Chapter One

Massimo

Her.

I sit straight in my seat, adjusting my suit jacket as she shrinks from the too-bright spotlight on her.

I am beginning to feel bored out of my fucking mind, and two-finger taps away from bolting out of this glassed framed, semi-banquette-styled cubicle until they shove her toward and into the limelight.

I have been digging my fingers into the leather of the cushion and pushing the teak table in front of me with an untouched crystal glass of Negroni on it every single time they bring out a new girl.

I can’t do anything. It’s a fool’s errand. Besides, I am in no position to do anything to the men surrounding me when I am here for exactly the same reason as them. It doesn’t matter what my intentions are. I am here to buy, which makes all of us in our respective cubicles the same shade of twisted. The men selling, they’re on a different level of fucked up in the head. Caruso is the leader of that deranged bandwagon.

A thick bodyguard with a villain mask pushes her forward and manhandles her to stand still as her feeble legs give in, unable to hold her weight. Bruised and discolored knees knock together.

The condescending way they treat the women makes my blood boil, and my fingers ache to reach for the holster beneath my suit and open fire on them. And it is the propellant pushing me like a robot on a mission, so I just keep painfully digging my nails into the leather cushion of my seat.

I keep my eyes on her. The bonus sample, is what they call her. Item twenty-six, even though she is the eighth paraded for the exhibition today.

Alessandra.

Alessandra was announced as if she was walking in like this is some evening reality show, and we’re a family sitting at a fucking round table to watch. She is treated like a buy-one-gets-one-cheaper packages. No, more like the, we’ve sold our best products and decided to put out an expired one for a ridiculously discounted price to sweeten the pot for our loyal customers. A fucking clearance sale.

I reach for the glass of Negroni, about to take a sip, then I remember the shark den I’m in. Alcohol on a night like this will not do me any good, especially with the irritation simmering in the pit of my stomach. Also, there’s the fact that this drink might have been poisoned. I’m on the Camorra’s side of New York City, and though we pretend to be on good terms when we talk with them, we never see eye to eye on anything, and I wouldn’t put it past them to seize the opportunity of a night like this to kill me.

I retrieve my hand. Shame. I love anything with Campari in it. I live for the bitter herb taste that lingers almost immediately after the sweet fruity taste hits. I turn my attention back to what is most important at this moment.

She will do the trick.

I place the index finger of my free hand, the one that some seconds ago had been trying to dig into the dark leather covering of the cushion, on the red button of the buzzer on the armrest of chair I’m sitting on.

The cubicle is soundproof, so you can and sample your products while waiting for the rest of the exhibition show. It is also dimly lit with violet light bulbs to aid your sexual need, with a display section for sex toys and torture weapons at your disposal but no provision for aftercare. The focus is not on taking care of the woman but rather on taking from her to care for your own needs. It can fit more than two people, even though the gold ticket admits one person per cubicle to this section of the exhibition.

The place is as sophisticated as a Royal ball party hall. The first area is the main entrance, where the partying takes place. A masquerade with adult shows, a distraction from what this night is really about. The second section is for auctioning precious stones and relics.

The last is only for the gold-ticketed people, and this is where I am. You walk in here with your mask on and get escorted to a shimmering gold cubicle with a glass front, that is dark when you look from the outside but clear as a crystal when you step inside. There’s a secret exit that leads to a car park and hangar. Anybody here for the auction leaves through the private door to their cars and private jets. Hefty-armed men in expensive suits wait strategically in place.

This section is for purchasing human goods. Women like her. Caught, groomed, and carted off to the highest bidder.

She will do the trick.

“One hundred thousand dollars,” the auctioneer in a gray two-piece suit and thick-looking goggles resting on his too-large nose hollers, like he has been doing all night, into the gold microphone wrapped in his sturdy palm.

There’s something about her. I can’t place it. Something that makes me want to leave this place with her.

I was beginning to think my listening to Claudio, my cousin and confidante, when he had suggested that this was the best way to fix my self-imposed problem, was futile. None of the girls interested me. They all looked the same to me, with hopeful eyes that they could somehow find freedom. But not her, she lacks life and the fight I’ve seen in others, although her every trait contradicts that hopelessness.

