21. Alexis

21

Istand on the sidewalk, staring up at the Cape Cod style home, my heart pounding in my chest. I can't believe I'm back here, standing on the sidewalk of the very place I never thought I would return to.

Yet somehow, when I got off the train, my feet led me right back to the house of my former foster parents—the ones who had betrayed me.

A shiver runs down my spine as the memories come rushing back. This place had never been a haven for me, only a prison and a living hell. The Carters made my life a nightmare, abusing me emotionally and sometimes, physically. It's a miracle I was able to escape. I don't want to imagine where I'd be if I hadn't.

I'd probably be someone's slave, and the Carters would sleep soundly at night, probably never thinking about me again. They were willing to sell me to The Brotherhood for their own greed.

The Brotherhood—the organization currently hunting me down. I know I'm putting myself in grave danger just by being here. Every instinct is telling me to turn around and run as far away as possible.

And yet… something deep inside me had compelled me to come back. Maybe it's a need for closure, a desire to confront the demons of my past.

Or maybe I'm just a glutton for punishment.

Whatever the reason, I find myself unable to tear my gaze away from the old familiar house.

Clenching my fists, I swallow hard. I wasn't going to go inside—that would be so fucking stupid. But standing here on the sidewalk feels like a way to reclaim a piece of my own history, to say a final goodbye to the place that had once held me captive.

I don't know where I'm going to go, but I need to get out of Chicago—and fast. This city holds nothing but painful memories and danger for me now.

Turning to walk away, I rack my brain, trying to figure out where I can go. I still have a few of my old coworkers' phone numbers. Maybe one of them would be willing to let me crash on their couch while I figure out my next move.

Which would involve getting new identification.

I curse myself for not grabbing more of my belongings when I fled the Iacopelli mansion. But my exit had been so hasty, driven by pure survival instinct. I hadn't even thought to pack a bag. All I have are the clothes on my back and a few meager possessions in my pockets, including my phone.

Damian's face flashes through my mind, and I feel a sharp pain in my chest. I push the thought of him away, unwilling to dwell on the pain of his betrayal. He's part of the life I'm trying to escape—a life that has become far too dangerous.

Picking up the pace, I scan the streets. There's a train station not too far from here. I need to put as much distance between me and Chicago as possible. This city is no longer safe for me, not with the Brotherhood breathing down my neck.

As I walk, my mind races with a thousand questions and uncertainties. Where would I go? What could I do? Can I ever truly outrun my past?

But for now, the only thing that matters is getting away—even if it means starting over with nothing. I've done it before and I'll do it again.

Suddenly, a hand grabs me by the hair, yanking my head back sharply. I let out a panicked gasp as the cold, hard metal of a gun presses against my temple.

"Well, well, well, look who decided to come back," a sickeningly familiar voice hisses in my ear. My blood runs cold as I recognize Mark's gruff tones.

His grip tightens and he gives my head another harsh yank. "You have no idea how happy I am to see you, sweetheart," he growls. "This makes my job a whole lot easier."

My mind races as I realize the trap I had stumbled into. I never should have come back here. Mark is going to call The Brotherhood, and they will come and take me, just like I feared.

This is what Damian had been trying to protect me from.

"Please," I beg, my voice shaking. "Mark, just let me go. I won't tell anyone, I swear."

But Mark just laughs, the sound cold and cruel. "Oh, I don't think so, darling." He strikes me hard across the face, making my vision blur. I cry out as pain rockets across my cheeks and mouth.

"The Brotherhood wants you badly, and I'm going to make sure they get you. Oh, what a pretty penny you'll get me."

I whimper in pain as Mark drags me toward the Carter house, the gun still pressed against my temple. Terror lashes through me at the thought of going through those doors. I know once I cross that threshold, I'm a goner. The thought of seeing Dennis, Suzanne, and Emma's smug faces is too much to bear.

My survival instincts kick in, and I begin to frantically struggle against his hold. I claw at his arms, trying to pry his hand off my hair, but Mark's grip is like iron.

"Let me go, you bastard!" I cry, desperation fueling my actions. I rake my nails across his face, drawing blood, but it only seems to enrage him further. With a growl, he slams me against the side of the house, dazing me.

"Quit fighting, you stupid bitch!" he snarls, tightening his grip on my hair.

My vision swims and my head throbs, but I refuse to give up. I lash out with my fists, striking any part of him I can reach. But Mark is simply too strong, overpowering me with ease.

As we approach the front door, I notice with a sinking feeling that the house is eerily silent and dark—no sign of the Carters anywhere.

"The Carters skipped town after you left," Mark sneers. "Because of the danger you put them in. But don't worry, sweetheart. The Brotherhood is more than happy to keep you company. In fact, I know they have a list a mile long of prospective masters who will gladly keep you company for the rest of your miserable fucking life."

Tears of terror burn in my eyes as Mark opens the door and shoves me inside. I've been a stupid, naive idiot. And now I'm trapped with no way out.

My nose is assaulted by the familiar scents of the Carter house as Mark drags me into the kitchen. The musty, stale odor of neglect mingles with the faint, lingering traces of cooking spices—scents that had once been so comforting to me but now turn my stomach.

