainly not their pussy. She lusts after their pain and fear, their humiliation and screams along with their blood – virgin or otherwise – coating her hand.

Belle does not see them as people, and as soon as she has caused them enough pain and has come hard enough she gets rid of them. She no longer wants them.

He is the man that she wants. The one whom she gets wet over and whose hand she holds. For whom her touch is not harsh and whose fear she never desires. Who is the only one whose pain causes concern and fear and whom she would never inflict more blood and agony upon him than he is comfortable with. The only man whom her eyes follow and the sole person for whom she'd wait a thousand years and then some.

Yeah. Belle actually fucking wants him.

He doesn't know how he became so damn lucky, but he'd trade the entire world as long as she continues to look at him with that light in her eyes and brush her fingers along the back of his hand.

As long as she continues to say I love you.

As for the amount of control that she has? It may not be obvious but Belle is pulling the strings just as much as he is. Both of them cover the transactions and payments and decide what pieces of profit go where and which ones to get rid of and make sure that their tracks are so well hidden you'd have to go to the sea floor to find them. The difference is he is the one that takes the credit because no one can know how much control Belle has, over the business and over him because they would try to use her against him a heartbeat.

Neither will allow that.

Belle is allowed to go wherever she wants whenever she wants. Hell, she could take a train to Berlin for three weeks if she wanted to. You see the thing is that she's smart about it. Belle knows where it is safe and where to avoid to reduce recognition and how to fly below the radar and all that. She also lets him know where she is going and when she'll be back if he's not accompanying her. If she didn't he might very well kill some employees while quietly going insane with worry and raise his chances of a heart attack by about thirty percent.

Considerate, that.

He may not hold many positive feelings for most people – that's because said people are just as likely to shoot him in the fucking back as he is to slice off their hand, it's true – but Belle holds his respect and trust along with lust and love and all that candy coated crap.

Respect?

That happened somewhere between the dislocated knee, when he learned how she could quote Walt Whitman line for line in two dozen languages and was slowly but surly taking over her father's business. After he came to know that she could kick his ass at Poker and Black Jack and Gin Rummy but failed miserably at chess and soccer.

When she was the first person in years whom wasn't afraid to stand toe to toe and word to word with him, when she allowed him to take her to Liverpool matches in England – she actually seemed to look forward to his company, in fact – and stood next to him in the freezing stands with red hands and watering eyes while screaming orders and obscenities at the opposing team and didn't give a fuck all who could hear.

Trust?

That was harder to define, especially for someone like him to whom trust was for fools and dreamers. Well call him the kettle and paint him black, because somewhere in between the teenager that held a knife to his throat and the first time she was a young woman of nineteen withering beneath him trust had formed.

It was there when she teased him and was unafraid to sit next to him on the table in the empty dining room.

It developed when she came to know that he liked Stephan King and antique watches, loved the feel of silk and velvet against his skin, and hated leather furniture. That he could recite the Hail Mary and owned a rosary passed down from his great whomever despite the fact that he'd never set foot in a church, ate his scrambled eggs without the yolks, and that for some reason frogs freaked the hell out of him.

It grew when they would exchange letters when contitants were between them, that they knew each of them loved the mountains and couldn't sleep in absolute silence. How he came to know that she expressed annoyance by tightening her mouth and that she took her coffee black while her milk was always skim and her oatmeal was flavored with honey, and the way that he would take anything from her –be it wine or painkillers or a freaking newspaper – without a single doubt taking root in his mind.

It was present when she reveled how her mother had sold her little brother to the highest bidder before using a bottle of pills to take the coward's way out, and when he told her about the two fathers whom he barely remembered. Now the beatings? That he remembers.

It appeared when he allowed her to make his coffee and have his personal phone number and when neither was afraid to allow themselves to be lulled into sleep by the ticking of the clocks in her library.

It came about when she casually touched his shoulders and put a bullet through the skull of the one attempting to kill him, when he knew that she loved the sea and purple grapes but hated humid climates and blackberries, as he found himself pressing kisses to her forehead and giving her opinions consideration and told her about Bailey, the long deseeded infant son whom he would have sold his soul for.

It happened when he realized that he could never harm let alone kill her father – the person whom Belle loved most - because to do would irreversibly shatter whatever this was that was growing between them. This trust thing showed itself once again when he told Belle why he hadn't killed French, someone whom Belle knew that he barley tolerated – because doing so would hurt her, and that was something that he couldn't bare – and Belle did something that no one had ever done.

She'd trusted him, believed his words and did not look for deception within his eyes nor did her hand so much as flinch towards the gun at her hip.

No one had ever done this before, not to him.

No one should ever have done this.

Looked at him without a trace of fear nor never once not anticipated the appearance of the monster lurking just beneath the surface of his skin.

They'd certainty never smiled and playfully kissed the tip of his nose in thanks nor had never not assumed that he was luring them into a trap with gift wrapped lies only to stab a dagger into their heart when they least suspected it. Not unless they were insane, hopelessly naïve, or a fucking fool of the highest degree. But Belle was as sane as him, nowhere near naïve, and the furthest thing from a fool that he'd ever seen …. and she'd done that anyway, despite all the evidence brought on by his deeds and reputation that should have been screaming at her not to do so.

He thinks he could get used to this trust concept, if it means that Belle will continue to do this.

Will continue to look at him like he's someone worth having faith in.

Lust?

Pick anytime between when he noticed the way the sunlight caught her hair and how every goddamn time all of the whores he fucked took on her face, how he began to crave her brilliant mind and sharp words and saw crimson when some son of a bitch touched her, or all that money and patience he wasted by personally doing business with her father as the years continued to pass because he couldn't stand to stay away.

Love?

He can't say for sure when he started to fall, nor when Belle herself did, but they both fell fast and hard and neither of them regret it.

Why does he love her?

Because she makes him laugh.

Because she can beat him at cards but crashes and burns when it comes to Pictionary and loves Liverpool matches and no matter if it's with her words, her fists, or her big blue eyes she will hand him ass on a silver platter more often than not.

Because she hogs the blankets and her hair smells like lavender.

Because she is brave.

Because when she is angry her eyes transform from a sapphire flame to chips of cobalt ice, for the way she can fix a broken watch but burns popcorn every single time.

Because in every house that they own she insists that the bedding be dual shades of silk and doesn't care that he hates it because seven times out of ten he'll slide out of the bed.

Because her singing voice is beyond horrible.

Because she likes to vacuum but won't scrub blood off the floor providing he is there to do it.

Because she hasn't encountered a flower nor a chocolate that she doesn't love.

Because of her obsession with books and how she gets under his skin and can make his blood boil faster than anybody ever has before.

Because she has never lied to him, not about her preferences, nor white lies intended to shield him or make him feel better, nor has she ever attempted to hide the fact that sometimes she needs a break from him. She has not even deceived him about the fact that her father was ready to sell her like a prized breeding bitch to some unworthy fucker that would have gotten drunk every night and fucked other cunts while more or less imprisoning her, all to keep Belle away from him.

Because he would be lost without her.

Because she still loves to rip the wings off moths.

Because she is the only person that does not bother to reign in their temper around him, that has the guts to scream in his face and slap him with enough force to make him bleed on the rare occasions when he deserves it, not to mention telling him to fuck off several times a month.

Because of how cute she looks in cotton polka-dot patterned pajamas, and how she will always buy the brand of toothpaste that he can't stand but makes him go back to the store and get the right stuff himself.

Because even though he knows that he is a monster and a murderer and is aware he is what "normal" people consider to be a sick fuck because he sells humans like cattle and promotes the rape of children, for some reason Belle does not see that when she looks at him. She sees him, of course, sees a man who kills without regret and allows innocence to be ripped away and can make grown men shit their pants while groveling on the floor. But she also sees him and…. and the lack of fear or revulsion and whatever it is that she sees that convinces her to stay and makes her come back and continue to have faith in him while claiming that she sees the good in him and that allows her to smile at him like that…. to say that it means the fucking world to him or that he's beyond grateful for it cannot even began to describe it.

Because of the way that she will constantly touch him and the gestures that are performed– hands on his shoulders, two kinds of milk in the fridge, an arm encircling his waist – little, simple things.

Gestures and contact that are nonsexual yet convoy her love and desire along with her trust in him and the comfort that she takes from his presence just as much as anything sexual could relay.

Touches and actions that he unthinkingly bestows upon her, in turn. Things that he was once fine without, before her.

Prior to when a good-looking girl dressed in demure skirts and kitten heels with eyes of sky colored flame and a love of violets, fruit, and jazz music entered his life.

Now? After years with the same completely gorgeous woman that wears tasteful lace and soft cashmere and whom has a birthmark on her foot and loves motorcycles, pie, and skinning people alive? Now he craves these things like a junkie does heroin, needs them like he needs air, and, like a plant deprived of sunlight, would be unable to thrive without them.

Would be unable to truly continue if there was not two mugs of tea on the table, if he lost his workout partner or there was not dishes of multihued ceramic intermingling with sparkling crystal in the cupboards, and if he were to never again hear her laughter as she teased him. If his wife ever stopped brushing their legs together under the table, if she ceased resting her chin on his shoulder, or never again laid her head in his lap.

If Belle were ever to deny his touch, were ever to shrug off his hand or prevent him from nuzzling behind her ear or rejected his hugs and the kisses that he bestows upon her body. If she wasn't concerned when he got a headache or wasn't touched when he opened doors for her, if she no longer gave him her raspberries and could not toss him his gun without looking and if she ever doubted his word.

If Belle were to ever stop wanting, loving, needing, and just fucking believing in him.

Why is Belle still in love with him after all these years? A man fifteen years her senior that would most likely be classified as a psychopath and wouldn't win any beauty contests to boot?

Hell if he knows.

Maybe it's because he surprises her with roses or takes his tea and coffee in the teacup that she chipped years ago.

The fact that he allows her to fight her own battles and kill whomever she is able while only stepping in when necessary might have something to do with it.

It could be do to the fact that he doesn't mind doing the dishes or allows her to bind and gag him during sex and because he loves the vintage spinning wheel she gave him.

Because if she wants deep dish pizza he's not going to suggest she order the salad?

Possibly it is because he steels pineapple off her plate or simply that she is aware he'd lay the world at her feet just to see her smile.

Because as good as she gives it to him he is not afraid to give it back to her twice that and then some?

Perhaps it is because he worries and cares for her when she's sick or injured, takes her out for picnics and listens to her whenever she goes off on an literacy tangent even though half the time he doesn't understand a single word.

Could it be because he doesn't blink when he sees her covered in blood?

It could be because she knows that he would not hesitate to do anything for her, that there is nothing he wouldn't do to keep her safe – kill as well as die, merely threaten and not harm someone if she so requested, keep his promises and not make them if he knew he couldn't keep his word and he'd fall to his fucking knees and plead until his throat was raw while allowing himself to be kicked like a dog and mocked like a worthless beggar and willingly enduring whatever harm in her place a thousand times over. – Because Belle knows that if she ever wanted to leave he'd let her go even though she promised forever. Even though it would fucking kill him.

Because he doesn't have to look to know that, more often than not, she has three knifes and a loaded gun hidden on her body?

Probably it is because he is the only one to ever listen to her. Not just hear, but actually listen. The only one for whom her words have never fallen on deaf ears that only hear what they wish to hear. It might be because he is first and only one to truly give her a choice. A choice about where she lives and the clothes she wears and how many degrees she can get and whom she chooses to spend her life with. The choice to decide her own fate.

Because for every outfit that makes her look elegant, dangerous, sexy as hell, or just plain adorable, he doesn't care if she lounges around the house in a pair of baggy sweatpants and an oversized tee-shirt?

Possibly it is because he doesn't treat her as if she'll break and takes her out for hamburgers whenever they can get away with it.

It could be because he loves to hug her and make her laugh.

Because he has no objections to when she dresses in such a way that men's eyes pop out of their heads and woman's pussies become instantly soaked for he knows that she is his alone and because she never fails to become wet as she sees passerbys stare because she knows that soon enough he will not be able to resist having her, for he loves to take and claim her in a bathroom stall or a hallway or even a fucking storage closet amongst the dirty rags and stashes of poorly hidden porn while the very people that follow her with their eyes and fuck her with their mind are mere inches away.

Perhaps it is just because he always remembers to put the toilet seat back down.

The reasons why don't matter two shits to him.

What matters is that she still is.

So yeah, all those feelings that everyone thinks is impossible for him to posses? He has them for her.

Yes.

There is a reality and there is a front. Each of them are damn good ones, but to be honest both of them prefer the reality.