Her espresso hair mocks all the brutality she has experienced with its luster of lengthy richness and wavy strands styled upward in a pony tail draping down to her lower back. Those bottle-green eyes remind me of my first beer as an underage. The deliciousness of being lawless as I walked into bars and found no one bold enough to stop me from ordering Peroni. Then, the color of the leash she has around her neck, a color I like to see when I deal with an enemy. A color that makes the perfect bow for any present. Red. Her bare feet on cold black tiles ignite a kindred spirit in me, because sometimes it has been my only antidote for cooling off my roiling blood when triggered.

My eyes travel up to her face and down her naked, malnourished, and bruised body. The way her scar-masked skin covers her body looks like a balloon stretched over rocks. You can see every contour and feel every ridge. I scan with my eyes down below her knees, to her wobbly feet. Her bruised bluish-toes curl. She is trembling, not necessarily from fear but weakness.

Nothing my surgeon cannot fix.

My finger lingers on the red button with a paper light touch. Just a little more pressure and the buzzer will go off, allowing them to hear me when I speak and perhaps indicate where the voice is coming from. It is important to know when to make a move.

I wait.

No other buzzer goes off, nobody is rushing to buy this one like they did with the others. They were defiant and regal, regardless of the fear in their eyes, because they were yet to have masters as slaves. They feared their fate but had no idea what awaited them. The buzzers kept going off, it was like rush hour. The pricks around me wanted something whole so they could break it. The twisted psychos, who probably maimed their toys as children for no reason other than that they were theirs to toil with, kept bidding. Now they’re grown men with the same sick need to tame, break, and dispose of when bored.

But she is different. She is broken goods. She’s like a toy that has been hammered repeatedly by a temperamental kid and been disposed of.

Her trembling, propelled by her bitter past experiences from another owner, is glaring. She knows her fate. She knows what awaits her. The patches of bluish-gray on her skin are her badge of survival. That’s how I see it.

The auctioneer sighs heavily into the microphone, then sucks his teeth in a fit of irritation.

I keep my eyes on her.

The way she dips her head, the way her chin drops, and her eyes stay on the ground even though she can’t see any of us through the thick clouded frame of the cubicle. The way her fingers dig into her palms. I can feel her holding her breath from my cubicle. I can feel it because of the visible way in which her clavicle protrudes like it will break out of her skin.

Broken, that’s what she is. I am sure that when I will trace her skin, I’ll find ridges from poorly patched shards, like a broken mug glued carelessly and hastily together by a kid trying to outsmart his parent.

She is trying hard to look defiant, seeing no one is taking the bidding price for her. I’m guessing it will start dropping from one hundred thousand dollars to a number so worthless someone might take pity and take her home like she was a lost dog.

“One hundred thousand dollars for this one,” the auctioneer reminds us, just in case we might have forgotten or didn’t hear him the first time.

Now it will go down if someone doesn’t do something.

Or so I imagine. I have never been to these functions. I’m simply applying the rules of the business world. It isn’t that she is not worth more than that. If we’re being honest, no one exhibited tonight can compare to her. There is something striking about her. Like that good feeling you get about a property, even when it is nothing but debris. Even if the owner of the property sees it as having no value.

We want the gain, we have guessed the market value by just looking at it, but we will play the seller’s game till we get what we want.

I fiddle with my signet ring on my index finger with my thumb and glare at Claudio sitting across from me, in a black dress shirt and pants, with a brown leather holster strapped around his upper body. He glares back with black hooded eyes.

I should not be here. We should not be here.

If not for the godforsaken Mancusos, with their marriage proposal. Fucking crazy family, if they think I will come on board as a son-in-law. As if I would give my loyalty the same way I would to my family.

Their desperate need for heirs is about to cost me.

I didn’t think that was what the meeting would be about. I thought it would involve some underground business considering the urgency my father had attached to it, even though I knew it wasn’t anything that needed cleaning up with bullets. While I am the apex weapon for that, I will never do business the Mancusos way. They’re not to be trusted. Power drunk, recklessly disrespectful of human lives. They do not just go after their enemies but everything and everyone around them. They took innocent lives on their last operation because a partner decided it was time to end business with them. To get him through his grandchild, they’d blown up a school bus full of schoolchildren.

