Page 2 of Killer Confections (Syndicate Killers #1)

Atlas

Eleven Years Ago

I sit on the bench outside of the principal’s office, my forearms resting on my knees as my bloodied knuckles hang limply. My lip is busted, the taste of copper exploding on my tongue as I keep my head down, eyes boring into the dirty white floor beneath me.

Dad is going to kill me.

The first rule of the syndicate is to protect your own. You protect your family and the twenty others living within the compound.

Getting into trouble draws attention. The more eyes on us, the easier it is for someone to discover the amassed residences on the bought out acreage that lies just twenty miles outside the city limits of Columbus.

The syndicate's treasurer pays a hefty fee to keep authorities at bay, no matter where the hit jobs take our assassins, but dad would rather keep those fees low. He strives to ensure no one ever discovers the heinous acts that go on within the compound.

And maybe I act out as a cry for help.

Maybe somewhere in me, I want that freedom. I want some authority to take me away from that hellhole.

No one ever leaves.

Even if I got away, he would find me—drag me back kicking and screaming. Then he would beat me until I wouldn’t dare think of leaving again.

My fists clench, opening my cuts further as blood drips down my fingers. Droplets splatter on the floor, marring the white surface in a crimson red.

How will he do it this time?

Last summer, I had the bright idea of sneaking out and going to the lake. The act is supposed to be fun for teenagers. Your adrenaline pumps, and you feel free as your steps take you further and further away from where your parents think you are.

It was the most free-spirited thing I had ever done.

Word to the wise, sneaking out of a house with highly trained assassins living under the roof isn’t bright.

Dad followed me, keeping silent and lingering just out of earshot.

When I got to the lake, I was so preoccupied with celebrating that I had made it so far I didn’t even notice as he closed in on me.

He gripped the back of my neck, startling me, before forcing my head under the water.

As I gargled and screamed, my fingers attempting to pry his hands off me, I had an out-of-body experience.

It was like I was watching my old man as he drowned me.

I was watching my own father kill me.

Just when my lungs filled with water and I had accepted my fate, he yanked me from the lake. He yelled and berated me as I coughed up murky water, wheezing to catch my breath, before he plunged my head back under.

I lost track of how many times he dunked me, but I could never look at the lake again.

Thinking about it now makes my stomach churn.

The office door opens, but I keep my head lowered.

I can see the mom, dressed in a pencil skirt and red button down, in my peripheral as she ushers her son into the hall.

Blake, one of my classmates, holds his limp wrist. His eyes are bloodshot from crying and his nose is crooked from where I hit him.

The nurse cleaned his blood after our fight.

He looks ridiculous with the thick tissue paper crammed in his nostrils .

His mom looks down at me, curling her lip. “Where’s your parents?”

I don’t answer. I keep my eyes trained on the floor, pretending I don’t see them.

“Mrs. Harper,” the principal warns from the doorway, her tone sharp. “I asked you not to interfere. Atlas’s parents have been called, and the incident reports are filled out. We’ll handle this.”

Blake’s mom points an accusing finger at me and I grit my teeth. “He could have killed my son! This isn’t the first time he’s been involved in an altercation.”

Mrs. Wilma pushes from the doorway, stepping in front of me. She’s in her early fifties, dressed in a long beige skirt with a bright blue flowered top. The principal has always had a soft spot for me, trying to smooth things over with the parents who try to verbally attack me.

“Teenagers get into fights all the time. That doesn't mean I condone the action, but it happens. I’m sure Atlas is upset that he hurt Blake.” She tries to reason.

I’m not.

Mrs. Harper still isn’t pleased as she crosses her arms. “Then he should apologize. Don’t think I won’t press charges.”

“Do you know why Atlas threw the first punch?” Mrs. Wilma demands, her tone losing its gentleness.

“Blake has bullied this boy over his clothes for the last month. I’ve called you more than enough, leaving you voicemails about the incident and you never returned my calls.

You press charges, and I’ll gladly bring this to the attention of the school board. ”

Mrs. Harper falters, narrowing her eyes. “Then an apology will suffice.”

“From both boys,” Mrs. Wilma gives her a pointed look.

The mom scoffs before looking at her son and motioning to me with a hand.

Blake rolls his eyes. “I’m sorry.” It’s half-hearted and complete bullshit with the disgusted look on his face.

My anger boils over. There are a few stupid reasons I’m bullied. One being my height and size. My dad’s genes are just as imposing as him, making me over six feet tall at only sixteen.

