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PROLOGUE
Lennon
Gunshots ring out in the alley below. My hackles rise with dread, my intuition laced with guilt. I never should have agreed to separate. The middle-aged prostitute before me doesn’t flinch, seemingly unfazed by the shots fired as this is likely her constant reality. We came here to get information on the decline of business. Some of our file soldiers run a prostitution racket and are allowed to operate under the contingency that a hefty percentage be given to my father, the Clan Chief. Although not in the best of neighborhoods, this hotel was afforded to them to get the prostitutes off the streets and somewhere more secure for theirtransactions. My father suspects that the money he has received lately doesn’t reflect the actual transactions. Before he brought down the wrath on these soldiers, he wanted to validate how business has been going with one of the top-producing prostitutes. I was likely more successful with this task because these working ladies had tripped over themselves to tell me how handsome they thought I was. It’s not the first time I’ve capitalized on my looks. I’m often underestimated for it, but now I must get to my father. I peer quickly out of the window for a fire escape before backtracking to sprint out the door when I don’t see one. I take the steps at the end of the hall, two at a time, as I descend from the fifth floor. Each step is heavier than the last as time works against me. I can’t seem to get there fast enough. When I’m finally able to burst through the back door and into the alley, the scene before me is just as I predicted and feared. My father lies propped up against the dumpster. He guards his abdomen with his right arm as blood pools beneath him.
“Fuck!” I yell in despair. I kneel next to him to assess the damage. I raise his blood-soaked shirt and count several bullet entry points. “We have to get you to a hospital,” I say, trying to lift him, but he swats my hand away.
“There isn’t much time, Lennon. I’m not going to survive this,” he sputters as he chokes on the blood now seeping from his mouth, his Irish accent thick. “It’s up to you now. Take care of yer sister and your brothers. Rise to the top, son, and make them all pay.”
“No. I don’t accept this. We have to get you—”
“Please,” he says, and I know I don’t have much time before I lose him forever.
“Who did this? Was it one of our soldiers? Tell me!”
“No, mac. Last thing I want is for ye to seek revenge in a blind rage. This is what they want. The shooter could have aimed for a head shot. He left me coherent enough to tell ye who did this so ye can fall into their trap.” He grabs me by the sleeve. “It’s not who ye think. This was a move about power. It’s time to get yeer brothers involved and make sure they don’t get it. Be methodical and strategic, never emotional and predictable.”
So many thoughts and questions swarm my mind as the first tear runs down my cheek. I turn away, refusing to let my father see me weak. I never cry. Not since the day I took my first life at twelve. Even faced with the inevitability of his death, my father still looks out for his family. His final words rock me to my core.
“They killed your mother too. Don’t let them …”
He never gets to finish that sentence. His body slumps, and his stare goes blank. He’s gone.
CHAPTER ONE
Lennon
Istare blankly at the dried blood crusted around my nail beds— the essence of life exsanguinated around each of my fingers. My latest target was someone’s husband, someone’s father, yet remorse eludes me. I feel nothing; the numbness won’t allow it. My soul has a fiery fate of much more detriment than the life I just ended. Until then, my sins of darkness will reign unapologetically. This was who I was groomed to be. With the wall at my back, I push to my feet from the floor. I can’t let midnight propel me into another day without serving my penance, my palate cleanser to reset my body count. I walk over to my desk and flip through the pages of a worn leather journal until I find a blank page. Grabbing the pen lying next to it, I add a diagonal tally to mark off another group of five. The black ink is a constant reminder that I’m not a good man. With the transition into my new rank as the Clan Chief, I’m not expected to handle these killings myself, but it is important for me to make a statement— a loud one. I’m just as ruthless as my father, so don’t cross me. I won’t ask or demand anyone’s respect. I will just take it.
I takethe stairs down to the basement of my new Staten Island home, where my right-hand man, Oisín, awaits. He was once my father’s before I moved up in rank. Although he disagrees with my choice, he understands its purpose. As a longtime adviser for our clan and now doubling as the head of my security detail and right-hand, he refuses to leave me while I’m at my most vulnerable. He isn’t able to bring himself to engage in the actual act, but just knowing he’s present to oversee my penance is a debt I could never repay.
This ritual playsout the same as it has since I’ve embraced this new role. Oisín closes the door behind me as I walk toward Apollo, the man he hired to do this unorthodox job. He never speaks … formalities never exchanged. He towers over my five-foot-ten stance by at least five inches. I settle into my custom-built chair, allowing my arms and legs to be secured by the leather straps before the chair is tilted at a forty-five-degree angle. I close my eyes before the cloth covers my face. I let my mind escape to the job I have set up for tomorrow— one that doesn’t involve murder. Tomorrow, I will take ownership of a prisoner. This house was acquired just for her, and the staff have been vetted. I have to dig deep for a penance worthy of such treachery, but I won’t stop until I break her. The lives of my family depend on it.
CHAPTER TWO
Aurora
Igot too comfortable—careless. I walked right behind the dubious black van without a single thought for my safety, I realize, as I struggle against the brut force of the man covering my mouth. The doors flew open, and I was yanked into the empty interior faster than I could let out a single yell. A bigger man, with a Borat-like mustache, was waiting to assist. He attempted to tie my feet, but thus far it has been futile since I haven’t stopped kicking.