IIIIIIIIIIIII

He pulls off his leather glove with his teeth as he walks past the bitches, not really looking at them, for once not caring about their physical condition.

Everything seems to be in order.

Wait.

The tall blonde.

She's too old to be here.

Something is not right.

IIIIIIIIIIIII

Chapter Three

Pulling up in front of the club Sergei quickly heads inside, giving his usual order to Igor before pausing for a second in front of the back door as he hears Belle enter behind him. Although he knows that Belle has nothing to fear from Igor – the bartender is a faggot and doesn't get off on harming the cunts – his caution is automatic, as is the subtle movement of his hand as he moves it closer to his gun.

As always where Igor and Belles' safety is concerned his caution proves to be unnecessary. Belle's high heeled strides remain unbroken as she makes her way to one of the side doors, with only the slightest misstep giving the impression of dread as opposed to her normal confidence. Belle is eager to began that's for certain, so eager that she's already donned her submissive whore mask before she has even started to "get into costume" as it were.

Hell, he could smell her arousal as she sat next to him on the drive here, and it was fucking torture to keep his hands on the wheel and not slip one underneath the skirt of her little blue dress and into the crotch slit of her matching panties. To not twist her clit and plunge four fingers into her pussy, thrusting them in and out of her hot, tight, dripping folds and using his thumb to slam her clit nearly flat as he brings her right to the edge over and over again until she is nearly screaming for release and his dick was so hard that he'd had no choice but to pull into the nearest alley and fuck her like an animal against the dashboard. No choice but to take Belle on her back with that tiny skirt hiked up over her hips with her blue stilettos over his shoulders and his cock buried to the hilt inside of her, the soaked silk of her panties hitting his balls and gliding over his cock as he plunges it into her pussy so hard and fast that he has to put his hand over her mouth to stifle her cries least someone think that he's killing her as her first wave hits her as he has to bite a hole through his lip to keep himself from coming. Least people think that he's fucking slaughtering her as he squeezes her breasts and her juices drip from his cock and coat the front of his pants as she slides further up the dash and she clenches around him like a crank once again seconds before he shoots his load so hard its like a jackhammer explodes from his balls and he sees fucking stars.

Oh yeah. Fucking hard as hell not to do that.

Feeling his cock twitch inside his pants he brushes aside the mental images and continues through the door, making his way to the basement for his routine inspection of the new shipment of whores. As he examines them, making sure that these are the ones that have been ordered and looking for signs of a rough housebreaking he gives them the usual bullshit spiel. About how they are all in this together and they've personally paid tens of thousands of dollars to supply the cunts with passports and shit.

Well, the money may have come from his own pocket, but it's nothing that couldn't be made up within a day or two. With the whores doing the earning however, a profit five times greater than what was spent can be made.

They are the ones getting fucked. They are the ones getting on their knees and taking it dry and whom will take a belt across their ass and clamps on their fucking tits if that is what the client wants. They may earn the money but it belongs to him, and hell will freeze over before he offers up his ass for a plowing.

That part about owning them until they pay off their debt? As far as he knows no one has ever paid it off, and they most certainly do own them. The bitches are their property now, and property, like a disobiendit dog, can always be replaced. If a cunt gives them any reason to consider replacing them? Then their pet rabbit will be skinned and their grandmother run over and their little sister will be shot. It is really in their best interest if they don't become unsafafactory enough for replacement.

Having finished he informs his men where to send the merchandise, and before heading back up to the bar he points to the blue eyed Ukrainian slut - the pretty one that hadn't qualified for the runway and whom had peeked Belle's interest, the same one with a sweet smile that wore child's clothing and had idiotic dreams and whom posses the white virgin flesh that his Belle is so looking forward to see littered black and blue and smeared with blood and covered in red raised welts – indicating to his men that she is to be dressed up and properly prepared before following him.

While waiting at the bar he watches the news broadcast, more for something occupy his mind until Belle is ready rather then out of a desire to refresh himself on current events.

The report involving "Manila" and "American teenager" peeks his interest though. Shit. Of course the child bitch had to be taken in fucking Tommy's neck of the woods, and if Tommy had the brains to get rid of her by now then his balls are made of gold. The stupid little shit can't seem to understand that it doesn't matter how much he wants to fuck the white kiddies, because the fact remains that a missing foreign kid will gain more attention as opposed to a local gutter rat.

Sure enough that note that he's heard all too often for his liking appears in the accented voice on the other end of his phone almost instantly when Tommy realizes whom he is talking to. The tone that says Tommy knows damn well that he's fucked up and is now, at the last possible second, trying to cover his ass with some half thought up shitden of motherfucking lies. He's not surprised, but the prospect of listening to Tommy's dribble is already giving him a headache. As he pops two of the aspirin from his case and swallows them with some water he prepares himself to listen to the shit about to be thrown at him.

Thankfully however Andri chooses that moment to bring in the cunt – now wearing nothing except a green sequenced bra and a skirt that barley covers her ass – and he halts Tommy before the fuck up can really get into it. Taking the glass from Igor without looking he gives her the vodka, loving the way she stands almost perfectly still before him save for her shaking hands and the almost sobs issuing from her throat. She's like a rodent frozen with terror, unable to move a muscle even though its mind is screaming at it to run.

Well, thirty seconds after she finishes that she won't know her head from her pussy, let alone her name or the fact that she was ever terrified in the first place. The vodka was from the laced bottle, the shit that's powerful enough to send a fucking elephant on its ass while heightening every sensation ten fold.

Lovely stuff for when one wants to jack up their cries without causing obvious injury.

Continuing to eat his lunch he keeps one eye on the girl to make sure she finishes the drink, listening to Tommy recite the same shit he's told him time and time again. Tommy must think he's a fucking idiot if he expects him to sallow this story, let alone keep him around for much longer if he continues with this crap of keeping the foreigners and then lying to him about it. It's bad for business, especially if it results in something like this happening again. The only reason Tommy hasn't been taken care of by now is because neither he nor Belle can be bothered with the effort it would take to find a worthy replacement. For all the shit that Tommy spills he does provide high quaitly merchandise for those that prefer the innocent little fucks.

Unable to listen anymore he mentally rolls his eyes as he hangs up his phone, setting it down on next to his plate of sushi and taking a moment to order the girl in front of him to disrobe.

Who in the fuck does Tommy think he's kidding? He doesn't have that American sweetheart, one of the many sacrificial little virgins that are holed up underneath the hotel? Bullshit. Even if the dumb fuck wasn't one of the worst liars he'd ever hired he'd still know the truth.

Belle had been behind the transaction for her acquisition, for one thing, so even if he hadn't woken to find her still hard at work arranging the details with one of their various middlemen in the early dawn hours it would have come to his attention sooner or later.

Well, as long as this unfortunate news coverage doesn't lead back to them he doesn't give too great a fuck.

Pushing away his thoughts he returns his attention to the now openly crying girl, all long, taunt limbs with gorgeous curves and round breasts and a shaved pussy between her legs.

"You've never been with a man before, have you?"

The question he poses to the shaking, red haired teen before him is completely rhetorical.

He knows the answer, he's been in this game long enough to spot an unpoped cherry a mile away.

Still, he's nothing if not considerate.

Not bothering to look for her drug addled reply he raises a finger to beckon over one of his men standing just inside the doorway, the one with the short blond crew cut and huge muscles whom he will not have to replace because said man will know better then to kill the girl.

It's so aggravating when the ripe, young, innocent ones bite the dust before a decent profit can be made.

The man strides obediently toward the quacking little bitch, her already foggy mind momentarily failing to comprehend the meaning when the he pushes her onto her hands and knees, his hand already undoing the zipper covering his hard cock.

The soft whoosh of the side-door opening disturbs the tension of the scene before him and before he can blink his darling Belle is kneeling before him, naked except for her blue panties and those fuck-me stilettos adorning her feet. She is shivering with goosebumps littering her skin and her hands bound in leather behind her back, her eyes lowered in submission.

Reaching forward he wraps her dark curls around his hand and jerks her head upward hard enough to hurt, a smile crossing his face at her stifled gasp of pain.

For it is going to be one of those times.

One of those times when he pretends to rape her.

When she will utter "please" and "no" like the well trained whore everyone believes her to be.

When he takes her through her clothing, the items that are modest and tasteful and yet if he so chooses he can rip seams and yank off buttons until there is nothing left to the imagination.

When he, her master, will break her skin and bruise her face whilst fisting her or gagging her with his cock and she has to fight against the impulse to push him away.

When he wraps his hand around her throat and squeezes until her eyes dim and relishes in her screams of agony, her whimpers to let the other girl go as he fucks her dry pussy and comes on her breasts as her rising sobs are stifled.

When he will take her right there on the floor in front of his man and the whore and anyone else that cares to watch, fucking her through the slit in her panties with those stilettos hiked up over his shoulders and her hands bound behind her, her screams sounding for all the world like he's using her until she bleeds before killing her a thousand times over.

When he will fuck her on top of the bar, she on her hands and knees as he pounds into her from behind, his fist or a bottle or simply his tongue replacing his cock once she has uttered "No" one too many times and he will laugh and use his teeth to draw blood from her breasts and ass as she struggles against whatever is repeatedly slamming into her pussy, unable to prevent her eyes from straying toward the whore upon the stage as her sobs pass through clenched teeth and he makes her come again and again even though she begs him not to because that is the last thing that she wants.

When he changes his pace, the actions he performs, and the degree of harm that she suffers just to shake her up.

Yes.

It is one of those times.

It is one of those times when Belle prevents herself from pulling him closer and her pleas to stop mean "harder, faster, more".

When he carefully rips a hole in the crotch of her tights with his teeth and takes her against the wall, her black lace blouse opened to expose her bra covered breasts and that beige skirt scraping against the top of his cock, when buttons litter the floor and she bites his lip in reprimand because she just bought this clothing, damn-it Sergei.

When his wife's stifled cries and screams are sounds of pleasure and indications that she wants to see the cunt onstage get fucked harder and cry louder even though he is the only one she wants inside her and her eyes turn into glimmering pools of lust.

It is one of those times when he, her husband, only gives her the amount of pain the show requires and makes sure never to squeeze her throat too tightly.

When she pleads with him to let her come because every time she is nearing her peak he will back off, bringing her right to the edge over and over again and only allowing her small waves of release until she's strung tighter then a fucking bow and so swollen and sensitive that the slightest touch mixes pleasure and pain and she can't tell which is which anymore. Until her eyes are so glazed that she no longer sees him or the bar nor the whore taking it every which way and not even the few men that are brave enough to jerk off in the doorway, until her the rushing of her blood and the pounding of her heart is the only noise that reaches her ears and her voice is so horse from screaming and mindless pleas that she can barely speak even though the desperate jerking of her hips and artless movements of her sweat drenched body say more than enough and coming is the only fucking thing that she wants.

It is one of those times when he may take it slow. When there is gentleness alongside shallow movements and skin that never breaks contact. When he runs his hands along and rains kisses down the length of her body and she fakes the jerking spasm of her legs around his waist in an indication that she wants him deeper. When she bites her lips to stifle her gasps and her eyes never leave his, when she grips his shoulders and takes hold of his hair and subtly presses that spot on his hip that drives him wild, when her tremors are due to slow building pleasure and he is careful to avoid any sore areas, purple blotches, or painful muscles that she has obtained. When she squeezes his ass as he kneads her breasts, when he sucks on her fingers after they have been inside herself. When she lays on top of him and curtains their faces with her hair as he kisses her palm before she nips the underside of his jaw and seethes his cock inside of her pussy. When he does not strike her nor make her skin bruise or break, does not restrain her nor choose words intended to give the appearance of mocking or degrading. When the amount of faux fear and reluctance that she chooses to show are lessened. When, unknown to the others that are only perceiving that which they expect to perceive, their actions and words say love you, more, yes, mine, beautiful, yours. When Belle does not choose to have her husband take her, but rather she allows him to have her. When he does not fuck his wife, but makes love to her.

It is one of those times when, even though he habitually looks at the stage to keep up appearances, for the most part he never glances away from her and Belle's eyes shine with satisfaction because she knows that even though the whore has one fucking hot little body and a pussy that's tighter then a vise it is her that he wants.

Always her.

Only, forever, and unconditionally her.

It is one of those times when he listens to the meaning behind her false words and if she ever uttered the first syllable of their safe word he'd stop instantly and fake displeasure in her response, halting their portion of the show with a few well chosen words and half hearted slaps because he will never force her nor harm her or frighten her.

When he fucks her dripping pussy until she clamps down hard on her tongue to mask her the sobs of her orgasm and when he comes on her breasts it is with possessive pleasure that he marks her so, when he reminds those who want to take her that they can look and jerk off all they like but they can't touch because if they do then he'll slice off their fucking dick and shove it down their throat.

