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I figure that buying her with tips may gain me a small shred of loyalty, all for my own, and she’ll keep her mouth shut. I’ll nurse the third drink until I get the text that it’s time to check the shipment, quickly, and leave.
Home.
Crawl into comfortable clothes and out of the beyond-impressive dress painted over my body. I drag the dagger back into its holster with a sigh.
My mother’s body, I think in distant disgust. It’s all thanks to her that I’m built the way I am, and she never lets me forget it, either.
Nicola Balestra is still a beauty, fifty-two years old, with the blood of old Italy in her veins keeping her skin youthful and mostly wrinkle-free.
She’s made me into a mirror of her from her younger days, all long black hair, gold skin, and makeup. Most of the time, when I’m sent to Uncle Henry’s club, I don’t mind the task. Tonight it irks me. Tonight the sensation of eyes on me is nothing but ants crawling over my skin as I take a sip from my fresh martini.
Sherry sure does know how to make them.
No one here has the skill she has.
Even though she’s paid to be kind to me.
To kiss my ass, the same way that everyone here is required to kiss my ass.
I take that one single sip before the phone in my clutch buzzes. I drag it out to a message with a single text.
SOS. Dead on Arrival.
I roll my eyes. “Sorry about this.” I drink the rest of the martini in two gulps. I'm not sure whether I’m apologizing to Sherry for guzzling the drink like a teen or to myself for having to rush out instead of enjoying it.
So much for nursing the drink.
It’s time to get to work.
I flash Sherry an apologetic smile before smoothing my mask back in place, the icy queen who rules over this place. The walk-in cooler in the kitchen disguises a long, well-lit hallway toward the real base of operations here at the Vanguard.
Then it’s time to make my mark.
* * *
The two men standing in front of the unmarked wooden crate start to visibly shake at the sound of my sky-high heels tapping against the floor. I see both of them clearly through the small square plexiglass window taking up the top third of the door. My driver Rafel, who has been with me for years, steps ahead of me and holds the door open for me to waltz through into the back room.
He’s been waiting for me back here, watching to make sure the shipment arrives and everything is kosher.
The SOS prefacing his text means something’s gone fucked where the businessshouldhave been running smoothly.
There's been a problem for months now, but no one is willing to call it that. Not Papa, not Uncle Henry, or Uncle Paolo, who is really my father’s right-hand man and no relation.
The three of them might as well have their heads buried in the sand, or darker, smellier places, for all their willingness to listen to my complaints that our shipments have been light.
A tiny speed bump, nothing that will be repeated, I remember Paolo saying when I first mentioned the missing boxes. Demolished easily enough with words or a gun, depending on how hard the speed bump fights back.
How will tonight play out?
Papa has other business to consider, which is why he sent me out to check the shipment tonight. I had a clear plan in place. Wait for the signal, inspect the merchandise, report back, and go. As simple as pie and just as American.
The third martini is the biggest extent of my rebellion and all that’s allowed.
Rafel delicately clears his throat, still holding the door open as I waste time caught in my head, and I square my shoulders. Rather than focus on the men themselves, their faces unfamiliar, I drop my attention to the boxes. It’s better not to humanize the workers.
Which sounds shitty, but it’s all part of this lifestyle. And for me, there’s never been another choice.
The oldest. The oldest in a long line of smugglers and businessmen.
