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Chapter Two
ROSIE
“Did he get the gift?” I ask down the phone as I stretch out on my bed for the evening. The naked man next to me snoring away, oblivious to my conversation and the fact I drugged him. Poison was my forte, I guess you could say it was something I’d shown talent for from a young age. My tio Alessio had made sure I could protect myself, even after my parents died. It was also less messy than a gun or a knife, and I typically hated getting my hands dirty.
Julian Asaro, however, was the exception to that rule. For him I wanted to get more than just my hands dirty. I wanted to bathe in his blood. I wanted it to congeal on my skin, until it itched and flaked away, leaving me to emerge like an avenging butterfly. I wanted it under my nails, making everything feel dirty and grimy. I was owed a messy painful death.
The man beside me snorts in his sleep. Tonight, I wasn’t in the mood to be groped and molested by a man who claimed to have a solid nine inches but actually only had four. Still, he was useful for a place to sleep instead of crashing back at Lola’s tiny cramped apartment again, not that I wasn’t grateful to my best friend. She was the only person I trusted in the world, but she was having troubles of her own in the form of a handsome bald stalker with serious ‘Daddy’ vibes.
Rolling my eyes, I push the guy whose name I can’t remember further to the edge of the bed with my foot. I’d picked him up at The Top Hat, the gentlemen’s club downtown where Lola worked. It was a gaudy, over the top club with red lighting and pink neon signs run by The Family. Risky, but sometimes the best hiding places are the most obvious ones. It was the main reason Julian hadn’t been able to catch-up with me so far and it made our little cat and mouse game that much more thrilling.
Really, The Top Hat was a brothel, but over the years Julian had brought in more regulations, better safety measures for the girls who worked there and it had improved the joint a little. The ‘Flowers’ were still whores, but at least now they had the option to refuse their clients. Besides, May the eighth is exclusively for Jay Asaro. He owns this date every year and it’s almost like it’s become special in its own twisted way and not just because it’s the anniversary of my parents’ death.
The soft voice on the other end of the line hesitates, “Yes.”
I grin. I bet he was pissed when he read the card even though I’d used my best handwriting. “Good.”
“I really think he’s going to kill you soon.” The voice trembles and it gives me goosebumps as I imagine his hands around my throat, choking the life out of me. As if Julian could kill me. Flicking through the magazine on the nightstand, I pause when I come across an article about the great Julian himself, arriving at a swanky charity dinner with some glamour model. She’s beautiful, with dark hair and big hazel eyes but there’s no chemistry between them. He’s a perfect gentleman, his hand never dipping below her waist and almost hovering inches away from her skin as if he’s afraid touching her might burn. There’s never been anyone serious, not since our supposed engagement and I don’t have to wonder why that is. He’s afraid. He’s afraid that if he falls in love, I’ll take that away from him too just like I’m slowly stealing away The Family and his precious WunderLnd Corporation. If I have to be alone in this world, then so does he. It’s only fair.
“I’d like to see him try.” Tracing my finger over his strong jawline and sharp nose, I smile. “In fact, we may be overdue a catch-up.”
Silence. Followed with a soft begging, “Please don’t do anything stupid…”
I groan, “Don’t whine. I have no patience for that.”
More silence. I wait, patiently, which is not admittedly one of my finer qualities.
Finally the voice offers, “He’s got another charity ball next week. At Newtown Plaza Hotel.”
I look at the image of Julian in a tux once again, and a heat unfurls in my stomach at the thought of seeing him in person for the first time in years. “And you can get me tickets?”
“Of course. But are you sure? There’ll be lots of security, and Creed will be there with him.” Elijah Creed. Julian’s ‘Left Hand’, his most loyal supporter and his best friend. He was on my list, near the very top but I was saving him for last. Well, Jay was last, so Creed would have to be the penultimate kill.
“Good job,” I praise, even though it frustrates me that he’s second guessing me. I can handle the security issues. Everyone has a price, it’s just a matter of finding it. “Check your phone, I’ll send you something as a reward.”
Hanging up without waiting for his response, I take a picture as a little sweetener to offer up. I make sure that only part of my face and hair is visible, not enough to identify me, but enough to verify that it’s me while the rest of the shot focuses over my shoulder. I look over the image, the dim lighting flattering the curves of my body, my ass and toned legs, looking almost sinful as I lay on my stomach amongst the black bedding, my bed partner just out of shot. I send it and turn the phone off without another thought of the person on the other end.
Some relationships were forged through shared hardships, through blood, others through an alignment of goals and ones like this…they were made under delusions of love. He worshipped me, and if my father had taught me anything, it was to use every tool in your arsenal. I flick on the TV and catch up on my favorite baking shows before drifting off for a few hours of uninterrupted sleep, a grin plastered on my face at the thought of Julian Asaro bleeding in his tux.