Belle is his.

His lover.

His wife.

His friend.

His defender.

His sadist.

His adviser.

His aggravating blood soaked angel.

She is all that and so much more, but never is she his whore.

Yes. It is one of those times.

So he claims her with enough force to cut her lips on her teeth as he plunders her mouth with his tongue, stifling a laugh as Belle forces herself not to respond with eagerness and masks her shiver of desire as the cunt's shrill screams reach her ears.

For today, no matter if it's for twenty minutes or five or three fucking hours, for all intents and purposes, she is his whore.

IIIIIIIIIIIII

The ill feeling inside him grows stronger as he watches the blonde, when he hears her words.

She is not afraid, not like the other bitches around her. She's pulling a good impression, he will give her that. The thing is? He knows fear. Knows what it looks like in the eyes and sounds like in the voice and can spot it in the involuntary shakes and contractions of the body.

She's calm, determined.

Her voice does not shake, does not choke on her tears.

Her body is shaking, but not in the right way. There is no random contractions of the muscles beneath her arms, no sudden jerking of her legs.

When she speaks her response is even stranger.

"Sorry, I feel sick"

Who in the fuck would say that? Not one of their normal bitches, that's who. Already they would know that he and the men around them don't give a shit. This one…. her tone isn't appealing for sympathy. No. It sounds rehearsed, scripted.

Fuck. What the hell is going on?

Who in the hell is she?

IIIIIIIIIIIII

Chapter Four

The suberen street life of New Jersey has always left much to be desired.

There are few cars and even fewer people, with only a solitary jogger and occasionally a mother with a few young children in a minivan to prove that yes, there are inhabitants even on a Sunday afternoon. The only noise, apart from the low hum of air-conditioners and the sharp cries of birds is the wind as it ruffles the leaves of the trees overhead.

The only bright spot in the lack of activity and the silence of the suburbs is that there is no one to see him standing on the street corner, his phone buzzing unchecked in his hand and his mouth hanging open like a fish.

Belle had just called him, which wasn't an unusual occurrence in itself, but Belle's demeanor was.

She was oddly tense, almost short with him even. She wasn't anxious as she normally would be when he confirmed that two hours ago he had ordered Helena to take charge of that small portion of their accounts in addition to the house's financial reports. (Belle knew how important it was to maintain their secrecy so although she didn't like it having someone else go over the earnings was necessary. Not to do so would draw too much ill attention). There was no response when he mentioned that he'd shown Helena the pitchers of her daughter and mother nor did Belle answer the unspoken concern he knew she could hear in his voice.

Instead she'd just said two words before hanging up.

Two words that left in his current undignified, utterly stupefied state.

I'm pregnant.

Pregnant.

After sixteen years of marriage and eighteen of having his lover.

He was going to be a fucking father.

IIIIIIIIIIIII

Taking a chance he speaks to her, the words of his native language flowing easily off his tongue.

She answers him and…. yes, there it is.

There is still an accent to her speech, for all that she is fluent in his language. If she had truly been an old Russian bitch they picked up by chance then her American accent would have disappeared when slipping into her native tongue.

It doesn't.

IIIIIIIIIIIII

Chapter Five

"Sergei, I fell asleep. It happens."

At the worthless excuse issuing from the man's mouth he feels his muscles tighten as his anger that has been slowly climbing its way to the boiling point ever since Mimi informed him of tonight's' events some four hours ago starts to simmer over.

One of the bitches had practically leaped from a balcony.

She had run down the streets, screaming at the top of her lungs while wearing next to nothing and littered with bruises.

She had almost exposed the clients who were paying fifteen thousand dollars a piece to fuck the cunts.

And the man who was supposed to be watching the fucking house to make sure that this very thing didn't happen had been asleep.

This stuff happens?

Attempting to cool himself down he takes a quick pull off his fag and clicks open the pen, reaching for his appointment book and trying to flip through it without fucking loosing it. He really doesn't feel like replacing another man, especially one whom can be trusted not to kill the bitches. They're pretty hard to find not to mention it's a shit ton of work and –

The whore runs screaming down the street, passing the one car that she should never have made it passed, and in the houses around her lights are beginning to turn on as the inhabbitnents are alerted by her screams that are getting fucking louder by the fucking second and if one goddam person were to step out their door -

This shit fucking happens?

He is moving almost before he realizes it, slamming the pen into the fucking bastards throat and holding it there, giving it a vicious twist and barring down harder in order to drive it in deeper and force the fuckup to his knees before pulling out the onyx impalement, already feeling his anger starting to cool even as blood squirts from the hole and the wet gasping gurgles reach his ears before he pushes the rapidly dying man onto the floor.

Looks like Mimi has more work on her hands.

Tossing the bloody writing instrument onto the pristine white pages of his book he takes a few deep breaths, trying to further calm himself. It is then that he turns his attention to Helena whom is leaning against the door, her entire body shaking and looking sick and as terrified as all fucking hell.

Good.

She should be.

She should have no doubts about what will happen to her if she tries to escape, because next time it will be her on the floor with a pen in her throat and her breasts nothing more then twin lumps of mangled hamburger meat.

Next time it will be her precious daughter laying there like a broken little puppet after the strings have been cut, her dead eyes wide and her mouth opened in a scream with her hands and feet severed from her body.

It was getting time for Helena to be relocated anyway, but now that she has seen this it seals the deal. If there's one thing he's learned it's that keeping a bitch around after she's seen him kill is not a smart move, for within time she is likely to revel it to the others, increasing the odds that the bitches will try to escape. Can't have that happening now, can they?

So he orders her to pack up her stuff, grabbing her jaw and tightening his grip just enough to dig painfully into her bones, digging his nails into her skin and feeling her pulse pound jackrabbit fast against his fingertips as he warns her against saying one fucking word before allowing her to stumble from the room.

Closing the door behind the bitch he steps over the corpse on the floor, automatically avoiding the blood as he picks up the now crimson soaked pen. Reaching into his inside jacket pocket he pulls out his handkerchief, methodically cleaning Belle's pen with short and through swipes, not bothering to listen to ensure that Helena is keeping quiet as she packs, as peer his orders.

He'd just promised to snap her kids' neck like a wishbone if she was stupid enough to breathe a single word of what has just occurred, and Helena knows that he'd do it to.

That he'd do it and enjoy it and personally deliver her the pitchers just to watch her scream.

Helena will do whatever he wants, for she is a parent and parents (excluding the ones that they deal with, of course) will do anything to protect their children.

This has always been something he knows intellectually, but now with his child growing inside of his wife it is a concept that he is beginning to personally understand. The infant is only the size of a lima bean but already they have fallen in love with their little one. Already he has begun to imange it's face and the expression in Belle's eyes as she finally holds it and what that first kick will feel like against his palm.

Already they have started to imange its features. A green eyed son or a daughter with coffee hued orbs. Blonde curls or wavy tresses of sable. Her smile and his nose, a birthmark from Belle's father along with hands inherited from his…. whomever the fuckers where that made his existence possible, an unwanted Russian mutt found in a dumpster and weeks latter was taken in by two merciless fags. Personally? He hopes the child looks like their mother. Best parent to take after, in his opinion.

Already, he has begun to fear that this child, like Bailey, won't survive past the forty eight hour mark. That, like the brother that they will never know, this child will be born early despite the doctors best efforts.

That it will have trouble breathing and the heart will not have formed correctly.

That it will be blue and limp and so, so silent – breathe, come on little one. cry, move, you can do it, come on now …. no. no, please. please please oh fucking god please no –

That, as with Bailey, he will barley catch a glimpse of the child before the doctors have whisked them away for hour after agonizing hour of surgery, and that when the doctor comes out there will be tears in his eyes.

Tears that he, the father, will instantly know the meaning of, and there will be nothing that he can do except hold the too tiny body for the last minutes that the life is present in his eyes.

Nothing expect offer his soul in exchange to a God that he doesn't believe in and plead to anyone that is listening and scream bloody murder when the tiny, perfect hand that had been gripping his thumb so tightly – don't let me go daddy. love you daddy. help me daddy – slackens.

Slackens and falls and never – neverneverfuckingnever – raises again.

Yes. He fears that down to the very depths of his bones, and until the child is here, alive and squalling and healthy in his goddamn arms will not – cannot – stop fearing it.

The nightmares?

The nightmares have started already, both for himself and Belle as he knew they would.

Nightmares of the child being raped or kidnapped and screaming for them to wake up as blood pours from the bullet holes in their chests as feds surround them.

Nightmares that leave him heaving on the floor and Belle sobbing in her sleep and him cursing the fact that right now Belle isn't even on the same continent as him when he jolts awake with the images burned into his retinas.

Nightmares that, for him, are often memories. Fragments of images - livid bruises, a fist swinging down, blood seeping from cuts that have ceased to hurt, hazel eyes that are blank with rage even as his tiny legs curl towards his stomach in an automatic effort to avoid the expected pain – and flashes of sound - the crack as leather strikes flesh, shrill cries mingling with deep bellows of anger, curl laughs and sneering jeers and an echoing smack that never seems to end - that leave him with sick dread flowing through him, regardless of weather or not he is asleep.

For often, within the dreams, as the images flash and the sounds echo his face will form. It will be his arm swinging and his blank eyes and his sneer as the sharp whistle of the leather that hurls through the air and strikes a small, faceless form huddled upon the ground.

A faceless child that has big blue eyes of their mother.

It does not take a geniuses to figure out the meaning behind these dreams…. and… he will never become like the two bastards that despite raising him for seventeen years have only left this as their legacy.

A legacy that is faces that won't form along crystal clear memories that are pushed away.

A legacy that is a burning hatred inside of himself that he cannot fully explain and a fear of closets along with a scar the size of his fucking fist expanding the length of his stomach while confetti sized fragments of memories dance along the edges of his mind – and those must be fucking terrible as hell, if he can't get anything more then flashes and they are what his mind has chosen to muddle, to wrap in a fog and bury in mud. To protect him from.

A legacy that is scars littering his body and burns dotting his skin like goddamn sprinkles of fairy-dust, and these not the type you get from a lifetime of little mishaps either. Not ones that are small and faded and easily explained away. No. The ones that he's got are raised, jagged and lumpy whilst others are smooth and feel almost like whole skin. They range in color from blushing pink to snow white in addition to clownfish crimson and plum purple and fucking everything in between. They are as thin and fine as a wire as well thicker than goddam pancake batter and rest in neat rows and in layer after layer on top of his skin.

They are as disgusting as hell.

They are the kind that people stare at in horror and that you struggle for years to explain until you just can't anymore.

Until you stop trying.

You stop because you can't explain when you, yourself, do not know.

He may not know how – when, whom, or how nor fucking why - they came about, it's true, but he's caused injuries similar enough, and often enough, on the flesh of others that he recognizes the cause of what mars his own skin. The scars, the marks and dark patches and lines that criss-cross to and fro, are what results from fire licking your skin while a knife scores your flesh, from restraints that cut through muscle and tendons all the way to the bone as a whip falls again and again upon your back and from when you are hurled against a wall or down a flight of stairs hard enough to kill but instead you only bleed and break and wish that you were dead. They are from when bones stick out of flesh and cigarettes are ground into your skin as if you as if you were an ashtray, from blows that crush your fingers as brands that glow red hot are placed upon you and boiling water makes contact along with so, so much more even though you're screaming your fucking head off.

Not screaming words.

No.

No pleas or tears and not so much as one fucking syaballe.

You're past that.

You're just screaming.

A legacy placed upon him that is this gut wrenching terror that he will harm and mock and terrorize his own child.

That he will cause scars in addition to mindless screams and an ever present loathing along with memories that must be buried if only for the sake of sanity.

Perhaps this would be considered odd, this concern from two people that enjoy agony and suffering, that have watched children get fucked and murdered by others and committed the killings themselves while reveling in every second of it.

The thing was none of those people, none of those children were theirs.

This child will be theirs. This child is theirs.

They love it and will protect it with their last breath and never will their child suffer what they themselves have caused to happen to so many others.

Which is why he and Belle are planning to get out of the game. They are going to be employing some guys to take care of them, because even though his multiple degrees in computers make him more than capable of it themselves he would rather not have his fingerprints all over it. Due to the middleman rout it will take time to gather their money, create new documents while destroying the old, to forage new guises and escape somewhere where they can blend in and be safe. If the timing goes right, all should be settled by the time Belle is almost to full term. This change of lifestyle will be hard but they can do it if it means protecting their child.

His temper now having cooled completely he gives the pen one last swipe with the expensive cloth, pleased when the last traces of blood are removed from the now gleaming black surface.

