Transparent
© 2015 Erin Noelle
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval systems, copied in any form or by any means. Electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the author/ publisher, except by a reviewer that may quote brief passages for review purposes only. This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each participant.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, is entirely coincidental.
All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story. The author is no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended.
Cover Design
by Hang Le
Cover Photography
Furious Fotog
Cover Model: Michael Federico with Model Madness, LLC
Editing
Indie Solutions & Kayla Robichaux
Interior Design and Formatting
Christine Borgford, Perfectly Publishable
Transparent is the conclusion of Blake and Madden's story that began in Translucent (Book One in the Luminous Duet), and should not be read as a standalone. It simply will not make sense. I've provided a short summary for those who need a quick reminder of what happened.
RECAP:
Blake Martin is a mystery.
She enters buildings completely aware of her surroundings. Everything she does, every move she makes is for a purpose. She's quiet, reserved; she likes being unnoticed. She's this way for a reason. Before she was Blake Martin, she was Bryleigh Carter Oliveira. The American Princess. Ish's wife. Ish. The illegitimate son to Italian mob boss Vincent Ricci. Ish pursued Bryleigh (Blake) with fervor. She was young (a high school student at the time), naïve, and enamored by the love and affection Ish showed her, the love and affection that became her worst nightmare.
Ish wasn't who she thought he was. He was controlling, abusive (physical, emotional, sexual), and manipulative. After seeing Ish at his worst (making her have sex with another man in front of him, then brutally murdering the man right in front of her, blaming her for his death; having sex with other women, then killing the women if they got pregnant, torturing and murdering anyone who dared cross him). After years of living in the terrifying lifestyle, Bryleigh had had enough. She killed Ish. But she was smart. After going to the FBI, she was placed in the Witness Protection Program in exchange for her knowledge of his family's operation.
When Blake moved to Los Angeles, she knew no one. Her only family (mother and brother) had been killed by Vincent as retaliation for the murder of his son. She had no friends, being in the WITSEC. She was starting over. Through the help of the U.S. Marshal's office, she's set up with a new appearance, a new home, and a new job at JDT Graphic Designs.
Meeting Madden Decker, CEO of Decker Enterprises, is life changing for both Blake and Madden. The connection is instant, and soon Madden is relentless in his pursuit of Blake. Blake, of course, is incredibly timid during his quest. The last person who pursued her turned out to be a psychopath. And she's continuing to deal with the constant nightmares Ish left her with, causing her to inflict bodily harm to herself. Madden is amazing-alpha, gorgeous, loves his parents. After admitting to herself and Madden there is something between them, they begin a relationship. Soon Madden realizes there's definitely more to Blake than she's presenting. He sees her nightmares, her times where she “checks out,” and he's the only one able to pull her out of it, the physical damage she does to herself. He's determined to help her and be with her, and soon they're madly in love, though neither have had the courage to admit it to the other yet.
Throughout their relationship, Madden and Blake deal with some normal things too. Jealousy from Emerson-a longtime family friend and former lover of Madden's. Emerson is ruthless and definitely not welcoming of Madden and Blake's relationship. Easton, Madden's brother, is a wild card. He's a partner in Decker Enterprises but rarely shows up and gets into trouble with the Russian mob because of his gambling addiction.
Just as things were starting to look to Blake like her life can, in fact, be normal, she gets a text from Madden, letting her know that he will be picking her up after work. Typically she drives to his house on Friday nights so they can spend the weekend together, so this wasn't normal, but she trusts him enough to not question it. As she climbs into the car, she's transported directly into one of her nightmares as she hears someone greet her by her “real” name. She's been abducted. But we are left to question by whom.
TRANSPARENT
NOTE TO READER
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
BOOKS BY ERIN NOELLE
For George R. R. Martin ~
At least someone takes longer than I do to put out a sequel
THE DAY I TURNED FOURTEEN, I tortured a man for the first time. Strung him up naked in one of my dad’s warehouses. Gagged him so I didn’t have to listen to him scream like the traitorous cunt he was as I cut off a different body part every half hour for nearly an entire afternoon. Just as I’d watched it be done numerous times over the past couple of years.
First were his hands and feet, each removed with a single swing of the new shaska my father had given me that morning at breakfast for my birthday. I remembered how proud he and my uncles were of my clean, precise form, insisting we all toast with a shot of Baikal vodka after each strike. The alcohol boosted my confidence and conviction, and by the fifth time I walked into the seedy back interrogation room, illuminated only by a flickering fluorescent light hanging in the middle of the cracked ceiling, I felt like the Pakhan himself—invincible, immortal, and on top of the Russian mafia world.