Assholes.

That is not the kind of family I want to marry into. We can do business, but no way in hell I’m joining our empires in marriage. A marriage between Mancuso’s only child and heiress, Vittoria Mancuso, and me, the heir to the Gaeta empire.

I can afford to get myself out of this situation because my family is heavy enough to tilt the scales . But the Mancuso family is still trouble.

The Mancuso family is undoubtedly king in the underworld, but there are people higher up than him the kingmakers. We, my family, are the Kingmakers. We have infiltrated the political system, and we twist and tweak politics to our liking. We say who gets power and how much of it. We decide who stays at the top of the food chain and for how long.

And as the underboss to the Gaeta empire, I can afford to twist and bend. But as with everything, wisdom is profitable to direct.

Everyone had already agreed that the marriage to Vittoria wasn’t a bad idea, giving their blessings before asking for my opinion. Fuck it. They invited me to tell me, Massimo Gaeta, about my wedding.

What my father wasn’t expecting, what none of them was expecting, was for me to say I had fallen in love with someone else, and that’s the person I want to be married to. That I had already given my word. In the underworld, for men of substance like us, for a man like me, our word is everything. I never take it back. I could say I have eight balls and they’d believe me immediately, no need for proof. But saying I had fallen in love was the most impossible thing they’d ever heard.

Knowing the Mancusos, I knew they’d bite. They don’t take no for an answer, but no one tells me what to do.

The silence that ensued in my father’s study when I refused was total. Eyebrows raised to question my reason for giving up such a merger, but no one dared pressure me They’ve seen how I get when I’m in love with something, anything.

It is the first lie I have ever told. I don’t talk if I can’t speak the truth. I have always felt lying is for the weak. No one intimidates me enough, and also, I don’t give a sparrow’s fuck about anyone, so I do not worry about hurting their feelings with the truth.

So I lied. Not just that, I went even further and told a second lie. That the nonexistent woman I’m so in love with, who made me turn down a business merger like the one presented to me, is engaged to me. And that lie is one-half of the reason I’m in this exhibition, surrounded by men like Louis Mancuso.

I’m no saint, but this is not my kinda place.

The other half of the reason I’m here is that I had said I would bring my fiancé to the family dinner a few weeks from now.

And as soon as the words left my mouth, I knew I was fucked. That I had to make it happen. My words hold a weight, so if I say I will do something, I will, and I never take it back. If I say I have a fiancé I’m in love with and that I will bring her to the family dinner, then I sure as hell have a fiancé that I will be bringing to the family dinner. The love part is something to worry about, but I’ll think of that after I find my fiancé.

While this might not be the most conventional way to make a marriage proposal, this appears to be the best solution right now. I will own her for as long as I want. She will do what I command her to do without questions, not to mention without drama. For my peace of mind, this is the best way out and she fits the profile. I want Vittoria as far away from me as possible. I can barely stand being around people, period, but she is a different breed of nasty.

When Claudio suggested this idea, I almost threw my whiskey glass at him. But, after sleeping on it, I find that it’s a one-size-fits-all kind of deal.

“A hundred thousand dollars,” Mr. Auctioneer groans into the microphone.

Almost time.

She’s shaking harder now, no longer hiding it or trying to. Maybe she is just too tired from standing that long on weak legs.

“A hundred and five,” I make my bid, starting slow.

“A hundred and ten thousand,” a different male voice booms, and she lets out a weak gasp, not of relief but of fright.

The voice sounds Hispanic, but everyone here knows that no voice sounds anything like the real voices. The mics are programmed to alter voices and accents, but from inside your cubicle, you can see what cubicle the voices are coming from.

I lift my eyes to look at the micro screen at the top of my cubicle showing the number twelve. That’s Camorra. The fucker is always on my trail. Now he wants what I want?

“Going for a hundred and ten thousand dollars,” Botched Nose shrieks into his mic. He looks around like he can see us.

I press my index finger on the red button.