It is Belle's favorite pen, and she'd be annoyed with him if it had gotten ruined because he'd stuck it through that fuck ups throat, never mind that said fuck up almost allowed one of his wife's handpicked whores to get away, nearly exposing the entire house in the processes.

Of course, she is already annoyed with him because he hasn't gotten rid of that red haired cunt yet, never mind that the clients are paying more to fuck that bitch up the ass then any of the other stupid sluts they've got in that house. Considering recent events, however, he will have to give the issue of relocation or elimination more consideration. They can't risk that bitch trying it again.

A soft smile flickers across his face as he absentmindedly twirls the pen between his fingers while picturing his wife's' frown, for he knows that another reason for Belle's annoyance (in addition to the fact that up until now he was still allowing Helena to go over that small portion of their finances, all of which Belle has already figured out, and being the perfectionist that she is cannot stand anybody going over her work) is due to sexual frustration.

For he knows that in his month long absence from their home in Sicily even though she's no doubt used anything and everything to fuck select pieces of their merchandise that she has deemed disposable, has made them bleed and bruise and break while scream six ways from Sunday until she silences them forever before getting off, it is still not enough.

It is not enough because she hasn't been able to ride him in an ever growing pool of blood.

It's not enough because he hasn't been there to fuck her from behind while she shoves something up the sluts' pussy or some fag's cock hole, coming explosively from the combination of his cock inside her and the way he'd whisper sweet and filthy nothings in her ear as she saw the growing terror and pain in the helpless whore's eyes.

Ignoring his half hard cock he shifts his feet, not bothering to take himself in hand right there above the still warm corpse and finish what the mental images have started.

For he knows that in two days time Belle will be in his arms.

Knows that he will give her back her pen and a new set of antique books to make up for his necessary absence, her eyes shining as brightly as if he'd given her the queen's jewels.

Knows that they will fuck and make love until they're exhausted and that she'll smile and his stress will fade away as she reads to him and that soon enough they'll fight and have breakfast together.

Knows that he will help her clean the house and they'll take tea in the brightly lit dining room before going to a dance class on the mainland.

Knows that she will be waiting for him to pick her up from one of her classes at the University of Messina and that habit she has of clicking her tongue while reading will annoy the hell out of him.

Knows that soon he will be able to caress her stomach, his touch more possessive than it's ever been and Belle's face will soften at the action.

He doesn't mind waiting.

Not for that.

Not for her.

IIIIIIIIIIIII

So the new guy standing in front of the red haired bitch lied did he? Well, that would be interesting if the bitch directly before him wasn't more so. He doesn't believe she's telling the truth. Not about her country. Not about her age nor her name. Not about her fucking reasons for wanting to come to America.

He stares at her, waiting for her to drop her eyes as they all do…. but she doesn't. At least not for more than a few moments before she looks at him again, as she if she is trying desperately not to fail at some act but can't control herself enough to succeed.

The only woman whose eyes have never lowered before his own are Belles', because she knows that she has no reason to fear him.

This blond? She does not fear him, either.

Chapter Six

Fucking Jesus Christ on a motherfucking shithole tit!

Queen's been busted! They've found the girls and the client list and who knows what the fuck else! They've got Helena, and she might not talk because she knows that if she does her daughter's death warrant is signed and delivered but can he actually count on that?

Is he willing to bet his head on that?

On the silence of a whore that has seen the records as well as his face and whom had witnessed him kill just days prior to when she noticed him watching idly as a client rutted her like a feral dog upon the stairs and he witnessed her hatred for him burning white hot in her eyes?

Would he bet his fucking life that the cunt who is the most terrified of him – terrified that he will slaughter her daughter or that red haired bitch she's become close to, terrified that he will fuck her for she doesn't know that the mere thought of doing so makes him sick – will remain quiet?

Of course not, and if that stupid fuckhole beside him in the drivers' seat could count and catch the deliberate mistakes in the finances he would never have had to put his trust in Helena. She would never have been brought into it and then this would be so much less of a goddam mess.

Belle.

Shit.

She's already under stress with the baby and the moving preparations and now to heap this onto her plate?

Miscarriages can't happen at this stage can they? Not from stress anyway?

Fuck. He's scared as hell and scared is not something that he handles well. He gives Andri the order to call Prague because needs that goddamn kid, needs her brought to him now to ensure that Helena doesn't say one fucking word.

IIIIIIIIIIIII

She's a fed!

Shit, he should have left the Jersey shipment alone. Said fuck the risk of not going and left with them. He should have joined his wife and child on that plane. He should be waking up next to Belle right now, watching as the sun creeps into their room.

He's not.

He's not because he's a fucking idiot and now he's got a gun pointing straight at him and he's about to be surrounded.

Fuck that. He may be unarmed, but he's going to make it to them one way or the other.

IIIIIIIIIIIII

Chapter Seven

That lawyer screwed up. He'd been ensured that he was good but from the looks of things that pansy can't wipe his ass by himself, let alone get that bitch out of the fed's hands.

He meant what he said too, as he watches the man's retreating back through the crowd around the runway. The man thought a twisted arm and a few crushed fingers hurt? If Helena isn't out by tomorrow then that will be the least of his worries because he will track him down. There is nowhere that the idiot lawyer will be safe because he will come and hunt him down and then the hurting will be much more intense. If that bitch isn't out by the deadline the man will be screaming for death before the day is out.

As if this isn't enough? Andri informing him that the police in Prague have got Helena's kid does not help matters.

It doesn't help because now he knows for sure that Helena took the motherfucking deal. Now he knows for certain that she will talk as soon as she has her little golden haired brat. Helena will tell those feds everything. She will hold nothing back because what she cares about most is safe. Safe from him and his men or a bullet between the eyes and from spending the rest of her life on her back with a cock buried inside her.

They need to take care of this. They need to take care of this right fucking now before that kid is here and Helena talks. If she talks…. if she talks then everything is in danger. Not just the business or the money but everything. Which is why he orders Andri to make sure that this gets taken care of. Andri's excuses about how difficult it will be do not concern him, nor does who actually does the job. Andri could take the shot from a rooftop or a hired gun could be forced from the shadows or they could send in one of the models into the station with a bomb strapped to their chest. It does not make a difference.

Helena, that bruised mannequin, needs to be killed before a single word can pass her lips, and if they are able to get to her little porcelain doll in the meantime? That's fucking perfect.

That's the thing about mannequins and porcelain. They are easy to shatter.

Unfortunately shattering them right now would be too fucking easy.

Picking up a folding chair he throws it onto the stage, wishing he could beat a person or a punching bag to a pulp or even smash all the crystal bottles on the table just to ease the tension in his gut.

Right now he can do none of that, so there is little alternative but to sit in the chair on the fucking stage, ignoring the still frightened women near him while staring blankly at the model in front of him. So blankly, in fact, that she could have taken her clothes off and he wouldn't have noticed. Not when his tension is growing by the second and the only thing that he can do is rub his jaw while he's becoming coiled tighter then a spring for every second that he can't destroy bottles or kill a few cunts.

All of those things, however, would only help for a while. Just enough to get his blood pressure down and then he'd be right back were he started.

What he really needs, he knows, is Belle. He needs her beside him and to see the developing shape of her stomach where their lime sized little rabbit hides, needs to hold her and watch the way her hair bounces on her shoulders. Hell, he'd take the sound of her voice right now if he could and force himself to be satisfied with it.

Belle is his drug and he needs his fix. Simple as that.

That isn't possible. Thanks to the message he sent her after Queens Belle is fully aware of the danger and would never come never mind call, not now when she and the baby are safe in their soon-to-be permanent home in Romania, about ten miles inside the Southern Carpathians.

The home where they will raise their child.

He knows that he should get them out right now, right this minute. Just give their guys the word to secure their agreed upon profit and put the new documents into the record book and start over with his family.

The problem isn't only that they are just one million short of the amount of money that getting out requires, but that Helena is a loose end, and a fucking dangerous one, at that.

She is not just dangerous because of the threat she poses to him.

No.

Helena is dangerous because if he is caught then there is a chance that Belle and their child will be as well.

And like mannequins and china dolls, angels and little hidden rabbits are also capable of shattering.

Far, far too easily.

He doesn't like loose ends.

(((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((

Twelve hours is all it takes.

Twelve hours for his lawyer to call him on his cell in his hotel room to inform him that the feds are moving Helena to a safe house.

Within the space of one minute he has been ordered by his lawyer to never make him kill anyone again, directly or otherwise.

Ten seconds is what it takes for Sergei to disregard that order completely, laughing as he hangs up before swallowing the last of his drink and taking another pull off his fag. If he wants that lawyer to gut someone in front of their mother then he'll fucking do it. Simple as that.

By the time five minutes are up he has sent a message to Regina Heart, one of his "former" hired guns currently residing in the area ordering her to kill Helena at the safe house. He has no fear that she will not comply, after all she owes him a favor for disposing of her sociopathic mother and allowing her to be with some poor stable boy. The stable boy who will meet a tragic end if Regina chooses not to obey him, as she knows full well.

Thirty seconds latter he has sent a text to Belle, informing her of this new development, telling her not to worry.

That loose end? Soon it will be tied up nice and tightly, topped off with a bow for the hell of it.

Like he said before; he hates loose ends.

IIIIIIIIIIIII

He runs as best he can through the building, the stolen gun tight in hand. He feels blood pouring from the hole in his leg where that bitch had got him. Shouting and gunshots sound behind him. His men are protecting him, and as every step sends fire spreading up his leg he has never been more grateful that he has them well trained. Protect the boss at all costs. Good thing to have driven into their heads now, isn't it?

A man's voice cries out in warning, far too close behind him, but he doesn't stop.

He needs to get to them.

IIIIIIIIIIIII

Chapter Eight

The heavy oak door of his Manhattan home closes behind Mimi, the soft thud loud in the silence. He sighs and rubs his forehead, feeling a tension headache coming on. Damn it. Of all the stupid things Mimi could have done coming here was one of the worst, especially since considering that only yesterday Helena had been taken care of. Was Mimi so fucking stupid she thought the feds were no big deal? Was she so blind that she actually missed their vans parked practically on his motherfucking doorstep? Didn't she watch the goddamn news or pick up a newspaper for fucks sake? Helena's picture was posted all over the media, which meant that not only was the business in danger but his life could be well, especially if Helena or any of those other bitches talked as he suspected they had.

And contrary to what Mimi thought he was not being paranoid by only going to Jersey when it was absolutely necessary. Not when anytime he stepped outside the feds would be on his ass with their guns loaded and handcuffs at the ready. He has no intention of providing them with a fucking goldmine of proof for his arrest. Nor was it stupid to assume that the feds would try anything to get someone close to him, to plant a mole in the form of a bitch or employee in order to gain his trust and trick him into spilling his fucking guts before killing him. That's what he would do, if he were one of them.

On top of that having those men in house checking for bugs had set him further on edge, for he has never liked people inside his goddamn house. In all the years he had owned this place, as long as he did not invite them inside, as long as the front door was locked no one opened it. No one came inside for any reason.

Not Andri, not Walter, and not even Mimi.

No one.

He's made it very clear that if they do he will shoot them on sight, regardless of their reasons for coming here.

For this was meant to be a safe house, a sanctuary and vacation spot for him and his wife, where they could drop their act and just…. rest for however long they needed to. For almost twenty years whenever they resided in this house or another like it he and Belle could do whatever they wanted without fear of repressions. They could cook dinner or watch movies, make love on the stairs and play Scrabble… hell, they could even have an all out screaming fight if they needed to and it was alright. They didn't need to censure their words or limit their actions or constantly worry about murder and violation. Here they were just…. themselves.

Something that didn't happen often enough.

Now the possibility that that safety, that privacy within their sanctuary was being compromised felt as much of a violation as if he himself had gotten fucked up the ass.

Thankfully that hadn't been the case. No bugs were found.

For that he was beyond grateful, because for the past two nights Belle had been residing here, along with him. He knows that he's taking an incredible risk by allowing this, especially now of all times, but the truth was he needed her. Not just because of the nightmares that keep him awake at night, nightmares that end in her death. It isn't simply because he feels better when she's near him or because he's scared that they are going to loose it all before they ready to get out. Nor was it due to the fact that he'd gone so long without sex, without touching her body and hearing her cries that he was walking around with an almost constant hard on.