Another swift swipe of my gold-plated sword, and the man was no longer a man, anatomically speaking. And when I brought his pretty bride in to see him one last time, I demonstrated all the ways he would never enjoy her again, brutally fucking every hole her body had to offer, all less than a couple feet from him. His eyelids were stapled open, forcing him to watch as she abandoned their vows and trembled with release on top of my teenaged cock while I viciously pounded in and out of her.
Then, as my family members—both blood and sworn by oath—had their way with her in the next room, I brought my blade to the cock-less bastard’s throat and whispered the words “Forgive me, Lord, for I have sinned” in Russ
ian as I sliced him from ear to ear.
The entire warehouse erupted in cheers and applause as the shestyorkas, the lowest associates in my father’s brigade, rushed in to clean up the bloody mess before our women and my school friends arrived for the actual birthday party.
I may have been born into the powerful Kabinov family by chance, but I would die Bratva—in the brotherhood—by choice.
That was over eighteen years ago, and though I’m now third in line to rule one of the most powerful organized crime rings in the world, a lot changes when a boy becomes a man. No longer am I interested in spending time filleting the scum of the earth or fucking tainted whore pussy. No. I don’t waste my time on that shit anymore. I’m saving my wrath for the day the man responsible for the murder of my wife and my brother, as well as a handful of others in my family, stands before me to answer for what he’s done.
And with the Lord above and the Demon below as my witnesses, I swear once I get my hands on him, Vincent Ricci is going to wish with every fiber of his being that I was still that fourteen-year-old boy who didn’t know what it was like to have the most precious thing in the world taken from him. A boy who didn’t know the fierce agony and mind-controlling rage that comes along with losing the person you love most.
The boss of the powerful Ricci Family of Chicago may have been able to evade me and my brothers for the last two years, but finally, I have the one thing he desires most of all. The one thing that will make him vulnerable, careless and irresponsible.
And she is currently bound to my bed.
Staring down at her as she sleeps soundly, knocked out from whatever drug that crazy red-headed bitch gave her, I can’t help but notice the resemblance of her to my Darya. Moi miliy kotik—moi Darya.
Porcelain skin. Thick, dark lashes resting peacefully on her high, prominent cheekbones. Rosy lips so full and lush they beg to be kissed. I’m almost scared to see her with her eyes open. Will she have those same blue sapphires that can . . .
I stand up abruptly from the bedside chair and step toward the window, peering out at the waves as they lap relentlessly along the rocky Pacific Coast, laughing at myself for the absurd thoughts. Now is not the time to think about lashes or lips or eye color. Now is not the time to adulate over my prisoner—this American Princess, as they call her.
She is only the means to an end.
Because now is the time for revenge.
Earlier that day . . .
DEAD CAR BATTERY AT LUNCH. CHECK. Late to afternoon meeting due to a dead car battery. CHECK. CHECK. Lost cell phone somewhere between my office, the parking garage, and the afternoon meeting I was late to, because of the dead car battery. CHECK. CHECK. Motherfucking CHECK.
Today definitely hasn’t shaped up the way I imagined, and if it wasn’t for the fact that it’s Friday, I’d probably be ready to kill someone right now as I sit in bumper-to-bumper traffic on the dreaded 101 at rush hour. I hate when shit doesn’t go as planned. I check the clock on the dashboard for the eighth time in the last ten minutes, and well, shit really isn’t going as fucking planned right now.
I’d wasted a ridiculous amount of time standing around, waiting for the mechanic from the Mercedes dealership to get my car running again. Then, even more as I’d dealt with the overly helpful, please-take-me-home-and-fuck-me-eyed co-ed working at the Apple store, who took nearly an hour to get my phone replaced and loaded with all my previous settings. I’m finally on my way home, ready to start the weekend with my sweet girl . . . who still hasn’t returned my phone call or my text. What is it about today?
Reaching for the phone lying in the passenger seat, I press my thumb against the small circular button, and the black screen confirms I haven’t missed any messages or calls. I grunt my displeasure as I grip the wheel tighter, my knuckles turning purple first, then stark white. Blake knows damn well I worry if she doesn’t get back to me promptly. And since I know she should be in her car, driving to my house right now, there’s absolutely no reason she hasn’t called or texted me back in the last twenty minutes. I have half a mind to bend her over my knee and spank her cute little ass when I see her tonight.
By the time I pull into the driveway of my Spanish-style Calabasas home, my stomach is tangled in a knot of unease. It’s been over an hour, and still no word from Blake. This isn’t like her at all, and even though her self-destructive episodes have been less frequent in the past few weeks, there’s still a chance one can be triggered at any time or any place. The thought of her in that state somewhere, vulnerable to others or when she’s driving, makes my blood run ice cold. She could be in danger or seriously hurt.