“A hundred and fifty,” I sit back, relaxing. I don’t have the time to play around with the Camorra.

Her lips part slightly, and she gasps again, her bony ribs showing her drawing in the air.

Claudio has a smirk on his face. He reaches into the pocket of his dress pants… let him not pull out a coin. Damn it! He pulls out a coin. That shit is distracting but calms him. He starts to toss it in the air, and I fight the urge to toss him and his coin out.

“A hundred and fifty,” Botched nose lifts his hammer to slam.

“Two hundred,” from the same damn cubicle.

“Three hundred,” I ball my fist.

“Three hundred and fifty.” Caruso is having fun.

Fuck me. He told me the number of his cubicle for a reason and waited until I walked into mine. He knows it is me. He has been waiting for me to make a bid on any of the products. This long dragged-out stupid game of who is superior is getting under my skin.

I fell right into his trap when I continued with the bid. I can let her go and just wait for another one to come out. I can let him have her, let him win just this time. But I like a good challenge. She is the first product he’s making a bid on, so it will be good to beat him to it in his domain. Sick, but I like it. There’s a part of me that likes to think that what is mine came with a little bit of challenge. That I earned it, just like everything else in my life.

I want her. It’s a matter of honor now, and I’m not one to lose. There’s only one thing to do to make him stop, set the bid so high he’ll think I’m insane. That is probably what he wants. Giving him that is not as bad as losing her to him.

“One million,” I offer. Let’s end this tussle. My tolerance is low.

I do not miss how, for the first time since the spotlight came on, she lifts her eyes to look at my cubicle.

Claudio is staring at me like I’ve lost my mind. At least he is no longer tossing.

Why spend more on a property than the seller is asking for?

Because a few weeks from now, this property will carry a name that is one of the most powerful names in the whole of New York State.

This property will be my woman.

My wife.

Mine.

And that doesn’t come cheap.

I hope to hell she is worth every penny because otherwise Claudio will face my anger for this stupid stunt.

For his sake and hers, she better be.

Chapter Two

Alejandra

Please, not again.

My quaking legs knock and I almost stumble forward but find my balance by pressing my bruised toes onto the cold black tile floor beneath my feet. They still hurt from the last time Signor E had trampled on them repeatedly with his pointed shoes.

My eyes ignore the beeping green light at the top of booth number six directly in front of me and stay on the clouded glass masking the person I want so badly to see.

They have no right. No right to do this to anyone. No right to keep taking from me.

That person sitting in there just robbed me of my chance for freedom for an insanely high price. Not the type of freedom one is expected to hope for after living as I have for three years, but the kind that utterly sets free with no care or worry for healing and the future.

The future they robbed me of. I had worked and studied so hard to get a chance at the future I had dreamt of constantly as a child. I felt the universe was beginning to hear me when I got a scholarship to Naples. I felt I could finally be an architect. I could build something that would not only capture the eyes but enthrall the heart as well, like the Alhambra with its stucco walls, intricate plasters, and honeycomb patterns.

But that was long gone now.

Three years gone.

“One million for Alessandra,” the auctioneer announces like anyone would dare to bid higher than that.

I hate them all, but there is one thing we can all agree on tonight. And that is the simple fact that there is a madman in booth six.

One million for Alessandra. Not Alejandra. Not the dreamer who wanted to become an architect.

One million for the naked whore on this stage, passed down to master after master, to be used and reduced to nothing.

Not Alejandra, who enjoys sketching in the evening sun, who loves to run her fingers across the walls of grand buildings to teleport herself to another era and daydream of being there when it was being built.

That person is kept safe, locked away until there may ever be freedom for her.

I stopped trying to correct them on the first day when they asked my name and the man named Caruso, who was sampling us, said Alessandra instead of Alejandra. I had corrected him and got a fist bumped into my face. I felt the ring for days after.

He took my name away to strip me of my power and identity. But he didn’t realize he was giving me the strength to face the brutality. Knowing Alejandra is safe and away from all of this gives me something to hold on to. Something to look forward to.

One million dollars.