No. He just needed her, almost as bad as she needed him it appeared, if those bags under her eyes and the slight wrinkles that were visible on her ruffled, gray dress had been any indication. Besides it wasn't as if they had been walking around the house for anyone and anything to see. They had been residing in their safe room in order to be absolutely certain that they avoided detection. A safe room that was completely hidden and sound proof, more like a small apartment really, what with the bed and full sized bathroom, the bookcases and armchairs, not to mention the kitchen and excise equipment along with the weapons arsenal and camera feeds of the main house and everything else including a walk-in closet.

Now that their safety is secure however he knows that Belle will be coming out soon enough, because as comfortable as that room is there's only so long she can stand being cooped up without sunlight and fresh air.

Cooped up?

God what if it all goes south?

What if their plans fail or they are caught?

What if….. what if their baby is born in prison?

Their baby that already has eyes and ears along with developing, almost working organs and one hell of a tiny human face.

A baby that is healthy and growing just fine and will not suffer the same fate as their brother.

Can't.

Won't.

Please.

If Belle gives birth inside that iron barred cage - if there is complications and they slice her open and rip their little rabbit out of her while she's asleep and can't know, can't cry or yell nor beg them to give her the child and the only thing he can do is snarl and pace within his own cage while his heart feels like it's being crushed and know that he has failed his family when Belle's screams reach his ears - then they will take their child away. Give it to some family and never allow he or Belle to hold it or have a goddam picture or even know where it is, never mind if their child is being treated right or is getting locked inside a fucking closet and sitting for hours in a soiled diaper.

What if Belle's involvement, all of her strings and deals and whore fucking is exposed? What if someone has figured out….. no. No, to all of them she is just a well trained, helpless whore.

Nothing more.

Still…. what if she is caught? Then he'd yank every chain and slice every throat and take any goddam deal they gave him to get her out and off scott free because Belle is terrified of being locked away and he will not allow it to happen.

He will never allow her to be separated from their child, even if it means that he has to be.

She would do the same for him, he knows.

Fucking hell, now he's getting more worked up. Shit.

Taking a few deep breaths he concentrates on his heartbeat, trying to slow his breathing and calm his thoughts. Working himself into a frenzy won't help matters.

Noticing the slight weight upon his left ring finger aids somewhat in calming him. His wedding ring. Belle had brought it with her. The simple gold band that he doesn't get wear often enough, expect for in the exclusive privacy of one of his homes. The symbol of his commitment to his wife that he had slipped into his pocket that morning in anticipation of the men's' arrival. His other rings have been removed, he notes, the expensive gold and antique stones no doubt tossed carelessly onto the desk. He must have donned one and disregarded the others while lost in thought. If that doesn't reveal his current state of mind then he's at a loss as to what would.

Rolling his shoulders he ignores the sharp pain in his chest, the bite mark Belle had given him this morning hurting anew as more blood trickles from the small wound to further stain the white cloth that is covering it.

This morning as he'd kneeled before her, bound and gagged with a ring around his cock and praying that she would allow him to come instead of leaving him with his balls full to bursting after she'd gotten herself off by drawing his blood and fucking herself on his imprisoned dick. This morning as he reminded her once again that he was hers to do with as she wilt, this morning as he worshiped her while obeying her and let her know that he would have her only if she would take him and that all he desired was her. All of her. Her soft laughter as she tormented him and the feel of her skin against his, the sound of her quickening breath and the coldness of her feet, the taste of her mouth and the sight of her face as well as those freckles on her breasts that would jiggle so deciously as she fucked him.

Mimi had been right about one thing. He does need a clean shirt.

A noise reaches his ears. Removing his hand from his face he looks upward but doesn't bother to turn his head as the soft click of heels approach him, for moments latter Belle standing next to him.

Without speaking she places two cups of coffee on the desk, directly in front of him. The steam curls up from the rich, dark liquid inside the blue and white patterned tea cups, the chipped china of his own cup nearly grazing the rim of its whole counterpart. Silently Belle perches herself on the desk, unmindful of the papers she's wrinkling or the fact that she's perilously close to knocking over the tea cups

For a few moments Belle remains motionless, her eyes concerned and thoughtful as she gazes at him. Automatically he sweeps his gaze over her, taking note of appearance as well as her clothing.

His wife looks tired, with slight purple shadows under her eyes and a faint pallor to her skin. That tiny line between her eyes is back again, her stress and worry over their situation causing her mouth to draw into a tight line.

Her wedding ring gleams upon her finger, the unembellished gold a twin to his own.

Belle is wearing a simple v-neck lavender sweater and white jeans – both of which are normally cut and fitted but not skin tight with the crotch or breast area cut away, because right now they're not putting on a show for once or playing a goddamn game and to be honest he's fucking glad they're getting a break -. Her low open toed heels are white, and her hair is done up in a French Twist, the back being held in place by a clip - the one that's sapphires and diamonds morphed into butterflies, if the glimmer off the opposite wall is any indication – and a few curls have escaped to be tucked behind her ears and dangle near her neck.

After he has finished the reflexive appraisal he focus once more on her face, and Belle, seeing that she has his attention casually reaches into the side pocket of her jeans and pulls out a fag.

He thinks of rejecting her offer as he'd done with Mimis', after all he promised Belle that he wouldn't smoke around her anymore (if not try to give it up completely), but before the words can pass his lips his wife has swiftly pulled down the collar of her sweater over her shoulder and removes his ivory lighter from the lacy, black cup of her bra.

There is but a moment to admire the contrast of dark fabric on her alabaster skin before the fag is lit and Belle is holding it out to him. He hesites only briefly before taking it, - surly one fag can't harm the baby, right? – and he leans back in his chair and closes his eyes as he takes a long drag. Already he can feel his stress diminishing as the nicotine that he's gone without for three days flows into his lungs, the addiction centers in his brain no doubt lighting up like fireworks.

Smoking. Breathing in chemicals, tar, and who knows what other shit that causes lung cancer and tumors and whatnot while decreasing your life expectancy. Horrible as hell for you, but far more relaxing than any fucking deep breathing – yoga crap.

Minutes pass as he continues to indulge in the unhealthy habit, and as he blows the last of the smoke upwards he opens his eyes to find Belle still looking at him, one hand holding her teacup in her lap, from which the contents are half drained. She still looks tired but the lines are gone from her face, her eyes are calm, and the concerns of her mouth are quirked upwards in a slight smile.

"So, anybody who becomes a liability, huh? Does that include me?"

Her voice is light and playful as she repeats his warning to Mimi, not serious and certainly not afraid for she knows that he, her husband, would no sooner murder her then he'd fuck a dog or stop his heart from beating.

That does not stop him from grabbing her unoccupied hand and pulling her closer, the suddenness and harshness of the action, and the action itself, identical to that which he had employed against Mimi minutes before. Also identical is the way that he brings her face close to his own, locking her gaze and never once looking away.

Not identical, however, is the response this action causes in Belle as well as within himself.

When Belle is yanked forward and when her face is inches from her husbands, he sees her eyes widen and her breath catch in her throat, just as Mimis' had. Mimi's reaction, unlike Belle's, had been from genuine fear. Fear of him and for her life. For she knew that if he had thought for an instant that she, a loyal and trusted employee of seven years was betraying him, then her life was forfeit. He would have her by her throat before she could blink, slamming her to the floor and gutting her there upon the rug before slicing her from groin to knee, like one preparing a farm animal for slaughter.

Belles' reaction was due to surprise as well as pleasure. Surprise at the sudden action that her joke had prompted from him. Pleasure because the action reveled the depth of his protectiveness and devotion to her more than any words could have done. Emotions that were continuingly growing stronger. When Belle saw that, she knew that for her, he would strike between one heartbeat and the next. He would shove her behind him, breaking the back of the one that dared to threaten her, his blade quicksilver as he flayed them alive. He would lay down his life for her, if it came to that.

For him, the difference was within his voice and present in his eyes.

When speaking to Mimi he knew that both had been hard and cold. Deadly.

Like a viper coiling in the grass, the sun flashing metallic like off its pliable armor of emerald scales, its eyes a glittering black. It is still, quiet, the lone noise a low hissing as it prepares to strike at its enemy and allow the venom to flow into their veins. Preparing, that is all. It does not move, does not let loose the trigger that will send the bullet from the gun. No. It is calmly waiting to strike, for it knows that its aim will be true, and the consequence of the bite will be quick and clean, yet fatal.

With Belle the voice that spoke and the eyes that stared were scorching and unbreakable. Fierce.

As is the wolf that lurks in the darkness. It crouches low, soft underbelly almost brushing the ground, unblinking eyes glowing gold and the moonlight casting shadows of midnight blue across the thick ebony coat, an armor that is not armor at all. For the true armor is the gleaming white teeth that are exposed in a soft, rumbling snarl of warning, a warning that says teeth will flash and blood will be spilt. The armor is there in the iron hard muscles clearly visible beneath the fur, softly quivering as the creature fights to remain still. Unlike the viper the wolf is not patient. It is not calm. It is poised on a tightrope, and at the faintest tremor it will spring. The arrow will be released from the bow, and the snarling warning that was not headed will be carried out. Teeth will meet their mark, flesh will be torn and bones will snap and the lifeblood will flow.

For the wolf, unlike the viper, cannot afford to be patient, to make the kill quick and clean. The viper is a solitary creature, you see. It will fight to the death to defend itself, and does not need to leave a warning behind while doing so. Now the wolf, on the other hand, is a creature of company. It will battle until the life has faded from its eyes not to defend itself, but the mate beside it and the cub huddled at its heels. The warning that the wolf must leave has to be clear, none must mistake their fate if they threaten what the wolf protects.

So it was the viper Mimi had faced, the solitary predator that she had ran away from with fear still churning in her stomach. Belle is staring at the wolf, and she leans closer to the vicious killer as if by a gravitational force, secure in the knowdgle that she is forever protected.

"Never."

The word is spoken softly, the wolf blazing in his eyes and snarling through his words as his lips brushes hers.

She believes him, and as she rests her forehead against his own he can almost hear her answering snarl.

For wolves mate for life, and a she-wolf will lay down her life for her mate. For her cub. In order to protect what is hers.

IIIIIIIIIIIII

The ventilation shaft is too low to run through. He'll have to crawl.

The metal is cold and sharp against his palms, cutting into them and making it difficult to hold the gun. He grips it tighter. His wounded leg is screaming at him to stop, to slow down before further damage can be done.

He ignores it.

IIIIIIIIIIIII

Chapter Nine

Swallowing some water he grabs the folder off the counter, the one that contains information on the shipment of cunts bound for Mexico, and waits for Andri to pick up. Upon hearing the music he is unsurprised when Andri tells him that he's watching one of the new dancers from Chicago – one of the ones that weren't attractive enough to make the runway nor appealing enough for fucking but had enough pontional to hang from a pole and swing their hips while showing off their tits. Andri is the type that likes to watch, after all.

Spreading out the cunts files on the pool table he disregards Andris' concern regarding his whereabouts and instructs him on what to tell Walter and reminds him how long to keep the dancers even through he knows there's no real need to. Andri is one of his good ones. One of the ones he can trust not to fuck up and to get things done without him being there to hold his damn hand every step of the way.

It is due to this that he tells Andri that there is going to be some changes to the porn sites before Andri only has a week to prepare. That there is going to be something so new, something so hardcore and special and while being as addictive as fuck and so deliciously depraved that the clients will have no choice but to come back over and over again until their bank account is empty and their dick is rubbed raw or their pussy has run dry.

Smuggling is getter tougher and making decent, honest money is getting harder – recent events are proof enough of that – so they've got to be smarter.

Disconnecting the call and leaving the folder and the girls' files laying on the green felt he grabs his suit jacket off the pool table and heads up the stairs, putting his phone in the pocket before swinging it on. Crossing the landing and going into the study he sees Belle leaning against the bookcase, barefoot in a pink sundress and holding a glass of orange juice.

"Something really hard core? What did you have in mind?" she asks, pausing to take a sip of her drink.

"I'm not sure yet, but whatever it is it'll get us that five thousand we still need."

Belle nods, her teeth tugging at her lower lip. The wheels in her mind are already turning, trying to figure out something new and exciting that they haven't done before.

Seeing his wife like this; truly relaxed for the first time in months with her hair tucked behind her ears and her feet bare against the wood floor, her nose crinkling as she goes over the new business proposition?

It's the most beautiful sight he's seen in a while. Striding forward he doesn't resist the urge to wrap his arm around her waist and pull her against him (well, as best he can with the baby bump in the way), his other hand tilting her face upward for a kiss. Belle lips move against his, forming into a smile before she kisses him in return, pecking at and molding around his own as her free hand cups his jaw. After a few seconds Belle pulls away leaving the taste of toothpaste and juice on his tongue.

He's about to lean back in for another kiss when her expression stops him. Her eyes are downcast, a slight frown appearing on her face.

