Page 4 of Making the King

I don’t care who this Rochus is, or that he’s now my husband. He’s clearly not on my dad’s team, and that’s perfect for me. I’ll even consider not lacing his drink with the sedative if he gives me this.

Before Rochus can make up his mind, my mom is unceremoniously pushed to the floor next to my dad.

“Mija,” she sobs, looking up at me.

The endearment makes me flinch. She used to call me mija, meaning dear or darling, when I was a child. But she lost the right to call me anything like that years ago.

“Shut up,” I hiss.

The noise in the background fades away as I look into the eyes of the woman who gave birth to me, and also ripped away any semblance of safety and happiness I might ever have had.

“You’re as bad as he is.”

I don’t know I’m moving until I find myself ripping the gun from Rochus’ hand. As soon as it’s in my hand, I point it at my crying, pathetic mother.

“Cara!” Rochus warns.

Tuning him out, I bare my teeth. “Death is too good for you,” I snarl, my hatred for her coating my words.

I’m absently aware that more people arrive, and a scuffle breaks out close to us. I know I should look, but I can’t. I’m too transfixed by my dad kneeling on the floor, and the evil glint in his eye that’s always present.

The sound of gunshots ricochets off the walls, and there’s a thud from a body hitting the floor. People are shouting, and…

As soon as the sound registers, I make a snap decision. I only have seconds, and I use them to point the gun at my dad.

“May you rot in hell,” I scream.

As soon as I make the decision to pull the trigger, all the other sounds in the church assault my ears. The roaring of police, and the demand for me to put down the gun. But I can’t. Not until my dad is dead.

“Drop your fucking gun.”

My hands shake as I clutch it harder.

“Drop the fucking gun and get on your knees with your hands above your head.”

Tears stream down my face, blurring my vision.

“No,” I whisper.

“Do it!” Rochus hisses.

Then he steps in front of me, putting himself between me and the police, holding his arms out to his side. I don’t know if it’s to shield me or to show them he’s unarmed. Either way, I know an opportunity when I see one.

I look into the cold, dead eyes of my dad, the man I once loved. It seems so long ago that I hardly remember what it was like.

Then I pull the trigger, sealing my fate.

Rocco

The fuck is wrong with me? I’m anxious as hell, leaning against my truck, waiting for my child bride to exit the prison gates. Jesus, even thinking of her as a child bride turns my fucking gut. That day was never meant to end the way it did, with her locked up in prison.

The whine of the oversized gates opening draws my attention as the large metal barriers slowly start rolling open.

Fuck. How did things end up like this?

The job was meant to be simple. Well, as fucking simple as it can be when you’re dealing with the sick cunts in the skin trade. There’s always a chance that things will go south, but it’s a risk we are willing to take if we can save as many of the innocent girls being sold to sick motherfuckers around the world as we can.

I was the fucking ruse this time, posing as a spoilt rich boy whose father purchased him a fucking virgin. The auction was done online, and finalizing the transaction happened a week later when I walked into that church and met Carlos Rodríguez, and his daughter Cara, only sixteen at the time, duressed to be my fucking wife.

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