Beauty, Blood, and Paper 2

Beauty, Blood, and Paper 2
EMMANUELLE

The bell above the door jingles.

I drag a damp rag across the counter, watching grease swirl in lazy circles on the worn laminate. The scent of scorched coffee, bacon fat, and something burnt clings to my skin like secondhand shame. My apron’s too tight, digging into my ribs, but I don’t loosen it. I need to feel something.

I’ve been gone for days. No one asked. No one ever does around here. People disappear in this part of the city and the world keeps flipping pancakes.

The bell jingles again no, the door creaks. My head snaps up.

A black vehicle pulls up outside, sleek and silent like a panther. Tinted windows. Shined tires. The kind of car that doesn’t belong in a place like this.

My stomach drops.

The back door opens, and four men step out. All sharp lines and shadowed expressions. Black suits, mirrored sunglasses even though it’s overcast. They don’t walk they glide. Controlled, calculated.

Sharks.

The restaurant hushes like someone hit mute. Cutlery stills. The fryer hisses in the background like it knows something’s about to burn.

One of them peels off from the group, making a slow beeline for me. He moves with purpose, like he’s done this a thousand times and never once been told no.

He stops at the counter, barely three feet from me.

“Miss Emmanuelle,” he says, voice smooth but soaked in warning. “Would you come with us?”

That fake courtesy? It’s worse than a threat.

I let out a dry chuckle, force my shoulders to stay relaxed even as my fingers curl around the rag like it’s a lifeline. “Is this the part where I pretend I have a choice?”

He tilts his head, amused. Then, casually, he pulls his jacket back just enough to reveal the matte-black handle of a pistol nestled in a shoulder holster.

The room shrinks. The walls press in. My mouth goes dry.

No one says a word. The old guy by the window lowers his coffee cup, eyes darting to the floor.

“Alright,” I whisper. My voice barely carries. “Let’s go.”

Outside, the wind bites through my thin shirt. My shoes scuff against the sidewalk as I walk. I count every step, pretending they don’t sound like a countdown.

Then

Crack.

A flash of pain bursts across the back of my skull. Light fractures. My knees hit the pavement, then the rest of me follows. The world spins sideways. My breath escapes me in a wheeze.

Darkness opens its mouth.

And swallows me whole.

-----------------

The cold is the first thing that greets me. Concrete beneath my spine. Damp air sinking into my bones. My head throbs like something cracked and never healed.

I try to move. I groan instead.

Then I hear it

That voice. That voice I used to hear right before I’d break something just to make it stop.

“Daughter.”

I open my eyes and wish I hadn’t.

Marcus.

Standing in a pool of artificial light, wearing that familiar tailored suit, that crocodile smile like he’s here for Christmas dinner instead of a kidnapping.

“You’ve got some nerve,” I rasp, pushing myself up with trembling arms. “Calling me that.”

He spreads his hands like he’s welcoming me home. “Is that any way to greet your father?”

“You’re not my father,” I snap. “You’re a mistake in a very expensive tie.”

His jaw ticks, but he covers it with a smooth chuckle. From a leather folder, he slides out a stack of papers and lays them neatly on the table between us.

“We can skip the family therapy. I just need your signature.”

I blink at the documents. Then at him. Something cold twists in my gut.

“You’re selling it,” I say. “Mom’s company.”

He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t need to.

My lips curl. “What’s the matter? Empire finally starting to rot from the inside?”

His face hardens like ice forming in real time.

“I’m your father,” he says, his voice lowering an octave. “You owe me at least that.”

“No,” I whisper, rage tightening in my throat. “What I owe you is a shallow grave.”

His smile dies.

He gives a curt nod.

Two of the suited men move in fast. Hands clamp around my arms like vices, dragging me back toward the chair I hadn’t even noticed before. My feet kick out, catching nothing. My voice cracks.

“Let me go! You fucking coward let go!”

They shove me down. My shoulder hits the edge of the metal chair hard. I gasp.

Tears prick my eyes not from pain. From fury.

I thrash, fight, scream his name like a lifeline.

“Adam! ADAM! Where the fuck are you?!”

Silence.

No answer.

Just the whisper of paper sliding across steel.

And the suffocating echo of my own helplessness bouncing off the walls.



AUTHOR'S NOTE

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