Bittersweet Chocolate (47 page)

“Wait! Shouldn’t we tell Dad and Stephen where we’re going?” Anthony shouted at the station wagon as it backed out of the garage and down the driveway.

“Come on, Tony. If we don’t want our baby brother to end up dead or in jail, we’d better keep up with him,” Christopher urged. “Vi can explain to the family.”

* * * *

You die by the sword...die by the sword...die by the sword.

Marissa came to with a start and that recurring phrase echoing in her mind. What...hell. She must have passed out. Without a doubt, she didn’t need to open her eyes to know Matthew stood there, waiting, watching, and smiling.

“What, nothing to say, Marissa?” He leaned forward and grasped her chin. “I think I’ve been positively patient, up to this point. Open your eyes and look at me.” He shook her head.

“Screw you,” she lisped, barely able to move her lips.

“Oh, you will.” He grinned. “I’ve waited twenty years.” She glared, her gaze steady. “You know, I wasn’t pissed when you showed your contempt around the office. I liked our verbal skirmishes, like it when you’re sassy.” His hold tightened on her chin. “But you brought pretty boy to the office. Why did you have to ruin it?” he grumbled, his fingers pinching her flesh.

“Ruin what? Not now, never was, and never will be anything meaningful between us.”

Ignoring what she’d said, he muttered, “A white man...you’re not supposed to be with him, and the son of a bitch had the nerve to be contemptuous of me, like he’d won. I knew you first.”

“Matthew.”

“No, you told him, didn’t you? You told him how you duped me.” He eased his hand down around her throat and applied pressure. “You laughed with him about being a kid who outwitted a twenty-year-old man, never letting me get any further than kissing you.” He moved closer, face inches from hers. He sighed. “So beautiful, such a waste I’m going to kill you.”

Marissa mustered enough strength to kick out, her feet slamming into his thighs knocked him away from the bed. She tried to get up, but he was too quick. Shoving her back, he tugged her shorts and panties from her body, despite her struggles. He retrieved his knife and held it to her neck.

“Hold still.”

She quit struggling, biding her time, she watched him claw, rip, and yank his clothes from his body with one hand. The knife never wavered.

“You’re good,” he said. “I used to think the talk back on the block, about how tough you were, was exaggeration. You’ve painfully proven me wrong.” He smirked. “Had enough?”

Marissa kept her gaze riveted on him, no emotion, no tears, no pleading. It would have been a waste of much-needed energy.

“What, at a loss for words?” With a look of remorse, he gingerly touched the soreness below her right eye. Wincing, she jerked her head away.

“I’ll have to retie you. It’s the only safe way to enjoy myself.” He cut off her bra, roughly snatched the chain from around her neck, and stared at it for several seconds. “Hmm, a whistle. I wonder who has who trained.” He snorted and tossed the chain on the floor. “We can’t have any reminders of the hubby while you’re with me.

“Ahh, pregnancy seems to have enhanced your beauty.” His hand moved down the slim column of her neck, coming to rest on one breast. “Full, round, firm...” Gaze roaming over her body, hand moving lower, he stiffened. “You had a cesarean.” He brought his hand back to her neck. The knifepoint pricked her skin. “For that bastard?”

Through bruised, swollen lips, ignoring the pain in her jaw, she taunted, “Why the surprise.” Struggling with enunciating, she stammered, “Had your chance, performance lacked finesse, a bit premature—” His hold tightened, choking off her words, but it didn’t deter her.

Voice a hoarse whisper, “Weren’t man enough then, you’ll never enjoy...” He applied more pressure. Gasping for air, she wheezed out, “Never...what you see.”

Vision blurring, her stare remained unwavering, and she saw the malevolence blazing in his eyes. His recklessness wouldn’t be far behind, never had any self-control. Allowing his rage to eclipse common sense, he tossed the knife aside. Pulling her up by the grip on her neck, he backhanded her, knocking her back on the bed.

She used the last of her energy to jackknife into a sitting position. Her head caught him hard under his chin, throwing him off balance, and she tried to crawl to the end of the bed. Her sluggish progress allowed him to snag her ankle and drag her back. They lunged for the knife at the same time. Her fingers curled around the grip, but pain screamed along her nerve endings and she lost her hold. She must have broken her hand. He had the advantage.

“Hold still,” he commanded.

Mindless with pain, and her strength crumbling, she grappled with his upraised arm, making one final effort to wrest the knife from his grasp—
my hand.

