Dance of Deception: Chapter 25

“How the fuck does someone even get so twisted so young?”

Marcus’ harsh voice cuts through the thick air of the dim dive bar like a knife, sharp and unrelenting. My hands tremble under the table, fists curled in my lap, but I keep my face neutral.

Don’t react. Don’t give him anything.

But it’s so hard.

The air is stifling, and rancid with the scent of stale beer. I don’t know where we are, a side street somewhere in the Lower East Side, near Alphabet City. The low murmur of voices from across the bar is indistinct, muffled.

All I can hear is Marcus.

I can feel the weight of his eyes pressing down on me, pinning me to the booth like an insect under glass. He sits across from me, his phone on the table recording the “conversation”—probably so he can play it on his podcast for his lunatic base of listeners who can’t distinguish a badly told fairytale from reality.

Kevin, the swarthy guy who drove us here, glares at me from the chair he’s pulled up to the booth, his heavy, tattooed arms resting on the table.

Chris sits next to me, side-eying me coldly. He’s still got a look on his face that suggests he maybe didn’t quite sign up for this, though.

“You were there, Lyra,” Marcus hisses, leaning forward, his dark eyes gleaming with a sick pleasure that makes my stomach twist. “You lived in that house. You expect us to believe you didn’t hear them?”

My throat feels raw, but it’s nothing compared to the burn in my chest. The pressure is building, coming in from all sides, crushing me.

“I didn’t know,” I whisper. My voice barely carries over the hum of the bar. “It was under the basement, heavily soundproofed⁠—”

Kevin snorts, slumping back in his chair. “Fuck you, bitch. We’re tired of your government-sponsored lies. What the fuck else are you keeping from the public?”

Chris stays quiet, his fists clenched against his knees. You can almost feel his grief in the air, coiled tight and dangerous. But Marcus? He’s enjoying this.

He leans in closer, his breath reeking of whiskey and bitterness. “How many girls did you bring to the basement?” His voice is low, wheedling, coaxing me to confess. “How many did you help him take? Or did you just help him keep them?”

Bile rises in my throat. My fingers dig into my thighs, trying to anchor myself and stop the memories from rushing in.

The door in the corner of the basement I was told to stay away from. The day it was left slightly ajar.

The sobbing. The sound of flesh slapping flesh. The cages and chains, the racks of pretty dresses…

I shake my head fiercely. “I didn’t⁠—”

“Liar.”

His hand slams against the table, the sound like a gunshot in the oppressive quiet of our corner of the bar. I jump, my nails biting into my skin.

“You honestly expect me to believe you weren’t part of it?” Marcus’ voice is colder now, sharper, each word cutting like a scalpel. “That you’re just some poor, innocent victim?”

Kevin laughs, the sound devoid of warmth. “You’re just as dirty as he was, bitch. Which of the girls did you diddle, hmm? How many did you rape, you fucking disgusting piece of shit?”

The words hit hard. My stomach lurches so violently I think I might be sick right here at the table.

As dirty as he was.

I can’t breathe.

The walls of the bar feel like they’re closing in, my vision blurring at the edges. My chest tightens. Please. Not here. Not now.

I can hear my own pulse roaring deafeningly in my skull. I try to find something to latch onto. A breath. A thought. A single moment that isn’t this.

But all I see and hear is him.

My father’s shadow stretching across the cold tile floor of that house, his voice turning soft when he wanted something.

I can’t be that.

I can’t.

Marcus doesn’t stop. His words keep chipping away at the foundation I’ve spent years trying to rebuild. The world is tilting. My chest is too tight, my breath too short and rapid.

The accusations slice me apart bit by bit. I can’t think, can’t move.

The door to the bar swings open.

The atmosphere changes instantly, killing the quiet murmur of the bar, and a charged silence settles over the room as Carmine surges in.

Not just walking. Consuming the space.

He’s a storm rolling in, dark and violent, the kind of thing that makes people duck for cover. His normally ice blues eyes are almost black as they sweep over the bar until they lock with mine.

Possessiveness ignites in his gaze—a raw, seething kind of fury.

In an instant he’s crossing to our booth. Chris immediately scrambles out of his seat and backs away. When Carmine gets to us he says nothing, his black presence chilling the whole space as his hand wraps like iron around my wrist.

“Let’s go,” he snarls viciously. “Now.”

He all but yanks me out of the booth, then whirls, dragging me stumbling and numb behind him as he storms to the door.

I try to explain, but I can’t breathe. The panic, the adrenaline, it’s too much⁠—

My legs give out just as we get to the door.

Carmine barely catches me, his demeanor shifting from anger to something else entirely. Everything about him changes. His entire body locks up, his grip tightening—not in anger now, but in brutal protectiveness.

His hand fists the neck of my hoodie, pulling me to him, his other hand tilting my chin up. His thumb brushes my jaw, his eyes melting from arctic fury to raw intensity as his brow furrows.

“What did they do to you, little dancer?” he murmurs quietly, his voice edged like the blade of a knife.

I can barely breathe or think. But I manage to whisper, “That’s Marcus Chen.”

Carmine goes still.

A slow exhalation leaves his lips, his grip tightens like a vice, and I swear, the whole room vibrates with the barely contained emotions flickering over his face.