"Hey. Hey now, what's wrong?" the words are quiet and gentle, his concern apparent as he uses two fingers to tilt her chin back up, trying to encourage her to look at him.

Her voice is hesitant when she speaks.

"It's just…. I'm worried. I know that we took care of Helena before she could say anything, and that they've got nothing on you otherwise they would've arrested you and I'd be fighting to get you out of jail right now–"

The feds. She's worried about those damn feds and that meeting he and that joke of a lawyer have with them.

He interrupts her anxious ramble before she can continue, trying to reassure her.

"It will be fine, Belle. Everything will work out."

And it will. This meeting and their plans and the trouble with the feds. It has to. God, it has to.

Belle raises her eyebrows, not fooled by his attempt at comfort. She's not stupid, after all.

"We can't be one hundred percent sure of that, Sergei. I know that you know it. We'll just have to… play the game as best as we can."

Play it as best they can. Yes.

Belle glances at the clock behind him, slight alarm crossing her face as she notes the fact that he's almost twenty minutes late for his integration.

"You'd better go." She says as she pushes lightly at his chest, not trying to put in more effort when he resists.

"I will, but first do you remember that promise I made you all those years ago? The day that your father was killed?"

I will always come back to you.

Promise?

Always.

Belle nods, smiling softly.

"I've got no intention of breaking it, my Lilith."

The words are little more then a whisper, spoken only for her and as sincere and as binding as if he'd written them in blood upon an ancient scroll. In a way they are, for Lilith was the wife of Lucifer. Rejected by the first man created by God, only to find herself by the side of a fallen angel. A cast off whom some said had held the dark one's soul. He, the master of fire and a commander of demons had willingly bound himself to her will, to be enslaved by her and her alone. The Lord of darkness and sin whom was feared by all and bowed to no one, bowed to her.

Anyone else would be shocked to hear him speak thus, but to him? To his wife? The promise that was made and the endearment spoken as well as everything that the title implied? It is merely a statement of fact.

Smiling at the warmth in her eyes he rubs her back affectionately, allowing his lips to linger on her forehead for a few moments as his hand gently rubs her rounding stomach before making his way to the stairs.

He had a meeting to attend.

(((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((

Well, the meeting wasn't a complete waste of his time.

That white haired cop had tried to intimidate him, yes, by showing him the bitch's picture and letting him know that they knew that he had visited the brothel and claiming that Helena told them about everything including the murder of his employee.

The problem? It takes a fuck of a lot more then a few pitchers and proof-less accusations to frighten him. There is also the fact that despite what little that fucking cunt might have told these feds she did not tell them everything. Not what they would have really wanted to hear, at any rate. She didn't have that oh so breakable doll of hers yet, so she wouldn't have dared to say anything incrementing against him. Not when she was well aware of the consequences, if his contacts had indeed managed to get the girl.

As for that murder? Yes he did kill the worthless shit and would do it again in a heartbeat if he could. As far as the feds are concerned? He is as pure as a goddam saint because no murder was ever committed. They would have arrested him by now if they had even the smallest bit of evidence other then the words of a dead whore. One that had been an illegal and deportable one, at that. It is clear that they do not, regardless of what the smug old shit claims.

Now, it is true that he's been to the brothel for pleasure.

Pleasure with Belle.

Pleasure brought on by fucking her in front of eight of his men while she pretends to hate it. Pretends to shudder at his touch.

The pleasure that he receives when watching the merchandise tremble and force themselves to hold back their screams.

The jolt of pleasure that courses through him when rips a nipple ring from the tit of one of the whores that came onto him even though he did not order it and he sees Belle's eyes sparkling with laughter even though her face is stone still and almost hidden behind her hair as she kneels at his feet.

Pleasure from doing his job, and doing it damn well, if he says so himself. Anyone else that holds a job that they enjoy would feel the same.

The feds will assume, however, that he got pleasure from fucking the disease ridden bitches. Let them think that. They would never be able to prove it one way or the other, and even if he had fucked some of the whimpering money makers they would have been long, long gone by now. As for the only woman to ever truly catch his eye? The only one whom he has been buried balls deep inside of for almost two decades? Neither the feds nor Helena have caught so much as a glimpse of her. They can think whatever they like about his statement, as long as that remains the same.

Concerning his bald face lie about never having seen Helena? If he actually was innocent in all of this it would be a perfectly feasible claim. After all, just because a client does not notice a whore does not mean that the whore doesn't see them. Even the greenest bitch will tell you that.

This meeting is, and yet is not, a waste of his time.

It is a waste because he is spending the time that he could be using to confirm the twenty most recent shipments or helping Belle practice her lamaz sitting on a metal chair while they confirm what he already knows. That the feds are watching him, just waiting for him to slip up. They are going to have to wait a long time for that.

It is not a waste of his time because they have established what before he had only suspected.

They've got absolutely nothing on him.

IIIIIIIIIIIII

He looks up as he regains his footing after falling through the air shaft onto the pavement.

The rain falls into his eyes, blinding him.

The bullets tear through his body.

IIIIIIIIIIIII

Chapter Ten

For some reason his mind has begun to break up recent, seemingly random events into sections of time.

A year

They went out for hamburgers at a little family owned diner in Florida. Belle wore her favorite yellow dress and fed a vanilla wafer to a Dalmatian belonging to the couple at the next table, Ruby and Archie Hopper. Belle only did that to shut the spotted beast up though, and he knew that if she could have poisoned the cookie first she would have.

He got more then five hours of sleep.

Belle read Watership Down aloud to him.

They came out with a new tea. Roasted Nut – something-or-other. He couldn't decide whether he liked it or it tasted like shit.

There was new models and merchandise to be screened in Newfoundland on his end, while Belle conducted a few payment transactions and oversaw a new shipment of toddlers in Australia. She stayed an extra two weeks in order to see the dolphin migration.

He attempted to make a crepe. It wasn't a success.

He got Belle a DVD set of Leave It To Beaver as a gag gift. He knew that she would hate it, but he didn't expect her to claim that it "accidently" caught on fire.

Nine months

They were able to celebrate Belle's birthday together.

On the way to Cairo to view one of the modeling shows he bought a bottle of brandy. It was damn good shit, too.

He and Belle put on their show on the floor of the bar. Belle came when he twisted her cilt, whispering to her that the cunts' virgin blood was on his man's cock.

For two days he was forced to go without sleep thanks to Jefferson Maddison. The stupid son of a bitch misread the schedule and didn't plan the modeling show within the correct time frame. If he were a impulsive man Sergei might have been tempted to take his irritably out on the mans wife and daughter. Alice and Grace, if he recalls correctly. Fourentally for the two blondes, impulsive is the last thing that he is.

While Belle was in Vermont and he was in Scotland they ate some meals together over the skype cam.

His wife was struck by an employee whom assumed that it was within his right to do so even though Belle did not belong to said employee. After shoving his gun down the bastard's throat and playing Russian Roulette he watched as Belle killed him. She used his straight razor.

A few of the cunts got pregnant. It was pleasing when it was taken care of without his order, for it was one less thing that he had to do.

Eight months

He and Belle had a fight right before he left for business in Austria. It lead to them not speaking for a week, finally apologizing over the video feed on their phones.

When staying at a hotel in the Carrabin he tried to see the stars from the rooftop. It was too bright for that.

At an outdoor café in France he ordered Belle's favorite tea, Lemon Ginger, without realizing it. He loathed the stuff but drank it anyway. How the hell his wife enjoyed that crap he had no idea.

The oatmeal he cooked for breakfast didn't burn the house down. It was successful.

While slicing a piece of meat the knife slipped and cut his hand. Belle, in an enormous show of concern, threw him a bandage without looking up from her book.

He watched an episode of Star Trek. It was actually halfway decent…. until the third red shirt was killed. Then it was just boring and stupid.

Seven months

He was away for his birthday, but after he got back he and Belle celebrated with wine and cupcakes.

They had sex on the floor with music playing in the background.

In the kitchen in their Athens home they drank coffee together as the sun came up. Belle was wearing his shirt, so he just wore jeans.

They learned they were going to be parents. They freaked out, arguing and discussing whether to keep the child for a week before admitting to each other that fear was driving their words. In truth both had wanted this for a while, even if they'd never admitted it to themselves.

That one red haired bitch almost escaped.

They went swimming in the sea. On the way back they got lost, eventually running into a couple by the name of Charmont with two children. The boy, Neal –whom was clearly not part of the family in the biological sense – gave them directions back to the mainland.

He made pancakes for breakfast while Belle stood at the counter, looking sexy as hell as she completed a crossword in her cream, silk nightgown.

Six months

While in Boston taking care of business it rained constantly for five days, so much so he felt soaked to the bone no matter how dry he was.

After realizing that he had a rare two days with nothing except time on his hands – which didn't occur often unless he was in one of his homes – he read the Dutch Dictionary just for fun.

When he returned from a week and a half trip to India he practiced making Chi Tea, and not the stuff from a tea bag either. The real kind, with milk and spices and whatnot. It was very good, although according to Belle it was a poor replacement for coffee.

He and Belle put the steps into motion to secure their families' anonymous, law abiding future, even finding a house in the Southern Carpathians mountain range of Romania. They spent four weeks there, fixing the roof and putting in shelves, choosing which pieces of furniture from their various homesteads they couldn't leave behind, repairing the floors and installing elecontric security. They'd also fixed up their child's room – bought a crib and stuffed animals along with every baby book they could find as well as a glass unicorn mobile. They painted the room yellow and Belle got paint in her hair.

For Christmas they traveled to their home in Spain. They went out to dinner and to see the light show, and when they got back he surprised her with a diamond necklace and a whore tied up in the basement. One with blonde hair wearing a maid's uniform and that had a tattoo of a glass slipper on her shoulder blade. He removed that bit of skin and burned the uniform, after Belle was done. It was a good night.

While taking care of business in Alabama he bought himself a new suit.

They began discussing names, finally deciding on Hamish for a boy and Natalia if it's a girl.

Five months

Contracting the flu for the first time in ten years? To say he felt like shit doesn't even began to cover it.

When he noticed those bruises on the group of fags from the Chinese and Korean shipment he broke the jaw of the man whom he caught doing it. That rule about housebreaking the merchandise applied to the bitches as well as the fags. Not on the face, godamint! It tended to reduce their cliental.

While laying beside his wife in their bed deep inside the Rocky mountains he learned that Belle had been having to endure horrible morning sickness by herself, never once saying a word to him. She told him how scared she was, of the birth and him not being there, of the mountain lions roaming around in the woods and of her nightmare of drowning in a river of blood. It had only been for a week, that he was able to stay, but for that week when they talked and walked together outside and she pressed herself against him in the darkness… it was a week that he hadn't needed to take pills to fall asleep. It was a week in which, when his nightmares of beating his child bloody invaded his sleeping mind Belle was there to wake him. It was a week that she held him and stroked his hair or rubbed the ugly raised scars along the expanse of his back as he sat and sobbed on the side of the bed telling her of the memories and fears his mind had conjured. It was a week that he clung to her and her she looked at him with compassion and sincerity as she told him over and over and over again that he would never harm their child. That his dreams and his mind numbing fucking terror and the way his hands shook after waking proved it. That she believed that he would not, that she could see this goodness in him just as she had seen all the rest. It was a week that he began to believe her.

Living off lattés and nuts for three days wasn't the best idea, granted, but with all of this traveling it was all he had time for.

During the middle of the night in a hotel in Budapest, when sleep eluded him once again he went down to the gym and swam laps in the pool. He relished in the silence.

Thankfully he was able to join Belle in England for her first prenatal checkup. To their relief everything was looking good, not a single problem in sight. This was very good, especially considering that Belle, while not old was not exactly young anymore either, and the older a pregnant woman was the more problems tended to arise. And if Belle insisted on the doctors rechecking everything twice over while holding his hand steady despite how he was nearly crushing hers' – because she knows all about Bailey, his fears, and how loosing his son had almost fucking destroyed him – well, the doctors have to indulge their patients, don't they. The doctors performing the procedure, a spousal team by the names Victor and Lucy Whale, were paid more then enough to keep their mouths shut about it too.

As he was coming to realize, dry smoking and nicotine patches didn't do one fucking thing to help curb his nicotine addiction. The internet was a damn lair.

Four months

When visiting an antique store in a small Romanian town, while taking a break from reinstalling the insulation and dry wall in the bathroom of his and Belle's new home he spotted a desk. It was an woman's writing desk, circa 1800's or so, if he wasn't mistaken. The wood was a dark cherry shade, thick and heavy with edges softened by age and intricately carved roses enveloping the sides and legs. He bought it at once, placing it in the room that would be Belle's study, anticipating the wonder on her face when she saw it.