I shudder involuntarily, memories flooding back. This kitchen had been my domain, a place where the Carters wouldn't touch me because it would taint their food. I had spent hours not only slaving over food, but tinkering with recipes and creating new and more delicious meals.

If I whipped up something especially delicious, I would receive a rare smile from Dennis and Suzanne. Those smiles used to make my entire day. I thought if I made enough good food, the Carters would finally love me.

But those memories are tainted now, overshadowed by the abuse and manipulation that had occurred within these walls.

As Mark forces me into a chair and begins binding my wrists, I can almost feel the weight of those past traumas pressing down on me. The scrape of the rope against my skin, the hard, unyielding wood of the chair—it's all too familiar, too visceral. I have to fight the urge to scream, to beg him to stop.

Despite my terror, a small part of my mind registers the sloppy knots—a stark contrast to the intricate bindings my old Navy friend had taught me years ago.

"There, that should keep you from trying anything stupid," Mark sneers, giving the ropes a final tug.

I fight to keep my hands from trembling, memories of my friend's lessons flooding my mind. He had been so insistent that I learn these skills, warning me that I might never know when they might come in handy. At the time, I had thought it was just an odd quirk.

But now, I'm thanking my lucky stars.

I force myself to focus, to push past the fear and the nausea and the memories, and slowly, methodically, I begin to work at the knots. The ropes chafe and burn, but I ignore the pain, my sole focus on freeing myself.

As Mark fishes his phone out of his pocket to make a call, my heart races, adrenaline fueling my efforts. I can't let myself be taken by The Brotherhood. I have to get out of here, no matter what.

"Hey, babe, guess who I've got?" Mark drawls, a grin spreading across his face. "That's right, the prodigal daughter herself!"

Although I can't hear exactly what the other person is saying, I can hear their voice. And it's a voice I recognize.

It's Emma.

Mark paces the room, engrossed in his conversation. He's too busy to notice me inching my hands back and forth, slowly working the knots free.

"Yeah, I've got her all trussed up and ready for pickup," Mark says smugly. "The Brotherhood will be thrilled to have their little collateral back." He pauses, listening to Emma's response. "Sounds good. Yes, go ahead and call them." He turns his back to me. "This is gonna be sweet, babe. We're finally gonna get what we deserve."

Fury and indignation burn through me as Mark's conversation with Emma becomes more heated. How dare they treat me like this.

Nat's voice floats through my head as I work at the last few knots. "You're a wolf in sheep's clothing, Alexis. Fucking embrace it."

At the time, I hadn't fully understood what Nat was trying to tell me. But now, in this moment of sheer desperation, the meaning becomes crystal clear.

I have always seen myself as the victim, the sheep trapped among the wolves. But Nat had recognized something more in me—a strength, a resilience, a capacity for darkness that I had been too afraid to acknowledge.

As the last of the ropes fall away, my fingers close around the cool metal of the gun on the table. Stupid Mark. If it's one thing I've learned while living with the Iacopelli family, it's to never leave a gun unattended.

A surge of primal power courses through my veins, a feral instinct to survive at all costs.

Embrace it.

With a steely glint in my eye, I turn the weapon on Mark's unsuspecting back. "You son of a bitch," I growl, my voice steady and unwavering. "I'm nobody's collateral."

At that moment, I know what I have to do. I'm no longer the sheep. I'm the wolf, ready to bare my teeth and fight for my freedom. And I will do whatever it takes to escape this nightmare, once and for all.

My words cause Mark to turn around. His eyes widen in shock at the sight of me freed from my bonds and wielding the weapon. "You bitch!" he snarls, lunging forward.

The situation quickly spirals out of control. A fierce struggle ensues as we grapple for the gun. My fingers slip on the smooth metal, and Mark manages to knock it from my grasp, sending it clattering to the floor.

In an instant, he has me pinned to the ground, his hands wrapped around my throat, squeezing mercilessly. I claw at his hands, gasping for breath, panic setting in. This can't be how I go out. Not after everything I've been through. Mark's screaming at me, spittle flying from his mouth, but I can't hear a word he's saying.

Desperate, I blindly reach out, my fingers finally grasping the fallen gun. With a primal scream, I swing the weapon upward, smashing it against the side of Mark's head.

He howls in pain, his grip momentarily loosening. I suck in a ragged breath, precious air rushing into my lungs, and shove him off, scrambling to my feet.

But Mark is relentless, surging forward and tackling me once more.

"You fucking bitch," he spits, his eyes glittering with malice. "I hope whoever owns you makes you suffer."

We wrestle violently, the gun slipping and sliding between us as we fight for control. My finger tightens on the trigger, but Mark wrenches the weapon away, his eyes wild.

"NO!" I scream in a last-ditch effort, summoning every ounce of my strength. And as Mark lunges toward me, I manage to get the gun back, leveling it at his chest.

Time seems to slow as I stare into his eyes, my finger trembling on the trigger. Then, with a deafening crack, I fire.

Mark's body jerks, his expression frozen in shock before his lifeless body collapses on top of me, the weight of him crushing the air from my lungs. I struggle to push him off, gasping for breath, when suddenly, the sound of the front door bursting open makes my head snap up.

Standing in the doorway, their expressions a mixture of shock and horror, are Damian, Nat, and Edo.