The knife plunged downward.

* * * *

Tristan parked his vehicle on the street several doors from his old house, climbed out of the car, and released the dogs. Anthony and Christopher pulled up behind him.

“Is this it?” Anthony asked.

“No, it’s the house on the corner. I thought it would be best if we stopped here.”

Christopher glanced at Anthony. “Maybe our little brother is in the wrong business.”

Tristan grimaced. He was acting like someone who knew what he was doing. He petted the dogs and turned toward the house.

Anthony pulled his Beretta from his waistband as he stepped up to the door.

“Tristan, will you let us go first? In case he’s armed.” Coming up beside Anthony with his gun unholstered, Christopher leaned against the door and listened. Tristan brushed by, stepped up to the door, and kicked it in. Christopher groaned. “Subtlety is out.”

They stood on the threshold staring into an empty living room, and they heard a shout, something banging against the wall, and grunts coming from another room. Tristan rushed to the bedroom, pushed open the door, and stood paralyzed as a knife plunged into Marissa’s chest. A cry of anguish emanating from his throat morphed into a bellow of rage, gaining impetus, it became deafening.

Startled, Matthew looked up and panicked. Snatching the knife from her chest, he never had a chance.

“Seize,” Tristan hissed. The dogs attacked, knocking Matthew to the floor. Their actions galvanized the brothers to action.

Tristan ran to the bed and gathered Marissa’s motionless body in his arms. “Rissa, no. Oh God...no,” he cried, his voice raw with pain.

Christopher rushed to the bed, tossing his gun aside, hands constantly in motion, he seemed to be assessing the nature of Marissa’s injuries. Grabbing the sheet, he ripped it into sections and used pieces to stem the flow of blood. Tristan wouldn’t relinquish his hold, making his brother’s task all the more difficult.

“Where’s the damn phone?” Anthony looked around, then hurried into the other the room.

Tristan looked at his brother. “Chris, please don’t let her die,” he begged. “Please.”

“Damn it, Tristan, put her down and let me help her.” Christopher’s voice became brisk and businesslike. “Call off the dogs, take care of Matthew.”

Tristan placed his wife in Christopher’s arms and stood, but remained by the bed, watching his brother attend to Marissa, before he walked away. With his concern centered on Marissa, the dogs and the damage they could inflict hadn’t been important, but Christopher was right. He had to call off the dogs, he didn’t want them to kill the man. That was his job.

He snapped his fingers, called each dog by name, and they came to heel. Gaze focused on Matthew, sprawled on the floor and spattered with blood, Tristan knelt between the dogs. With one arm draped across CJ’s neck, he absently petted JC. “Good dogs.”

“An ambulance is on the way,” Anthony said from the doorway. “And I notified the police.”

Tristan didn’t respond. His attention remained on Matthew, watching blood ooze from an ugly gash on his neck, and Matthew moaned. That single indistinguishable sound set his death in motion.

Tristan leapt to his feet, rushed forward, and yanked Matthew off the floor. Seeing only the stark terror in the Matthew’s eyes, Tristan waited the split second it took Matthew to recognize. One shot, point-blank to the head.

Tristan let Matthew’s body drop to the floor like unwanted trash and handed the gun to a stunned Anthony.

“Jesus Christ! He used your gun, Chris. How the hell did he get your gun?”

“Damn it, Tony, worry about that later,” he growled. “Where’s the damn ambulance? We’re losing her.”

At that moment, the sound of sirens rent the night calm. Minutes later, paramedics hustled into the room, headed toward Matthew. “Forget him, he’s dead,” Tristan declared.

The paramedics turned from Matthew’s body and reached Marissa’s side just as she stopped breathing. They contacted the hospital, relayed her condition, said they were attempting to resuscitate. Placing her on the gurney, they hustled her from the room.

Trotting beside the gurney, Tristan held her cold lifeless hand, closed his eyes, and said a brief prayer before releasing his hold. Without a backward glance, he told his brothers, “I’ll meet you at the hospital.” He left the house with the dogs trailing behind him.

“Tony, go with him. I’ll wait for the police,” Christopher stated. “I’ll handle everything here. Call the family, tell them to get over to the hospital. If she dies, I don’t know. Stay close.”