Why would he pay that much when he could have gotten me for way less? Why would anyone pay that much for me? What does he hope to do with me? What will he expect me to do to give him his money’s worth?

I bite down on my chattering teeth, fighting back every tear that’s prickling my eyes as I keep them on the glittering booth, breaking the rules.

How dare he? How could any of them? When does this end? Will I ever find freedom?

I was pounded, bruised, my bones broken, to stop me from meeting the eyes of Signor E when he newly got me. I started to realize that what I had been told back when I had a life I took for granted was true.

Back when I had friends I didn’t want to hang out with but pretended to like so I wouldn’t appear vulnerable. Back when I would deliberately skip meals and spend my time scrolling on social media. When I would rather stay in my bedroom reading or writing than hang out with family and friends on special holidays. I had been told then, by friends, families, and even strangers that my eyes sold me out. That they give away every secret I try to hide.

My eyes gave him everything he needed to know. They gave away my fear even when I pretended to be strong. They told him how hungry I was when I fought to stay on my feet after going days without food. My eyes gave him satisfaction and I had to remove that power from him.

I started to keep them on the ground as a form of self-preservation. I would look anywhere but in his eyes, all their eyes. Men that could reduce a human to an object. Men who overstepped boundaries and violated. Men who brought doom to women like me. Men that are predators and prey on women like me for pleasure.

I bow, dipping my head and lowering my upper body, taking back my power. I cannot see him but I know he can see me. And what I do not want is for him to see all the things I don’t want anyone to see. Those are mine. My thoughts are mine to keep and protect.

My body belongs to Alessandra and is for them to toil with. My thoughts are Alejandra’s and are hers to keep, hers to protect.

The point where my stomach meets my chest burns as my anxiety creeps through my veins, provoking another shaking fit that almost sends me falling on my face. I plant my feet on the floor with more firmness, straightening my back.

This will never end. No one is coming to save me.

When I was newly abducted, I fall asleep imagining a hero showing up to save me. I would imagine the police bursting through the place and saving me before they did any irreparable damage. But the days turned to weeks, the weeks turned to months, and the months to years. No police. No help. No hero.

Once again, I am being auctioned.

I know the fate that awaits me if no one takes me home. I have long since given up hope of being found and freed. I have forgotten what the wind feels like on my skin, what the banter of people from the neighborhood sounds like as the sun plays hide and seek behind the clouds.

I have forgotten what it feels like to be a daughter, a friend, and a sister.

I have forgotten what it feels like to be a woman with desire or a crush. What it feels like to demand respect, to not be violated or disrespected. I have forgotten what it feels like to be a human with rights and basic needs, dreams, and plans. I have forgotten what the taste of a freshly made meal feels like. I have forgotten the taste of my favorite chocolate ice cream and how I always allowed myself a sweet treat on weekends.

I have forgotten how to live or why to live.

After years of what I have been subjected to in the hands of Signor E, I want death more than water, even though I am extremely dehydrated. I have been refusing to eat or drink these past days before the auction. I needed to attract the grim reaper, for him to follow me in my wake. I need to call him with my starvation so he smells the scent of death on me and comes to take me with him.

I want death. I was so close to having it. So close. Now… I grind my teeth, stiffening my spine and holding my breath as a panic attack starts to brew, making my sight blurry. Maybe if I can avoid breathing just a bit longer, I will be able to escape this. I’ve been practicing this technique for a month now.

I chose this way to find freedom again, to give my worn soul some rest. I have come to accept my reality. No one is coming for me. No one will find me. No one will set me free but me. And if there’s a chance for Alejandra to survive, Alessandra must die. Maybe if I make that happen, she will have a chance in another lifetime.

I begin to feel dizzy and lightheaded. My lungs swell, and my stomach heats up.

When Signor E had told me he was bored of me and brought in a new girl, I thought he would do it himself. I was relieved. I went to bed on the cold floor like every other day, only this time I felt something I hadn’t in the three years. I felt warm inside, akin to happy.

I wanted nothing more from than to put me to rest. But he had other plans. He sent me to them and asked that they help him dispose of me. I had hoped they would set me free but instead, they have other plans for me. They will keep using me until I live.

