Hell Will Rise
The Bloodthirst Mafia Series
Genre: Romantic Thriller
Publisher: Skyla Murphy
Date of Publication: May 2017
Word Count: 86,400
Cover Artist: Kim Killion
Tagline: âWhen dawn breaksâ¦â
This was never what I wanted, but fame in the mafia was what I got.
When you see numbers like I can, death becomes a constant threat. It lingers, waiting for you to make one wrong move. One falter. One fatal step out of line. The endless presence will drain you, layering you with guilt and regret. Until one day, youâre covered in blood. And in that moment, you realizeâ¦ youâve become the grim reaper yourself.
Nothing could stop me from saving my little sister. Nothing could weaken meâ¦ until my boss threw a blonde slave at my feet. Once I found out who she was, I should have wanted her dead.
But I had a bad habit of breaking the rules.
And I loved that she hated me.
Like a stupid man named Romeo, I fell for the daughter of the feuding family. Like an idiot named Juliet, she didnât try to run.
And when I fell for the fair maiden, I shook a pair of dice. I smoked a cigarette, but she paid the final price. As I offered her a smile, my venom filled her core. I watched her drink my poison as her soul walked out the door.
Chapter 1 Excerpt
I carved the next X into the concrete wall of my cell, stashed away in the depths of somewhere much like hell. If my tallies were accurate, it was Wednesday again today; my twenty-first day of captivity.
Dried blood was splattered on the concrete flooring of my new home. Some of the red was undoubtedly mine, but many other droplets were evidence of prior struggles. The dried handprints along the walls were telling me the stories of many other slaves before me. All in a row, our bloody prints depicted a painting of a morbid reality. My handprint was the last in line.
Three weeks had passed since Iâd tasted more than blood and saltine crackers. Three weeks had passed since Iâd showered, turned eighteen, and had then said goodbye to my freedom forever. Three weeks had passed since the thugs had given me my first tattoo. And now, whether I managed to escape from this prison or not, a barcode would mark me indefinitely.
My identification number was 40347. I had memorized the digits within moments of staring at the unwanted code on my right wrist. I had memorized everything right down to the dirty needle. My barcode had become infected now, just like Iâd anticipated it would, leaving me certain of one detail; whoever chose to abuse me would consequently become infected with whatever diseases I had. For participating in such a masochistic scheme, it would serve the motherfucker(s) right.
My friends had been with me that night during spring break. Weâd been out celebrating my eighteenth birthday on the grass down by the marina. Since most of us were attending different colleges come fall, inevitably vanishing from each otherâs lives one by one, weâd made a pact to make good use of the time we had left together. Little did any of us know, when I had insisted I was fine to make the short walk home alone that night, it would be the last time they would ever see me.
I pressed my ear to the cell door. A slab of closed steel was blocking my only exit, making it difficult to hear the voices chattering in the distance. It wasnât until the men footed closer that I managed to make their words out. Once I could, I wished I couldnât.
âRows of whoresâ¦â The voice sounded like the man I had woken up to on my first day of captivity. âBut itâs that blonde bitch who caught my eye. Once Garciez finds out who she is, the white girl will be dead within hours.â
I stared at the mats in my blonde hair, suddenly wishing Iâd been born a brunette. This week had been the absolute worst so far. My hallucinations had kicked into overdrive, a cause of low blood sugar and dehydration. But in this moment, I was aware of my fever. Another few days, maybe even just hours, I wasnât confident my sanity would still prevail.
I wanted to believe this was just a nightmare. I hoped I was in a parallel universe, in a hospital bed, maybe even in a coma. I prayed this was just a sick plot my unconscious had stirred up. That all seemed better than this reality; the reality where an ice-cold floor was my new home.
I didn't have much to compare being locked in captivity to, but Iâd seen movies of this type of thing. In Hollywood, the lead female always gets rescued. A timidly sweet girl generally plays the role, perfect in all the right areas. Unlike her, I was far from timid and even further from perfect. I carried a chip on my shoulder; a chip that only came from nearly dying of cancer.
About the Author:
Skyla Murphy is a highland junkie from West Coast, Canada. When sheâs not searching the Rocky Mountains for Sasquatch, she can be found researching every other conspiracy theory known to mankind. Her Yorkshire Terrier is usually clung to her side, but he doesnât buy into her philosophies much. Therefore, she writes about them instead.
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