* * * *

Anthony nodded and sprinted out the door, catching up with Tristan just after he’d bundled the dogs into the car. “I’ll drive.” He plucked the keys from Tristan’s grasp. “Chris is going to take care of everything back at the house.” No response. “Tristan, talk to me.”

“She’s going to die. Did you see her condition? Never seen anything so brutal. How can she survive something like that? And the wound in her chest,” he whispered.

“I know it looks bad, but that doesn’t mean she’s going to die.”

“You know,” Tristan said as though Anthony hadn’t spoken. “After the rape, they told her she couldn’t get pregnant. The babies are special. We took their birth as a sign, proof we were destined to be together. She never doubted her ability to give me a healthy baby.” He shook his head. “I was so afraid for her, the previous damage, her age, yet not once did she show any signs of fear for herself. She did it for me, Tony. She loved me that much.”

“Hold on to those thoughts. She loves you and the children, and she’s a survivor. She’ll be all right.”

Tristan glanced at his brother. “Can you promise she won’t die?”

Anthony remained silent. So much time wasted, with the family hanging on to their archaic beliefs. Christopher told him about his talk with Marissa, about the rape, about the brutal beating she survived at nineteen. Evidently, fighting was something else she did well. Matthew’s face had been a bloody mess.

He prayed she’d fight just as hard to survive.

* * * *

They arrived at the hospital and Tristan went into the restroom. Staring in the mirror at the blood spatter on his hands and face, he grabbed several paper towels and washed away the evidence of what he’d done. Fidgeting with his shirt, he turned to leave the bathroom and started. He hadn’t heard Anthony enter the room.

“Couldn’t let Mom and Vi see me, the mess,” he mumbled. “Couldn’t do anything about the clothes.”

The brothers proceeded to the waiting room. The family was there, with Stephen sitting off by himself staring transfixed, his face a study in despair. Tristan approached him first.

“I’m sorry, Stephen. I wasn’t in time.”

“It’s like before.” Stephen inhaled sharply. “How can she continue to survive such beatings? She’s so small, so—I’ll kill the son of a bitch. I swear to God, he won’t get away with it.”

“He’s dead. I couldn’t do anything else for her...he’s dead.” His voice splintered, his eyes brimmed with tears. He dropped down on the seat next to his father-in-law, and covered his face with his hands. Anguished sobs wracked his body.

* * * *

“Hey, Larry,” Jonas Steppling called out when he saw Detective Sanderson stick his head into the squad room.

“What’s up?”

“You’re not going to believe this. We just received a call about a shooting and a stabbing.”

“Jonas, we’re the police. What’s so unusual about that?”

“Very funny.” Steppling chuckled. “Guess what the name of one of the victims is?”

“Too tired to guess, just tell me.”

“Does the name Corbett ring any bells, as in the hospital several days ago, Tristan Corbett.” Sanderson came over to Steppling’s desk and sat down.

“Are you shitting me?

“Nope. But guess what? It’s the wife this time, a stabbing victim.”

“Son of a bitch. What’s with that family? Are they having some type of domestic one-up?”

“Uh-uh, get this,” Jonas said. “The wife’s boss stabbed her, Corbett’s brother shot and killed the boss.”

“Oh shit. I met the two brothers...feds, came in the other day to find out about the brother’s shooting. I knew she was holding out on me,” Sanderson said. “Who got the call?”

“That’s just it. Call went straight to the captain from the brother. Captain was just passing on the information. Said he’d handle it.”

“Bullshit. Is the wife alive?” Jonas nodded. “Did they take her to Community?”

“Yeah,” Jonas remarked and found himself talking to Sanderson’s back as the man left the room. “Hey, we’re supposed to stay out of it.” He scrambled out of his chair and had to run to catch up with Sanderson. “Where are you going? If you interfere, the captain will have your ass.”

“For what? I’m going to get some coffee.”

“Yeah, right. I think I’ll tag along, get something to eat.”

They had reached the parking lot before Sanderson paused and smiled at Steppling over the roof of his car. “We’re about due for a break, don’t you think?”

* * * *

After talking to the cops, Christopher cleaned off as much of the blood as he could before driving to the hospital. On arrival, he found his relatives seated in the waiting room. His first reaction was to go to Vi, her look of devastation disturbing. He understood the import Marissa had on Vi’s life, and knew Marissa’s loss would be as unimaginable to Vi as his brother’s loss would be. Vi looked up at him and he held out his arms. She stood, ran into his embrace, and he held her while she wept.