Another, being my clothes. My father never divulged material possessions for us. He claimed we needed to stay focused on training. New clothes and toys would only impede his great plan. The tattered rags I wear, worn down with holes and stains, make my jaw grind.

“You cry like a bitch,” I grit.

“Fuck you!” He bellows, his cheeks puffing as his fists clench.

“Atlas!” Mrs. Wilma scolds, raising her voice.

“I’m pressing charges,” Mrs. Harper proclaims. “I don’t know what kind of school you’re running, but this is unacceptable.

Tell the school board I didn’t return your calls.

There are a lot of other families who will back me.

” She presses a hand to her son’s shoulder, guiding him out the door as her heels click angrily against the floor.

Mrs. Wilma sighs, shaking her head. “What am I going to do with you? You can’t keep making trouble—”

“I know,” I interrupt. “Can I have a minute alone until my dad shows up?”

Her face softens, “Is something going on at home?”

“No.”

“You can tell me—”

“Please, Mrs. Wilma,” I beg. “I’m fine. I just need a minute.”

A long pause hangs heavy in the air between us and I can feel her eyes burning a hole in the side of my head before she sighs. “I’ll be in my office. Come and get me if you need anything.”

I don’t respond, keeping my eyes glued to the floor. When the door clicks shut, I can finally breathe. I take a few deep breaths, trying to calm myself down before dad shows up. My punishment will only be worse if my adrenaline kicks in. It’s better to take everything silently .

Down the hall, I hear light footsteps nearing me. It’s not a teacher. I recognize the sounds of footsteps are affected by a person’s weight. Yet another training I had to undergo.

Whoever is approaching is smaller, maybe a girl? I still refuse to look up, thinking she’s probably heading to the bathroom or something.

My brows furrow when she stops in front of me. Bright white Converse with colorful patches sewn into the high tops come into view. Her shoes are decorated with little cakes and flowers, the colors vivid and popping against the white.

She steps right into my blood, smearing it across the floor.

“What?” I snarl.

I’m surprised when she crouches down, chasing my eyes. Long strawberry blonde hair, tan freckles, and deep brown eyes laced with concern stare back at me. Her face is rounded and soft. Her eyebrows are a little darker than her hair and thick.

She’s pretty.

But sometimes, the prettiest people have the darkest hearts. I sit back a little, weary of having her so close to me.

Her eyes soften, “They should have sent you to see the nurse first.”

My heart hammers. Her tone is mellifluous, pleasing to the ears, and full of sincerity. There’s a look about her, almost like she wears her heart on her sleeve. She’s completely incapable of being deceiving.

The realization startles me. She’s experienced nothing like what I’ve been through. The world hasn’t taken that innocence from her. I can see it clear as day in her wide eyes.

She’s not tainted.

The rational side of me wants to brush her off, tell her to leave me alone and never speak to me again. But the irrational side, the side of me that tends to grow attached to things I can’t have, festers. I’m so intrigued by her. She’s normal.

“I’m not allowed to see the nurse,” I answer .

Her head rears back slightly, like my words have hurt her. I think they may have. It’s unnatural to see someone so caring in the world I’ve grown up in. Experiencing it first-hand is like getting a front-row seat to a movie I shouldn’t be watching.

I can’t look away.

I don’t want to look away.

“Why can’t you go to the nurse’s office?” She asks as she lowers herself to her knees.

I quickly reach out, grabbing her thin elbows as I stop her from kneeling in my blood. Her skin is warm and smooth and the subtle hint of peppermint and vanilla touches my nose.

What am I doing?

“I’m bleeding,” I say, helping her to stand. When I realize I’ve been holding onto her this whole time, I let go, regretting when I no longer feel that tingling sensation in my palms.

“Oh,” she looks down at the floor, stepping to the side and plopping down on the seat beside me. She sits close, our shoulders nearly touching. “Why can’t you go to the nurse?”

I think better than to tell this girl anything. If she were to speak to her parents, they would probably call the cops.

But I don’t want to let this go.

I don’t want her to go.

“My dad didn’t sign the consent form for me to be seen by the nurse,” I shrug.

Her eyes widen, “Why wouldn’t he sign it?”

Because if I hurt myself, he said treating it wouldn’t toughen me up.

I want to say it, but this moment feels special. I feel like a real kid getting to know someone. Ruining this by introducing this girl to the world I live in would crush her.