He drank apple cider for the first time while in Minnesota.

During their two week stay in Alaska – for once not securing a shipment – he and Belle viewed the northern lights while standing outside their small, one room cabin in the middle of the forest. It was cold as hell, but the relative silence, the colors in the night sky, and Belle next to him made it worth it.

He went for a checkup, found out that his chelstoral levels were elevated, and started to eat more salads.

He finally finished a book he'd been working on for a year. That was the same day Queens was busted.

Talking to Belle for three hours on the phone after informing her of the situation and listening to her rant and rave got his own temper flaring, which of course made sleep impossible after their conversation ended. His mood wasn't improved by morning, especially when he learned that the police in Prague had gotten Helena's kid.

As it turns out smashing the alcohol filled crystal bottles on the buffet table did help to cool his temper.

Three months

Passing out on the bathroom was a good reminder that; One, binge drinking until a blackout never went well, and Two, living off of oatmeal, fruit, and coffee just because he was too stressed to eat a proper meal was not a good idea.

Images of the feds invaded his dreams, making sleep difficult at best.

According to Andri, the current thirteen shipments went off without a hitch. Thank god.

When his computer failed to respond for the fifth time in as many hours he threw it down the staircase. He didn't have time for this sort of shit!

Belle came to their Manhattan safe house. Her first night there they augured over the wisness of getting a new lawyer before making love in the bath. With the evidence of their child so clear in front of him he'd almost been afraid to put himself inside her.

Why did he agree to watch Pollyanna again?

Knitting and Belle in the same sentence? A recipe for disaster. Not a disaster, however, is the lopsided and brightly colored…. things that she attempts to make. He doesn't know what the hell they are meant to be. Shirts, pants, hats, or perhaps this one is a teddy bear with three ears and four limbs…. or maybe it's a one eyed cat. True, they are awful, but the point is that Belle is trying to make things for the baby, to make sure that it's warm and has a companion and that it knows that it is loved. She is going to be a fabulous mother.

Two months

Pregnancy and period hormones at the same time? Not a good combination. Not at all.

He made brownies.

They had a fight, about what he has no idea because it ended with sex on top of the pool table.

They were showing some old sify comedy on TV. He fell asleep watching it, waking to find Belle using his stomach as a pillow.

Belle decided to change the batteries in the smoke deters, nearly giving him a heart attack when he saw her standing on the highest rung of the ladder.

Nonalcoholic wine was actually decent, as it turns out.

It is raining. They open the window in the library just to feel the cold, wet wind on their skin.

One month

Belle cooked shrimp for dinner.

He practiced his boxing.

Due to an extreme case of book depravation, Belle turned to the newspaper and online magazines in a desperate attempt to read something.

He couldn't help but laugh at the look of childlike glee on her face when he handed her a collectors addition of The Complete Works of Jane Austin. He'd been saving them for their anniversary, but now was as good as time as any.

Belle came up with the idea of airing live BDSM shows to give their business that extra boost it needed to secure their plans. She got the idea from watching a moth struggle against the pins she'd put through its wings.

They were almost out of Lemon Ginger tea. This was not good.

It is five thirty in the morning. Why is he awake, and, more importantly, why is Belle organizing their books and DVD collection at five fucking thirty in the morning? He's going back to bed.

Two weeks

Belle seems to be on an apple kick. Apple pie, applesauce, applecobbler, whole apples, sliced apples, apple smoothies, baked apples, fried apples, apples with peanut-butter….. he's growing to hate apples.

A ship carrying twelve of their bitches from Thailand sank, taking everything with it including the Captain and First Mate. Fuck, that was ten thousand dollars apiece! Well, at least now he doesn't have to pay that Jones couple for the delivery. He'd never liked the cocky bastard nor his insolent lover, anyway. A cocky bastard that strutted like a peacock and whose hand he personally removed after catching the fucker trying to steal a bottle of his two hundred year old whiskey. The same insolent lover whom had wanted to abort his baby because she had just been looking for a good time and a kid wasn't planned, whom had taken the fifty million that their contract promised and left three hours after Bailey was born, not caring and never once looking back. Good riddance to both of them.

Their child kicked for the first time. A little rabbit that went patter, thump, pitter-patter as it beat tiny paws against its nest. It has fingerprints now. He couldn't believe he'd been there to feel it, to know that it has fingerprints.

The Discovery Channel was interesting, surprisingly enough.

The Hallmark Channel was full of shit. Thankfully, Belle hated it too. She loved the lumpy purple baby blanket that he gave her that night though, the one that he'd spent weeks knitting, messing up and redoing, and throwing to the floor while giving it his best death glare after he fucking messed it up again. So, maybe that says she has a hidden fondness for sappy crap?

Playing games with his wife? Playing Cards and Chess and Scrabble and everything else they can think of until they can't think of anything anymore? There's nothing else he'd rather be doing.

One night, when neither Belle nor the baby could sleep he read aloud to them from his wife's old and battered copy of Shakespeare. The sound of the old English rolling off his tongue, his voice switching flawlessly between German and French as well as Russian proved to be soothing to both mother and child.

Three hours

He went on one of his increasingly rare trips outside – necessary in order to prevent the feds from increasing surveillance and their susspsions. He went to visit his doctor, getting pills for his chelstoral and giving the man the number for Tommy's hotel.

He ordered coffee from a local Starbucks, more out of habit by now rather than out of any desire for drink itself.

According to the front page of the newspaper that he's been randomly flipping through for the past fifteen minutes, Whale numbers are at an all time low. He doesn't give a fuck. He just needed something to do with his hands until he can head back to his apartment. Can't look too eager to get back, after all.

Small, fluffy white dogs that bark and snarl at him while their owners coo at the little bastards? They're lucky he doesn't waste his bullets on animals. That's more of Belle's style.

After arriving home, he and Belle made arrangements for her to go to their soon to be permanent home. She will leave in two days time. He will be joining her soon, after he takes care of this last shipment to Jersey.

His office is a good place to make love, but it's an even better place to just hold each other. To kiss her shoulder and rub her back, to intertwine their fingers and feel her hand rub circles on his stomach. To feel silkily, dark strands tickling his nose as she nuzzles her head into his neck while pressing herself against his side and takes it upon herself to wrap his legs around hers. To get as close to him – as close to her – as possible.

While Belle takes a nap he makes hamburgers for lunch.

IIIIIIIIIIIII

A chip in his cup, caused by her. He brushes off her apology, after all it's just a cup.

She walks towards him. Simple white dress and lilies in her hair, red roses held in her hands and cheeks tinted pink. She takes his breath away.

Blue eyes.

The tiny hand slackens around his thumb.

Kill him however you'd like, love.

The worn wooden beads of the rosary click softly as he runs it through his fingers. The dark haired Italian slut that he'd taken it from glares at him, her eyes twin shards of frozen onyx. He knows that she is expecting it to burn him, for her God's white clad servants to deliver her into the light as the Blessed Virgin takes her hands. Well, there is an angel here. One with eyes of burning sapphire and whose lips are stained white with his come. An angel whom will soon ride him into the floor and suck on his tongue as she wraps the rosary around the slut's throat until her struggles have ceased and her eternal salvation is bestowed upon her.

Whistling as the leather swings through the air, fire in his back as the buckle slices all the way to the bone. Laughter.

Her voice is harsh, angry him with him in a way that she so rarely is.

Brilliant lights in the sky.

She stands next to him and yells obscenities into the crowd, this young and pretty little thing with dark curls and pink cheeks. She is cold, almost shivering, and he has the urge to give her his coat, to ensure that she is warm even if it means his own discomfort.

IIIIIIIIIIIII

His vision begins to dim, everything fading around the edges.

IIIIIIIIIIIII

Chapter Eleven

Fuck!

The feds have just busted another house, the same one where Helena was first kept and where he killed that fuck up and where he threw one of the pregnant cunts down the stairs to make her loose the baby.

If he didn't know Andri so well there's no fucking way he'd believe a word that is coming out of his mouth. He does not doubt that Andri checked, but to say that there's no rat? Of course there fucking is! Just because Andri didn't find them doesn't mean that there isn't one for god's sake!

Smashing the pool queue only serves to make him angrier, and as he listens to Andri trying to convince him to bail – to take a lesser form of the coward's way out – he entertains images of slamming the moron's head against the floor and driving the now lethal playing instrument into some cunts stomach.

After he hangs up he forcibly restrains himself from destroying the marble statues littering the room or upending the tiny decorative couch or just creating some gouges in the floor with his knife. As much as it would make him feel better it would mean work for Belle, for she would insist on helping him clean up.

Instead he sits there, his breathing harsh and the mental images involving feds, Andri, bound fags and shivering bitches as well as Tommy tossed in there for good measure growing increasingly more violent until they've become sufficiently gore filled enough to calm him.

Now he can think straight.

Now he needs a fucking drink.

(((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((

The floor is hard underneath him, the taste of olives and vodka sharp and dry upon his tongue. The dull pain that results from knocking his head against the stone pillar behind him helps to clear his head, to focus on the present rather then the buzz growing in his body.

What he'd told Andri was the truth, for the most part.

He does not believe in random. Does that mean he believes everything happens for a reason? Hell no. Shit like this, however? It is not fucking random! Not after Queens, and most certainly not now.

They are loosing half a million per week because of the cops. Yes, this is a problem and it pisses him off to almost to end, but not half as much as it would if he and Belle were still short on the payment that their plans require. Thankfully they are not.

Unlike Andri, he is not going to bail from their business. At least not before Belle is safe and their Jersey shipment is secure. Until then he's sticking with it and will expand as much as he possibly can even though the entire fucking operation is in danger of collapsing because all of this is his. No one threatens what is his.

There is a rat somewhere within his ranks, he is sure of it. If that rat is found before he can get out? Then he'll put a chain around his neck. He'll cut off their fingers. He'll pour acid on their legs and knock out their teeth with a cane, slice open their belly and put a knife through their eye and fucking draw and quarter them if that's what it takes. After that rat has talked, after he's spilled his guts and told them everything he's told those feds? Then he's going to empty a gun into his asshole. He hates rats.

A soft patter of footsteps sounds behind him, and he knows that his shouting as attracted Belle, whom is no doubt coming to investigate the news. Not that there's really anything new to tell her, except the rat. Belle knows that their business is going to shit and exactly how much money they're loosing, not to mention the increasing danger the feds are posing.

She knows all right, which is why she is leaving for their safe home in an hour, where they can raise their child in safety.

She knows, which is why each of them removed their wedding bands the week prior, placing them on a chain in the lining of Belle's suitcase for safekeeping in anticipation of their flight, for while neither of them wish to lose the symbol of their marriage they know that they cannot risk anyone discovering them. Discovering what they mean to each other.

She knows how much trouble they are in, which is increasing her stress level as well as her need to consume chocolate covered pickles thanks to her changing hormones. Both of these things, however, are not good for her nor the baby. That is why he brought in one of the bitches from the Maine shipment, - the cat-eyed Asain one who spat in his face and attempted to use a chair leg as a sword - securing her bonds in the position that Belle had requested before leaving his wife alone to work off her excess stress.

Having been distracted however, Belle approaches him, her blue eyes widening slightly as she takes in his disheveled appearance and the shattered pool cue. She side steps the splinters and the olives covering the floor, halting a hairsbreadth from his side. Belle opens her mouth to speak only to snap it shut automatically when he raises his hand to forestall her, his alcohol soaked brain finally noticing her current state.

His wife is naked.

Naked with her sinfully fuller curves and lush hips along with her bountiful breasts and round stomach on proud display.

She is flushed pink with a fine sheen of sweat coating her skin and holding a knife case in her hand.

He can see the blood coating her hand up to her wrist, still wet and gleaming as it runs down her fingers in thick rivulets to splatter softly on the floor

She has sliced off the girls' tongue before taking her virgin blood with her fist.

Has left her bound and burned and sobbing for her fucking mother. Silently screaming even as she chokes on the blood pouring into her mouth and the scarlet liquid on her face turns pink with her tears as agony shoots through her body and the bright blue eyes of his lover become scorched into the back of her eyelids.

From this position on the floor he is eyelevel with Belle's pussy, and it's so wet and red and swollen that it looks almost painful. He doesn't know how the hell she's been able to keep herself from coming, and the thought of using the wide end of the vodka bottle flits through his mind. Of running the cold, smooth glass up the sides her lips and over her clit just to see her eyes glaze and watch her hips twitch forward before slamming the bottle inside her, knowing that Belle will scream as she claws his tattooed shoulder and grips the pillar as she fucks herself on the bottle so hard it's a wonder it doesn't break.