“He’s—

“I know who the fuck he is,” he hisses quietly.

He lets me go and turns slowly.

I grab his elbow. “He has a gun,” I warn.

“It’s not going to help him.”

Then he moves like Death himself.

“Everyone out.” His voice is dangerous, slicing through the stillness of the bar.

The bartender doesn’t hesitate, just drops the glass in his hand and bolts. The few patrons scatter like roaches, shoving past each other in their hurry to leave.

Carmine slowly walks back to the booth in the rear of the bar as I sharply suck in a breath.

Kevin lurches to his feet and whirls as if to throw the first punch.

He never manages it.

Carmine’s enormous hand wraps around his throat, lifting him clean off his feet before hurling him across the room. Kevin slams into the wall, denting it before slumping to the floor, gasping for air.

Chris scrambles back, eyes bulging in horror.

“Fuck you,” Marcus sneers, jamming his hand into his coat. “Get the fuck⁠—”

As he triumphantly yanks out the gun, Carmine grabs a pint glass, dumps out the beer, and brings it smashing down onto Marcus’ hand.

Marcus screams as blood spurts from the back of his hand, the gun clattering to the floor.

“You son of a bitch!” he wails, clutching his hand, his face twisted in pain. “You fucking son of a bitch!”

That’s when Kevin manages to drag himself up and lunge at Carmine.

Bad move.

Carmine sidesteps, grabs Kevin by the scruff of the neck and slams him down on a table. The wood splinters under the impact.

Kevin groans, flailing. Carmine hurls him to floor, grabs the chair Kevin was sitting in earlier, and raises it high overhead.

Holy fuck.

I watch as my husband morphs into an actual demon, bringing the chair down and smashing it over Kevin’s head again and again until the light goes out in his eyes and blood is leaking from his ears.

Marcus is still writhing on the floor, trying to crawl away. He screams in agony when Carmine calmly walks over and stomps his heel down on the glass still embedded in Marcus’ hand.

Carmine grabs the sobbing, bleating man by the collar and hauls him up onto his knees. And then he starts to beat him like I’ve never once seen anyone beat anyone else.

It’s…shocking.

Almost too much to watch.

Almost.

At one point, Carmine slows. His raised fist is dripping blood as his gaze slowly turns to lock on my wide eyes.

His brow cocks.

And then, I do something the old Lyra wouldn’t have done in a million years.

I nod.

Then I watch as my husband proceeds to beat the living fuck out of Marcus. I watch not as the Lyra who always tried not to walk too loudly. Tried not to offend. Tried to blend in.

I watch as the fucking Queen I’ve become with this man, presiding over a royal punishment. A fucking execution.

Fists collide with flesh. The sickening crunch of bone breaking flies through the room as Marcus’ face turns into red, wet pulp.

When Carmine finally lets go, Marcus just drops to the ground, unable even to break his fall with his hands.

My husband turns to the final man as a lethal silence descends over the bar.

Chris is huddled in the corner. The horror on his face turns to pure terror when Carmine turns to him, ready to destroy, and cracks his bloodied knuckles as he slowly starts to walk over.

“Carmine.”

My hand lands on his arm. He flinches, a snarl on his lips as he whirls, a lion on the savannah who’s been interrupted as he’s about to pounce on dinner.

When his eyes manage to focus on me, the red mist clears and he pauses, a glimpse of humanity peeking through the cracks.

“He’s grieving,” I say quietly. “He’s in so much pain, Carmine,” I murmur. “His sister was…”

Chris flinches when I turn to look at him with compassion.

“My father…”

Carmine’s fingers twitch as he turns to level a cold look at Chris.

My hand finds his, gripping it tightly, trying to claw him back to his humanity.

“Carmine, please.”

He turns back to me. The mist clears a little more as he tilts his head to the side. One of his bloodied hands comes up, and he gently cups my jaw.

Slowly, he nods.

Without even looking at Chris again, Carmine’s hand tightens in mine as he starts for the door.

Then he pauses, letting me go and calmly walking over to where Marcus is blubbering and bleeding all over the ground. The conspiracy theorist flinches, whimpering pathetically as Carmine drags him halfway to his knees by the throat.

“If I ever see another article about her…” His voice is pure venom. “Or hear you mention her name on your fucking podcast again…” His grip tightens. “I will destroy you. It will not be quick. It will be messy. It will involve you swallowing your own severed cock. It will take days, perhaps weeks. You will beg for death and I will not grant it,” he seethes. “I will become your God and your Devil.” Marcus flinches as Carmine leans down into the mangled remains of his face. “Have I made myself clear.”

The blubbering sound emanating from Marcus’ former mouth apparently suffices. Carmine lets the piece of shit drop to the floor again and turns toward me.

Suddenly, with a last spurt of energy, Marcus groans and lunges across the floor, reaching for his gun.

“Carmine—!”

Carmine whirls, grabs Marcus by the throat, smashes the gun through his broken teeth⁠—

And pulls the trigger.

I spin away, clamping both hands over my scream as my eyes stare, the image of Marcus’ head evaporating seared into my brain.

A hand takes mine, slowly pulling it from my mouth.

An arm goes around me, drawing me close.

Carmine’s scent surrounds me, anchoring me as his lips touch the top of my head.

“Let’s go home, little dancer.”