Chapter 137

He’s not a psychopath who got off on it or went bloodlust crazy. He did what he needed to do to protect me and then he cleaned up his mess and acted like it was nothing at all. The sane behaviours of a killer because this is a path he was set upon, and he has become numb to the things he has to do in order to fulfil a role. It’s not the same as being a killer who revels in his bloodlust.

Alexi has a moral code, it’s just more of a soldier doing his duty than of a gangster killing for power. Like me normalising my abuse and trauma over the years and turning sex into a tool, Alexi has normalised what he must do to stay head of his family and uses his ‘’skills’’ as effectively as I did. We are more alike than I realised. We just have different tools in our arsenal and handle the after-effects in the same way, with disinterest and a non-emotional response. Completely unhealthy and inhumane, but somehow, it’s how we survive.

Well, how I handled things before him. He has broken me when it comes to the after reactions. Since Alexi, I have met a barrage of feelings I long ago buried, and even allowing myself to form a friendship of sorts with Mico is proof that he has changed me in subtle ways. I care about Mico and I obviously care about Alexi. I would even go as far as saying I care about my staff at the club, and the club itself gave me a sense of pride and achievement.

He trusted me to run something important to him and it gave me a sense of purpose and something to feel a little good over. Not selling my body, drugs or girls in the conventional way I had.

Instead, a real place where the women had a choice, and he protected them within his walls. He protected me, even when I told myself he was controlling and possessive—not once did I ever feel like he would allow anyone in that place to use me for their own ends. As much as I hated it when he said I was his and acted like he owned me, I secretly loved that I was somehow branded as his and fell under his care and protection.

He never called any of the other girls his, well not that I ever heard, but then I guess Joanne wouldn’t act like the smug bitch she is if he didn’t. Maybe he just keeps it between him and his playthings.

I can’t stop my head going round in circles of hate, adoration, misery, and love. He has royally screwed my brain up for the worst and now I am thinking about him and her, that skanky whore Joanne, and how she probably allows him to tie her up and do kinky things to her every chance she gets. Things I could never allow him to do, even if he wanted me to.

I could never fulfil that side of his desires, so it’s pointless even thinking of it. I need to quiet my brain, or I am going to turn myself inside out with insanity. I need to switch all this off.

I wander to the mini bar in frustrated desperation and browse his vast array of booze. One thing the man likes is quality booze and a good variety of it.

I pull out the gin and pour myself a sizeable glass and dunk in a few ice cubes for good measure. I was never one to run to alcohol to deal with a heavy heart and messy head but now seems like as good a time as any to drown my sorrows. I have nowhere else to be tonight and no one to care if I get smashed and pass out on top of my vibrator. I need to let off steam and get my shit under control. I need to stop thinking.

‘‘Bottoms up Lisa … a new day and all that shite! Forget about him and walk away.’’ I raise my glass half-heartedly, yet I cannot shift the lump of ache growing in my chest and stomach. Downing it in one and gagging on the strength of the alcohol, I pour a second quickly.

I am always pretty controlled when it comes to booze and drugs, partaking but never overdoing it as I like to stay in control. Playing the part of intoxicated but really keeping myself sober, so I am on full alert. I don’t need that right now and I want to forget. I want to drown out the overwhelming pain in my heart that’s pulsing like a heavy drum through my body. I want to stop crying silent tears as though water pouring down my face is the new norm, and I want to hate him and move on.

I open the lower cupboard and locate his array of crazily expensive bottles. I can tell by the fact some are still boxed he reserves these for special occasions, and in my current ‘‘Screw you Alexi’’ frame of mind, I pull out the bottles and line them up ready for my pity party for one.