The shots are so loud they reverberate around my house. It’s like a sensory overload as my brain struggles to process what’s happening. There are people everywhere, pushing and shoving desperate to escape. They move like an angry swarm, swelling and pulsing around me.
Screams.
Shouts.
More screams.
I tear through the kitchen calling for my parents. Someone tries to grab me, but I thrust my blade into their side. I don’t even check to see who I’ve hurt. No one can get in my way; I need my parents. I shout so much that my throat burns. It feels raw, like I’ve swallowed glass as I call for my mother. How could I have let myself get distracted by a pretty face? I should have known better. I was taught better. Warm blood trickles down my arm as I duck into our dining room where most of the guests had been gathered. I’m not sure if it’s my blood or someone else’s. It doesn’t matter. My parents should be here. But I can’t see them. Panic rises in my chest and I suck in big gulps of air. Calm, Rosie. Calm. It doesn’t work. There are dead bodies on our floor, bleeding all over my mother’s favorite rug. Crimson soaking into the threads, tainting everything. Ruining everything. Don’t be dead, I plead silently as I check their clothing and faces. Not my parents. They were someone’s parents, but they weren’t mine. Don’t be dead. My father was going to be furious when he saw the mess. Please, don’t be dead.
I don’t know who opened fire. I don’t even know who is firing. I can’t tell who is on what side but this family has been torn apart. I see my uncles, Captains and men I smiled at only hours ago, killing one another. Blasting holes in the walls of my home. Destroying the house my mother decorated so lovingly. My grandmother’s body sits slumped, still in her chair in the corner, half her skull missing and I swallow painfully. Please. Please. Don’t let my parents be dead, I beg the god I no longer believe in. The Family was fractured and I don’t understand why. Where is my father?
I hear voices above my head and with my blade still clutched in my hand I take the stairs two at a time. A hulking figure with a scarred face steps out of one of the rooms. I recognize him as one of Frank’s men, and I vaguely remember my father praising him for being one of the best fighters at The Gryphon, the underground fighting ring. As he stands before me, blocking my way, I can see why. He’s huge, all muscle and unrestrained anger. It radiates off him in waves, turning my stomach, and setting off alarm bells in my head. This is a man who enjoys pain, who lives for the destruction The Family offers.
He scoffs when he sees me. Face twisted into a nasty snarl that I’ll never forget.
“Come here pretty princess,” he hisses and with a growl he lunges at me. If I let him catch me, I don’t even want to imagine what will happen. But it won’t come to that because like the others, he underestimates me. Quickly, I stomp on his foot with my heel and when he bows into the unexpected pain, I ram my thin blade into his eye socket, forcing my weight behind it just like my father showed me. There’s a sickening squelching noise as I destroy his eye. It’s more than enough of a distraction as he howls and yanking the knife back out, I push him down the stairs hard with my foot. When I peer over the rail, his body lies at the bottom, bent and broken, head cracked open like a coconut with one glassy eye staring up at me, the other a pulpy socket.
Heading towards my father’s office I stop in my tracks. The door is partially open and I can see them on their knees. My parents. Tears streamed down my mother’s face as my father held her hand. Her blonde hair is a mess, the artful chignon she wore earlier in the evening gone. A dark purple blossom forms around her eye, and her lip is split, ruby red and swollen with blood. His expression is stoically blank. A gash along his cheek and cut to his eyebrow are the only obvious wounds, but the way he holds himself carefully on one side makes me think he’s nursing a few broken ribs. But they’re alive.
Men tear apart the room, throwing papers and books everywhere as they look for something. Sheafs of paper rain down like snow as the thud of books landing on the hardwood floors make me flinch.
More screams and guttural howls from downstairs distract me for a moment and when I look back my father’s gaze locks with mine. He’s seen me. He looks away quickly, at whoever is holding a gun on them. They’re standing out of view but I can see the gun, and large masculine hands. My gut instinct said it was Felix, but unless I pushed the door open fully, I had no way of telling. Creeping closer, I try to get a better look but my father’s head nods slightly, a sign telling me to leave. I can’t go. Not now. I have to do something. I can see hands now, a fancy silver cufflink in the shape of a snake catches in the light and the edge of a tattoo. I need more. I need help. I count three different voices in the room besides the one with a gun on my parents. If I had any hope of getting them out of there, I needed to draw them out to divide and conquer. I couldn’t just charge in there with my tiny little blade, not against their guns, even if I did have the element of surprise on my side.
I need to create a distraction that will get some of them out of the room. I can do this. I shake my head at my father, I am not leaving. I won’t. I can see his shoulders deflate as he realizes that I’m going to be my usual stubborn self. He nods his head again, knowing that it’s inevitable now that I’m here. My mother sobs harder, but as her head turns, I know she’s spotted me too.
Her eyes widen, and I know seconds before she opens her mouth what she’s going to do. Throwing herself at the gun, she screams, “Run, Rosie! Run!”