Even when I don’t get bidden for, as has been my plight for the past four auctions, they still refuse to set me free. Every now and then they come with the threat of cutting me up in pieces and selling my parts to organ harvesters if I don’t get sold for at least three hundred thousand dollars. I wish for death, but not that way.

My eyes burn, my nose waters as my body shudders from the lack of oxygen. I’m close. If I keep this up, my heart might give up. It has to. Whatever fate awaits me, it might be worse than being dismembered and sold. If anyone can offer that much money, I might as well get ready to be used as the target in some horrifically perverted game.

A ragged palm grips my bare forearm and jerks me, forcing me to gasp warm air and deactivate my self-destruct mission. I keep my eyes down, my fists balled as I suck up air, panting.

“What were you about to do?” His voice comes out distorted, like sounds from a robber behind a mask in a heist.

I don’t look, but I feel him lift his other hand, about to strike me. I know now when a strike is coming without having to look.

“Touch her,” that voice, the same one that had offered one million dollars for a worthless object, booms through the speaker and halts the man his train. The voice sounds like Skipper from The Penguin of Madagascar. Signor E had sounded like a buzzing bee on the first day. I now hate bees.

“I dare you,” he continues.

The grip around my forearm loosens. The man takes a step back, creating space between us.

After feeling like trash for as long as I can remember, I instantly feel like I have some sort of value. The feeling of worth tries to swim through the swamp of worthlessness I’ve been buried in for all this time. I feel a strange sense of safety, even though I know it’s fleeting. No one will touch me now, not in a demeaning way, not here at least. I was going to be kicked or dragged across the floor for being an obsolete object, for not making a sale for them, again.

Three years ago, I had the men calling out and the bids soaring from the moment the bid price was announced. I am sure that if my current master gets tired of me, they will jump on me and claim me again with hopes that I will keep on being a money well.

From my peripheral vision, I see the auctioneer clear his throat and adjust his goggles, loving his role of slamming hammers and reducing humans to objects all too much.

“Sold for one million dollars,” he announces the price and hits his hammer very quickly, as if he fears the bidder will revoke his bid. That clinking sound evokes a tremor in me, sealing my fate.

I have been sold, again.

My panic attack kicks in, and the red leash around my neck begins to choke me. My heartbeat starts a drumming exhibition, as my heart goes crazed looking for a way out. The inside of my stomach gurgles like hot lava and as if the universe finally listens, my breathing hiccups, and gives up.

With closed eyes, a limped body, and shallow breathing, I drop to the floor.

Finally.

Freedom.

Oblivion.

Death.
Thank you.

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Chapter One

Nora

“The Celia Young disappearance has now been declared a cold case. I’m sorry.”

I stared at detective Reed, my hands clutching the chair so hard it hurt. I’d been expecting him to ask us to identify my sister’s body, or at least for him to say that he had a lead. Having him say instead that they had given up looking was… a mind fuck, to say the least.

All we had was a pile of questions and no shovel to sort them with.

The not knowing was the worst.

“I beg your pardon?” my grandma said. I looked in her direction, seeing how she was clutching her purse, and I knew she was just as close as I was to flying off the handle.

The detective sighed. “Whatever happened to her, the trail has gone cold. I’m sorry.”

“You’re… sorry?”

The detective was looking at me with fake regret in his eyes. He was putting on a show, which was even worse than the fact that they had given up. It had only been six months since my sister’s disappearance. What did they mean, the trail had gone cold?

He shook his head. “The department has limited resources and—”

“Fuck your limited resources! This is my sister you’re—”

My grandmother clutched my hand, her nails digging into my flesh. “Leave it, Princesa. They are doing their best.” She turned to the detective. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Reed?”

He nodded, still avoiding our eyes. “Of course, we are. We understand that this is your family, but as I said, limited resources. We are doing everything we can.”

“I don’t think you are,” I blurted, my hand on my hip. I might have been petite, but I wasn’t going to let this man get away with this. There was something more at play here. Something he wasn’t telling us, and I was going to find out what.

“That British girl, the one who disappeared years ago… What was her name, Lita?” I turned to my grandmother.

