Echo(87)

“Just tell me,” I say, free from revealing the emotions tugging at me.

“Steve worked for me. He worked as the middle man, the eyes and ears on both sides.”

“Both sides?”

“Me and the mules.”

I can’t even attempt to connect the dots that led him to Bennett because all that floods my mind is my dad. Never have I pictured my father other than what he always was to me and still is—my prince with a handful of pink daisies. I can’t imagine him working for a man like Richard, a man that dug his knife into my face and hand just to prove a point.

“He was always loyal though,” he adds. “Until he took a plea bargain in exchange for names. I guess he thought the Feds would protect him, but Menard is filled with prisoners that are linked to me in one way or another. Although he never gave me up, which I hold great respect for, he did give up names of men who walked the low ladder of the business, and for that, he paid the price.”

“You bastard,” I breathe in sulfurous hate.

“Me?”

“You knew he gave up names?”

“Yes.”

“And out of loyalty to you, he never gave you up?”

“Steve did what the Feds asked of him in exchange for an early release—for you,” he says, nodding his head to me for emphasis. “But at the same time, he never turned his back on me.”

His words are gloats of pride for his assumed stature, and I grow in rage at the price it cost my father. The gravel in my voice thickens along with my animosity when I say, “But you held power. You knew the danger he was in, and you did nothing to protect him from what you knew would be inevitable!”

“It was out of my hands.”

Blood boils, fists clench, and I begin to tug my wrists against the zip ties as I seethe, “But you’re the boss! You hold all the power, and you did nothing!”

And then it starts clicking. The pieces now begin snapping together. Twisting my hands even more, the edges of plastic dig into the tender flesh of my wrists, cutting the tissue and releasing the blood my wounded heart pumps.

“You wanted him dead,” I state in my revelation. “You were scared, weren’t you? You knew he gave up names, and you feared it was only a matter of time before he sold you out too, right?”

His head tilts, and his condescending gesture acknowledging my theory as truth sets me off.

“You f*cker!” my screaming voice scratching my throat. “It was you! You put the hit out on him, didn’t you, you motherf*cker!”

His only response is a slow upturn to his lips as he sits there.

I’ve always put all the blame on Bennett, and even though I hate Bennett for being the catalyst for all this shit, it was Richard who had the say in my father’s life, and he took it to save himself.

“You’re a f*cking coward!” I spit out as I feel the bursts and pops of veins and ventricles—heartbreak over and over and over. My daddy risked his life in giving up names just to get to me.

Blood rolls down my arms like teardrops as my skin rips open as I fight against the zip ties. When my frustration snaps, I release a defeated scream and slump over. My bones tremble, and when I hear Richard chuckling, I turn to him in disgust.

“Does this get you off?”

He stands and walks to me. “Seeing the queen of Chicago society fall apart before my eyes? Yes,” he responds and then kneels down in front of me, touching his finger to my face and running it along the cut on my cheek and then down my neck.

His touch is vile, rousing my stomach in putrid disgust, and I just can’t take it.

“Tell me something,” he starts. “When you found out that Bennett cheated on you, did you wish you’d known before he died so you could’ve gotten even with him?”

He then takes the knife out of his pocket and pops the blade up. My eyes follow his hand as he moves the blade to the zip tie and holds it against the plastic that’s now covered in my blood.

“Did you?” he questions again.

“No.” I didn’t give a shit about Bennett cheating because I never felt anything for him other than pure hate.

Suddenly, with quick movements, Richard cuts through the restraint and frees my hands. He then moves the blade between my breasts. My top hangs open from when he cut the fabric earlier. I hear the lace snap apart when he presses the blade against the fabric, and I know his intentions. Focus is key, and knowing the process all too well, I protect myself and shut down.