“Stop kicking, bitch,” warns the guy I’ve named Borat. “He told us not to harm you, but I’m sure I could make a case on why it was necessary.”
This gets my attention. Who ishe? Is this my father’s doing? Did he somehow find out I’ve been sneaking out, and all of this is just to scare me? Why else wouldn’t these men wear masks? My father is the boss of all bosses, and I’m his princess. Nobody would dare cross the Italian Mafia unless they had a death wish. I stop squirming, and the second guy switches places with Borat so that he can hold me with a firmer grip. He’s short and stocky and reminds me of Danny DeVito, just a bit taller. Danny quickly zip ties my feet and then my arms behind my back. He’s definitely the calmer of the two. The van must be on the highway now because the frequent stops have ended, and our speed has increased. Borat cautiously removes his hand from my mouth, but he levels me with a stare. Even with the dim lighting, I take it for what it is — a warning.
“This is extreme, even for my father,” I say, shaking my head. “I don’t understand why I have to be hidden from the world. I didn’t sign up for this life. He didn’t want to give me any freedom, so I took it. That doesn’t mean I’m going to forget my one obligation to the family.”
Danny helps lower me to the van's floor to sit but doesn’t acknowledge my venting. Borat snickers, but he doesn’t respond either. I can’t make out much of their distinctive features since there are no visible windows, and something blocks the view to the front where the driver is. They sound Scottish … or maybe it’s an Irish accent. That would be more plausible since I’ve heard a few of the Irish men who’ve come to meet with my father. I don’t think we’ve ever had a Scot in the house. I was only able to get a glance at them when the back doors swung open and they grabbed me. I’m guessing these two are my father’s associates. I don’t know much about the inner workings of Mafia business, but I know that the soldiers are lower level—picciotti. These men can’t be soldiers or made men because they aren’t Italian. As the ride stretches on, doubt begins to seep in, but I push it away. This is my father we’re talking about. This wouldn’t be just a quick scare and then a drop-off back to my proverbial ivory tower prison. No, he’d want to make this abduction as realistic as possible. He wants me to be terrified and regretful for my decision to sneak away, but I’m stubborn. For fuck’s sake, I’m grown! I refuse to give him my fear. I’ve endured far worse. I am my father’s daughter, so breaking me won’t be easy.
I’ve been sneaking away for the past six months with the aid of one of our housemaids, Amerie, who's only a year older than I. Her mother has been with our family for the past ten years, but she’s only been working alongside her for the past four years. She covers for me while I’m gone, ensuring no other staff enters my space on the third floor while I’m out. It’s not like I’m meeting up with anyone or disclosing my identity. I just like to indulge in a few hours of freedom to do normal people stuff. I’m always careful. Amerie disagrees with my father’s overbearing ways, but she knows better than to speak up. More than anything, she’s been a great friend since I’m not allowed to have any. Hell, nobody even knows I exist outside of our house staff and the other Italian Mafia famiglie. I’m betrothed to one of their sons, although I only met him a year ago. Both times, he was a stone-cold, emotionless dick. He embraces everything our families have planned for us, and I don’t. I’ve often shared with Amerie how I wish I could just run away and change my last name. The only thing that has stopped me is knowing how much it would break my mother’s heart. She doesn’t want this life for me either, but she has no say. My four brothers don’t have a choice either, but at least they get to be out in the world and live their lives.
The van finally slows, and Borat and Danny get to their feet. I didn’t even notice when they took a seat next to me. My perceived cooperation was rewarded with them leaving me alone for the ride. I’ve been inside my head, lost in thought. I tend to do this a lot. I estimate the ride has been about an hour, long enough to get out of New York City. Now the games begin. What lessons does my father have in store for me? Won’t his men be disappointed when I don’t give them the reaction they’re anticipating? I’m not going to even pretend I’m scared. This is horseshit, as Amerie would say. I’ll be twenty-one in two months—the day I’m to be married. I will be transferred from one prison to that of my future husband’s, so this is nothing. Nothing is worse than the thought of being a prisoner forever.
Once the van comes to a complete stop, Danny throws some sort of sack over my head just as Borat yanks me to my feet. He drags me out of the van, then I’m airborne and thrown over his shoulder. I try to count his steps but lose count when I hear a new voice.
“Bring her to the office and return to your posts. I’ll let him know she has arrived.”
Is my father here? What is the worst that can happen? What will he do to me? So many questions fire rapidly through my mind. I don’t have to ponder for long, though. I’m haphazardly tossed onto a leather sofa as the sack is snatched from my head. It takes my eyes a few seconds to adjust. If it were any other situation, I’d admire the black matte walls and recessed lighting that illuminate the room in soft, gold tones. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves offer the same gold lighting. No expense was spared on this modern piece of art they're calling an office.
A door slams in the near distance, interrupting my perusing. The most ruggedly beautiful man I’ve ever had a chance to lay my eyes on walks right up to me. The tall, aristocratic-looking man standing guard at the door up to this point joins him. He reminds me of the English butler, Mr. Carson, fromDownton Abbey. He rights me on the sofa before turning to the living god standing before me.