“I think it was Madeleine. Madeleine McCann.”

There was no ‘I think’ about it. My grandmother and her friends happened to follow that case obsessively. Conspiracy theories abound.

“Yeah, Madeleine. Fifteen years later, they’re still looking for her, and you give up after six months? How is that fair?”

Detective Reed rolled his eyes. “I can’t speak to what the British police do, ma’am. Here in New York—”

“Don’t speak to me like I don’t understand,” I snapped sticking my finger in his face. The urge to slap him was almost overwhelming.

A flicker of annoyance flashed across his face, but he suppressed it. “Ma’am, I am going to have to ask you to leave. This conversation is no longer produc—”

“No!” I said desperately, “Wait. I’m sorry.” I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. “I want us to resolve this amicably. So, let’s begin again, okay? Celia was working at Club Pandemonium. Did you speak with all the workers there?”

Detective Reed gave an exaggerated sigh. “Yes, we did.”

“And what about the owner? Her boyfriend was a bouncer for the club. Did you talk to him?”

“Miss Young, you know very well that we have spoken to all those people.”

“What about her neighbors? Did you get to all of them? Someone must have seen something.”

“That neighborhood is not well known for cooperating with the police.”

“I wonder why that is.”

“Nora,” my grandmother whispered admonishingly.

I met her eyes, taking a deep breath. She was right. Snarking at the cops wouldn’t get us anywhere. “I’m sorry. Just… I don’t think you’ve run down every lead. There are still avenues to pursue.”

“Is that so?” the detective’s mouth twisted in derision. “You know better than us?”

“I know that my sister didn’t just disappear into thin air. She’s twenty-two years old, and a whole hell of a lot of things could have happened to her. We just want to know what.” I fixed him with the most pleading puppy dog eyes I could manage. “Please, Detective Reed.”

He blinked at me and then shook his head. “I’m sorry, Miss Young. We’ve done everything we can.”

Simply put, I did not believe that he was telling the truth. There was something shifty about him. I couldn’t quite put my finger on what… but yeah, for sure. He was hiding something. I tried to think of a way to get it out of him.

“What did Igor say? Her boyfriend? Have you informed him that you’re stopping the investigation?”

“According to him, they broke up before she disappeared.”

“And you don’t find that convenient?”

Detective Reed shrugged. “She’s not exactly a housewife. We’ve had lots of women like your sister follow the same patterns of behavior—”

I almost leapt over the table to strangle him, but my Lita held me back. “Like my sister? You mean strippers? Are you calling my sister a whore?” I yelled.

“No. Of course not. But you must have known what sort of lifestyle she lived.”

I growled and he sighed, shaking his head.

“Look, all I’m saying is that there is nothing unusual about what happened before she took off. Nothing that would indicate your sister didn’t just skip town on her own. She’s an adult and she can do as she pleases. As someone who has seen this play out over and over, I would really suggest you focus on other things. Your sister will more likely than not show up when she feels like it.”

I just stared at him, my heart pounding. Thank God my grandmother was there. Celia wouldn’t just disappear. Sure, we weren’t as close as we once were, but we were the only family each other had. She wouldn’t just leave without a word.

Something had happened to her.

Something bad.

And if this stupid detective thought I was going to just roll over and let it go, he had another thing coming.

I whirled towards the door, pulling my grandmother along with me. “Alright then, thanks,” I said brusquely as I banged the door to his office open and stormed out. We were halfway down the hall when I heard my name called, much to my surprise. I turned to see Detective Reed following us.

“What now?” I snapped.

He came to a stop in front of me. “Please…let this go. For your own sake. This is doing nothing but causing you, and your grandmother, a tremendous amount of grief.” He turned to nod at her. “Don’t you see that?”

I narrowed my eyes at him, suspicious at his insistence. I didn’t say a word, hoping he’d fill the silence and incriminate himself.

“Again, we’ve done all we can. We have no power over what comes next. Do you understand me?”

I stared mutinously at him.

“Nora?” He raised an eyebrow at me.

“When did we get on a first-name basis?”

He sighed. “Fine. Miss Young, last warning. Drop this. It isn’t going to go anywhere.”