Instead he flicks his tongue against her clit, pausing momentarily to enjoy her breathy gasp and the way her bloody hand comes up to grip his hair before continuing. He doesn't do anything more then lick and suck on her clit, taking it slow and easy has he allows her orgasm to build gradually, only moving to grab her hips to hold her in place when she finally rides it out.

Belle looks down at him, her dark curls tumbling about her shoulders, her face flushed pink and her breathing harsh and her glazed eyes as bright as stars.

She is beautiful.

God he loves her.

He presses a kiss against her stomach, where it's growing evermore defined as their child continues to grow.

He loves both of them.

They are his light and salvation and his fucking goddamn world, and he knows that he is in danger of loosing them. Knows that their business is unraveling thanks to that shithole little rat and that the feds are closing in and soon everything might be finished. That everything might collapse before they are safe.

Loosing the money to the feds? That he can handle. Loosing Belle and their unborn child by the way of a bullet, a cell, or a fucking needle filled with poison? It would destroy him. It would destroy him for he has already lost all that he's loved once already and he cannot go through it again. He will not survive it. Not this time. Would not wish to survive it.

If he were to do that however… if he were to take the easy way out by means of a gun or perhaps a knife or just allowing himself to fade away…. Belle would never forgive him.

There is no afterlife of course, no goddamn paradise in the clouds, so Belle would not be able to witness his descent into darkness but the image would torture him nonetheless. The image of tears in her eyes and disappointment and hurt in her face. What would that prove to her? The other half of his soul whom trusts him with everything she has? What example would that be, for little Hamish or precious Natalia, for tiny Bailey? For the memory of their unborn child and a frail, long dead son that mean the world to him?

That he was willing to cause her the ultimate pain and go the way all others in her life had – the one way that she could not understand nor forgive – and that it was alright for a parent to be a weak minded fool and allow despair to consume them to the point where they forsake a promise and the memory of lost loved ones.

Betrayal and not fit for fatherhood. That's what he would be showing them. He would fail them, that is what his blood pouring from his veins would mean. Failing those whom hold his heart in their hands is not an option, which is why he will never loose them. He will fucking make sure of it.

He grips her hips tighter and her fingers run through his hair in response, the tears running down his face wetting her stomach. He allows them to fall unchecked – always allows them to fall, in her sole presence – as he would never do anywhere else. Nowhere else because there, in front of his men or when facing one of the merchandise or shattering kneecaps and upping his fucking "master of the blue eyed whore" act, he is ruthless. He's brave. He's strong. Cold and perfect while being a self serving bastard of the highest degree.

In front of her – for her – the sole woman to know the truth? To know him? To understand him? He's not strong, not brave. Not ruthless nor cold and far from flawless and even further from self serving. Especially where she is concerned.

In the past, he has never afraid not to be those things, with her.

His companion with a backbone of steel and hands of silk, all encasing a heart of silver and gold.

His wife that loves yellow and The Labyrinth and is determined to see the good in him, even if she has to create it herself.

The sadistic lover that craves his hands and forgets to water the plants, whom places flowers on the grave of a child whom is her son through his memories alone, uncaring that it is not blood, an image, nor even the faintest recollection which binds her to the tiny body beneath the earth.

A hero that saved her father from disgrace, death, and desolation more times then he could count, and whom still grieves the loss of her mother. A mother for whom her daughter was not reason enough to stay.

His sole defender and the aggravator that loves their child to the depths of her soul and whom makes him want to be the best version of himself that he is capable of being.

An amazing woman whose beauty is far from skin deep and whom loves what society would deem as a truly despicable man. Really, truly loves him.

Belle, an angel dripping scarlet with flesh underneath her nails, whom is just as afraid as he is.

He is not afraid not to be those things, now, either.

IIIIIIIIIIIII

Pregnant.

Yellow paint in her hair.

Bruises around her throat, put there by him. She will not hear his apologies, will not accept the butterfly kisses pressed upon them, after all they're just a few broken blood vessels.

She tastes like toothpaste and orange juice.

Hamish for a boy.

She stands above the whore, knife raised as she prepares to slice through skin and muscle.

I will always come back to you.

I can't sleep.

Belle.

I'm thinking of Natalia, if it's a girl.

IIIIIIIIIIIII

Chapter Twelve

One of the few things that he can count on is that Thail, one of his police contacts in Manila will tell him what's happening with Tommy's house. Of course, it helps that Thail knows that if he doesn't then his life with his lover will be exposed. They don't take kindly to fags in those parts. That, however, is besides the point, because although he is already aware that the goddam house was busted he hadn't known for sure if the little fuck toys – both foreign and native - had been stowed away. Now he is sure, but the fact that this information didn't come from that fat pussy footed Aussie? It means that Tommy screwed up, and he fucking knows it.

He swears on the grave of Belle's father that if Tommy did anything, if he pissed off the wrong person or allowed one of the kids to escape or some motherly tourist saw one of the fuckers get killed than Tommy is done!

Sure enough, Tommy did do something. He roughed up some fucking woman with a video camera, and he will stab himself in the gut if she wasn't an undercover cop or some mother looking for her brat. More than likely? The woman was somehow connected to Annie Gray, that American girl whose thighs Tommy wouldn't have been able to resist spreading and pounding and finally snapping like a pair of matchsticks.

Fucking hell!

If he had Tommy in front of him he'd kill him himself.

Break his arms and wrap his intestines around his throat after sandpapering the skin off his feet and ripping off his fingernails inch by inch.

Since he can't the only thing that he can do is tune out Tommy's frantic bullshit and give him false reassurances before giving the man whom doubles as his bodyguard and current hired gun that is sitting in the car on the street opposite him a lead that the girl is getting smuggled out of the country.

That one sentence is all that is required. Now there will be a bullet meeting Tommy's head sometime in the very near future. If the gun wants to take the Gray girl plus all the other cargo? That's fine with him.

Putting his phone into his pocket he begins to walk, not stopping to look for the feds whom he knows are still parked in front of his house nor giving a shit that it looks like rain once again and ignoring the people that duck out of his way as he pushes past them.

A half hour passes as he continues to walk down the New York street, passing more florist stalls and few hotdog stands. Uncaring as to his direction for the present he takes a few random turns and walks through some puddles in the middle of the sidewalk, not giving a fuck if the twelve thousand dollar leather is ruined.

Anger and frustration courses through his body, making him pound the pavement even harder, ducking into a deserted alleyway before he's even aware that he's done so. Leaning against the wet and filthy brick wall he sucks in his breath through his teeth, trying to regain his calm.

Fucking Tommy! Of all the shit holes he could have hired it had to have been Tommy, a guy that doesn't have enough sense to keep his killings decreit, let alone fly under the radar. Now he's lost another house, the American girl, and eight million at the mimiun! Well, at least Tommy will be taken care of before the day is up. That's something less to worry about.

Speaking of worry…

Belle picks up on the second ring

"Hey. Are you there? You're alright?" the words come out in a rush, his tone sharp due to this Tommy shit and because Belle is late in calling.

"Yes, I got here alright, a few minutes ago in fact. I'm so sorry I didn't call, but I've been stuck on planes for two days and there's not exactly a lot of phone service out here."

Belle pauses, and when she next speaks her voice has switched from a combination of soothing and exprested to concerned.

"What's the matter?"

He closes his eyes and exhales deeply, cursing the fact that she knows his tone so well.

"Nothing, just some minor trouble with Tommy" he says, ignoring the flash of guilt at lying to her. "I'll tell you when I get there, alright?"

There is a rustle on the other end, and he knows that Belle is nodding her head.

"Okay. I'll see you in three days, right?"

"Of course, my Lilith. I promised, remember?"

He swears he can hear her smiling, swears he can see her ducking her head to hide the pink blush spreading across her face.

"I remember. I love you."

"Yes. Yes, and I love you too, sweetheart. Both of you."

Belle doesn't say goodbye before she hangs up, but he knows that she is pleased.

He hangs up his own phone, pausing for a moment to picture his wife standing next to her car, her hand resting over her stomach as she gazes at their new home before heading back onto the sidewalk. Backtracking he heads back to the apartment, which already has been cleared of the dead whore and all traces of Belle.

The Jersey shipment comes in tomorrow. He has to ensure that he's ready and all of the minute preparations are in place.

IIIIIIIIIIIII

A knife at his throat, fire in his knee. Is she stupid or brave?

He loathes this tea. She likes it, not him. He drinks it anyway.

Why did you come back? I wasn't going to, but something changed my mind.

Smashed furniture along with blood covering the floor and profanities issuing from his throat. She doesn't flinch.

You will never harm this child – clenched fist and cold eyes and bruises on his stomach – Do you hear me, Sergei? Never.

His arms are tied to the wall, kneeling with his ankles bound beneath him. There is a gag in his mouth, a ring around his balls, a sounding device shoved up his rock hard dick. She is riding him, her breasts bouncing and soaked pussy dripping as she makes sure to twist her nipples and grind her clit, making herself come again and again and not caring that he's been kept from exploding for so long that it's verging on pain. Payback, for all the times he's kept her on the edge. Gaston, the man that tried to pick her up at the seedy bar tonight is laying across the room with broken legs and artfully removed skin and can't understand why he is begging for more.

Promise?

Putting the rose in the center of the bed next to the set of antique books he leaves for Canada.

He walks into the kitchen to find her wearing a red silk shirt. His shirt. She smiles at him. Tea or Coffee? Brandy. Nope, sorry. Tea, then. Turning, he sees that the shirt doesn't quite cover that perfect ass of hers. She can keep it.

I don't want them! I want you, you idiotic bastard.

IIIIIIIIIIIII

Chapter Thirteen

The next morning it is pouring rain outside. This does not bother him however. Rain will make it harder for those feds to track him after all. Backing his car out onto the road he begins to drive, glancing up after a few minutes to check behind him, and sure enough a car that had been behind him twenty minutes ago is still there. It could be coincidence, but as he told Andri he does not believe in random.

Especially not now, when so much is at stake.

Driving on for a few more miles he pulls into a storage area, a place huge enough to show up on freaking map and that you could easily get lost in. As he pulls in and stops at the gate, punching in his code without looking he glances in his side mirror, seeing that same car come to a halt about one hundred feet away.

Shit, it's definitely those feds.

Well, taking his motorcycle out of storage and going out the back way should delay them for a good long while, for they'd expect him to come back out in the vechaile he arrived in, and with his helmet and gloves on they won't be able to see his face.

His bike might be more uncomftable than his car, but it will do the job. He checks his watch as he pulls into the gate, which closes behind him at once. Good, there is still nine hours before he has to make his way to his wife and child. Plently of time.

IIIIIIIIIIIII

There is movement underneath his palm. Rabbit. Little rabbit.

The hand strikes her face, almost sending her reeling. A knife is buried to the hilt within the fuckers stomach before he can move.

He blows the smoke upwards, knowing that she hates the smell.

Her eyes flash, his voice rises, and he's angrier than he's ever been.

She hates blackberries.

Why did you want me here? Wanted to get you out of my head darling, plus the place was filthy. No. I think you were lonely.

She is going over the transactions. It's four in the morning. She needs sleep, not good for the baby, for her to be awake so long. Born too early, like their brother? Won't. Can't. Please. Her chair scrapes and her hand rubs his neck. Not going to happen, Sergei.

I see the good in you.

Aggravating blood soaked angel.

I love you, both of you.

IIIIIIIIIIIII

The blonde fed is standing below him, gun raised. He says something… something in English? Russian? What was it, again?

A force slams into him, knocking him to the ground.

IIIIIIIIIIIII

Cold. Limp. Sorry, so fucking sorry. Blue skin. Little one. Purple lips. Love you, love you! Brown hair. Bailey.

Apples. Loved them once. Hate them now.

She moans beneath him, gasping and clawing and withering and he feels a flash of pride because she is his and he is the only one who can reduce her to this.

A pen shoved into a throat. Her pen.

She leaves. I'm sorry, I am. She comes back.

She is warm and solid next him, and he doesn't know how he ever managed to sleep without this. How he lived without this.

He tries to make her leave even though she is his light amidst an ocean of darkness, for he is an unrepentant monster and will harm her in end. He must never harm her. Soft laughter, a gentle smile, firm hands upon his shoulders. Don't you see? That's exactly the reason I have to stay.

Always.

One eyed purple cat.

My Lilith.

IIIIIIIIIIIII

Everything is fading. His sight, the fire, even the blood and rain aren't really there, anymore.

Sweetheart.

Little Hidden Rabbit.

Little One.

I'm so sorry.

END

Please review, as I'm nervous as to how I did.