No! I tell myself as I exit the car and bound up the walkway, refusing to think the worst. I bet something simple has happened, like her phone battery died and she forgot her car charger at home. I’m sure she’s on her way here right now, stuck on the highway with the thousands of other commuters eager to start their weekend as I just was.
Unlocking the door and striding inside, I continue to try to convince myself she’ll be here in a little while. Just like she’s been every weekend for the last couple of months. I’m simply overreacting . . . allowing the domineering, protective nature I have with her to overrule rational sensibility. Yes, Madden, you’re fucking overreacting. Chill the fuck out.
I do my best to push aside my apprehension and quickly scan the note from my housekeeper, Sarah, about how to heat up the dinner she’s prepared and left in the fridge. Snickering at the last line that reminds me to turn the oven off, I swipe a beer from the top shelf and head upstairs to shower and change clothes. My sweet girl should be here by the time I’m finished.
For the past six years—before I met Blake—weekends held no charm for me. After being fast-tracked into the role of CEO at Decker Enterprises due to my father’s poor health, I found I preferred to be at the office, focusing on the development and expansion of our family business much more than I enjoyed being home alone. Sure, I’d go out and meet my brother and some friends at a bar often enough. I’d have a few drinks then usually end up leaving with a random pretty face, but it always felt like that was what I was supposed to be doing, not what I wanted to be doing.
Now that the weekend means I get to spend three straight nights with Blake, my countdown for Friday night starts the minute she leaves my house Monday morning. How we got here so fast, I’m not really sure, nor do I care. And despite my initial intentions, I’ve most definitely fallen for her. Hard. It’s the most natural thing I’ve ever experienced.
But every time I start to say those three little words—to tell her how much and how deeply I feel about her, and how much she means to me—she finds a way to interrupt me, as if she’s not quite ready for the heaviness of them quite yet. So, I wait, worried I’ll send her running away if I push. The first thing she needs to realize is she’s worthy of being loved, which is what I’m working so diligently on now.
Despite the fact I know very little about the details of her troubled past, it didn’t take me long to figure out whatever happened must’ve been really fucked up. At twenty-two, with no living family and starting over in a brand new city where she knows not a single person, Blake possesses courage very few people have, and it’s my goal to provide her the safety and security to be the bright, beautiful, fun-loving young woman she sometimes gives me glimpses of when we’re alone. I want that for her all the time. I want that for us.
It’s seven fifteen once I scrub the grime of the day off my skin and settle into a comfortable t-shirt and a pair of jeans, and she’s still not here. Checking my phone, the same blank screen stares back at me. I want to grab another beer, the first having done little to soothe my anxiety, but the nagging thought I may need to get back out on the roads to look for her steers me otherwise.
At eight o’clock, I start to freak out. I’ve walked the hardwood floors in my study so many times over the last forty-five minutes, I’m surprised the bottoms of my bare feet aren’t stained and varnished. I can’t sit here a
ny longer and do nothing. My gut says something is definitely not right, and my gut is rarely wrong.
Grabbing my keys and wallet, I’m concerned she may have broken down on the side of the road, so I choose to drive the route from my house to her Woodland Hills’ apartment. The car ride is silent, my nerves so shot I can’t even stand to listen to music on the radio, and with each dark mile eaten up by the rubber of the tires, I lose a little more of my steadfast composure. I need to see her. I need to know she’s okay.
With no sign of her or her car at her home, I continue on to her workplace in Burbank in another twenty minutes of dead silence. When I find a dark, locked-up office building and her silver Jetta parked in an otherwise vacant employee lot, a thousand alarms go off in my head. “Fuuuuccckkkk!” I scream, slamming the heel of my hands on the steering wheel.
Throwing the transmission into park, I jump out of my car and sprint to her base-model sedan, inspecting it bumper-to-bumper for any indication as to where she could be. I drop to my knees, my desperate eyes searching the asphalt next to and under the car. But unfortunately, there’s nothing. Not a single fucking clue.
Fear washes over me. Fear, and something that feels a lot like out-of-control panic. But before I succumb to the weakness of both emotions, I take a deep breath in through my nose and blow it out through my pursed lips, hoping to clear my chaotic thoughts. I have to stay in control, keep my wits about me, if I want to find her. I need a plan.
After retrieving Jae’s cell number from one of the work emails she’d sent me earlier this week, I call, hoping since she’s Blake’s closest friend and coworker, she’ll know what’s going on. Even though I’ll be pissed as shit Blake didn’t call or show up at my house like she’s supposed to, I’ll breathe easier just knowing she’s safe and sound.
“Hello, this is Jae,” she answers after only one ring.
Clearing my throat, I attempt to keep my composure as I speak. “Hey, Jae, it’s Madden Decker. I’m sorry to bother you on a Friday night, but I’m calling you about Blake.”