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4
Luka
I’ve never met Benedetto Furino’s daughter, but my father has asked me to kill her, and I will.
I’m his underboss, his son. It is my job. Plus, it makes no difference to me. Really, it will be a kind of justice. My father wants her dead because she embarrassed him in front of his friends and ruined his favorite suit. I want Benedetto to pay for his ambush on the soda factory. Had I not fought my way out, I could have been killed. My father could be mourning my death. So, it seems fitting Benedetto should mourn.
My father is lounging back in the booth, hands on his stomach, and a smile on his face. To anyone not attuned to his body language, he looks at ease, but I can see the impatience in him. He is not accustomed to being disrespected, and he is eager to enact his revenge.
“Are you ready?” he asks, not looking at me.
I run my hand down the back of my chair and feel the switchblade hidden in the pocket of my coat I’ve draped there. “Yes.”
I won’t kill her in the restaurant. Many people in the building know who we are, but we do not need to show those who do not. The reason our tactic of hiding in plain sight works so well is because we do not let people see us with our claws out. We do not let them see the trail of blood and bodies behind us.
No, I’ll wait until she is in the parking lot. It will be easy enough to walk up behind her in the dark, slice her throat, and leave. It will be another unsolved violent crime, pointing to a need for more security cameras or better lighting, but those things won’t be able to help Benedetto’s daughter. She’ll be gone, and he will mourn the way any father would mourn for his child. The way my father would mourn for me.
Our family has always been centered around the business. Around connections, accumulating power and keeping it. But there was love there, too. My father guided me. He saw my strengths and provided an outlet for me to use them and be successful. So, as long as I am able, I will follow his orders happily.
A passing waiter catches his foot on my chair, and water splashes over the lip of the glass in my hand, falling on my pants.
“I’m so sorry, sir,” the waiter says. “Would you like a towel?”
“No,” I snap, wiping the wetness from my leg. “Basic competence would suffice.”
His face pales. “I’m sorry. Truly.”
I wave a hand to dismiss him, and he scurries away into the kitchen. No sooner has the door swung shut behind him, it opens again. This time, a woman steps out, a large plate held in her hands, but I can’t focus on anything but her legs. Long, lean, tan. The skirt she is wearing is white and barely covers her most intimate area. I’m not the only one who notices.
Every man in the room seems to sense her approach, and turns to see her pass. Her brown hair is long, tumbling over her shoulders in large waves, and her body is tight. The belt of the skirt is wrapped around her waist tightly like a bandage, leaving little to the imagination. As she passes more and more tables, I realize she is headed in our direction. This must be Benedetto Furino’s daughter.
Eve.
Her name comes back to me suddenly. I’ve heard of her before, but I never paid her any mind. There didn’t seem to be a need to. Until now.
“There she is,” my father says excitedly, sitting up in his seat like the entertainment has arrived. He admires her approach like every other warm-blooded male in the room, and I suddenly wish she would cover up. It is inappropriate. She is at work. Surely, that can’t be the uniform.
Eve stops at the edge of our table, her eyes locked on the tabletop, refusing to look in our eyes. “Hello again. I’m sure you remember me from last night, Mr. Volkov. I’m here to apologize for my behavior. I acted unprofessionally, and I am here to seek your forgiveness.”
The words are stilted and rehearsed, and as soon as she is done speaking, she slides the plate of food across the table. It smells delicious, and I lean forward to get a better look. Finally, she looks at me.
Her eyes are a rich brown like melted milk chocolate and caramel. They widen as she takes me in, and then just as quickly, she snaps her attention back to the table and lowers her head.
“I told you last night,” my father drawls. “I do not want more of your cooking. Not after being so disappointed last evening.”
“In my defense, sir,” she says, dropping her head even lower so she is talking into her chest. It’s a good chest, too. Noteworthy even under her plain gray t-shirt. “I was not cooking last night. This meal, however, I made myself from start to finish.”
I raise my eyebrows for a moment, surprised by her courage to talk back to my father now that she knows who he is. But I regain my composure quickly. Her courage is foolish. My father already wants her dead, but she does not know that. She should be groveling, actually begging for forgiveness rather than just moving through the motions. Anyone can tell her apology is insincere.
My father slaps the table, and Eve jumps. Her arms are by her side, hands pressed to her smooth thighs, and I wonder how it would feel to touch her.
“You are not here to defend yourself,” he says. “You are here to gain my favor. So far, my dear, you are off to a bad start.”
Eve blinks and her fingers itch against her skin nervously. “I’m sorry. I’m not sure what you want me to do.”
“Of course not,” my father says, turning to me and rolling her eyes. “Because the girl is an idiot. A beautiful idiot. You have probably never had need for smarts, have you, girl?” Eve doesn’t say anything, and my father waits, head tilted to the side. “Are you mute, as well as dumb?”
“Can you repeat the question?”