“Thank you very much for your input, detective. Your warning has been noted.” I turned and resumed walking, my grandma by my side, watching me with her cloudy eyes. She didn’t say a word and neither did I, but I guess she knew as well as I did that I wasn’t going to drop it.

Chapter Two

Nora

It was dark and freezing. I could feel every muscle in my body shivering—shaking with both cold and fear.

“Nora?”

Her voice was so tiny in the dark as her small hands grabbed at me.

“Shh,” I whispered, more afraid than I could ever remember being. Then it hit me.

Celia, clinging to me. We were in a dark, enclosed space, claustrophobia closing in on me like an evil cloud…

This is a dream.

I tried to wake up, but all I could hear was Celia crying softly, almost soundlessly; her small body shaking at my side. We were used to that—not making a sound. Papa didn’t like it when we cried. Even when he beat us. We couldn’t stop the tears rolling from our eyes, but we could stop the sounds in our throats. Celia, in particular, learned to be very quiet.

I wanted to get away from the dream, from the shouting I could hear outside the dark space we were in, from the cold… I wanted to be back in my own bed, warm and safe and grown, but I couldn’t make myself wake up.

With a cry, I was suddenly sitting ramrod straight up in bed, my eyes wide open. I blinked a few times and wiped my wet cheeks. My shoulders dropped as I sighed, remembering.

Real life wasn’t much better than my nightmares. Not with Celia missing.

Where are you, Celly? God, I will find you.

I blushed even as I thought it, knowing how much I’d let her down. Getting up, I stomped to the bathroom, staring at myself in the mirror. I couldn’t stand the girl staring back at me. That girl had sunk into complacency, being content with one phone call a week, letting her sister get further and further away from the little family she had… I shook my head, looking away, unable to face myself.

My sister was in trouble, and I hadn’t known until it was way too late to help her.

I’ll go to the ends of the earth if I have to. But I will bring you home.

I grabbed my toothbrush, aggressively brushed my teeth, then washed my face. I didn’t have to be on duty until an hour later, and the bike ride to the hospital took twenty minutes, so I had some time. I got in the shower, standing under the spray and letting the hot water dissipate the grogginess I was feeling.

A horrible night’s rest, no doubt brought on by too much whisky, meant I was in bad shape. I closed my eyes, trying to think about any clue I might have missed. Celia had failed to mention Igor in our weekly talks—frankly, she rarely mentioned anyone in her life—so maybe Detective Reed was right, and they weren’t important to each other. I wasn’t going to assume anything, though.

Maybe the police hadn’t known the right questions to ask, or maybe Igor wasn’t interested in talking to Five-O. He might tell me something he wouldn’t tell them. It was a start at least. Then I could approach the other strippers at the club. All I had to do was get close enough for them to start talking.

I stepped out of the shower. The difference between the warm steam and the cold air made me shiver. I took my brush, standing naked before the mirror, and combed my dark hair while giving myself a once-over.

The best way to get to speak with Igor and the girls was to get a job at Pandemonium.

My eyes raked over my body. I had an okay cleavage. My waist was fairly small, and I had ample hips—thank you, Spanish heritage. I could dance well enough and had made my way through nursing school on the pole when money was tight. I wasn’t a professional by any means, but I knew enough to fake it.

My muscles were kept tight and toned by the hours of walking in the wards that my nursing career demanded. Plus cycling everywhere of course. I wasn’t a health nut or anything. Riding a bike was just that much cheaper than driving.

My goal had been to get the three of us out of the hood one day, save some money to pay for Celia to go to designer school like she’d wanted… Basically, save my family.

Things were going well. Until they weren’t.

The ER was bedlam. I was so happy I’d had time for breakfast—coffee and avocado toast from Starbucks—before I had to deal with some guy’s gunshot wound to the chest, followed by a kid with a bean stuck up his nose. The kid was fine; his mother, on the other hand, had needed a sedative.

“Do you want to wait thirty minutes for the doctor, or would you like me to extract it?” I asked her. It was a fairly simple procedure, and I had the forceps to do it. The bean thankfully wasn’t very far in.

“You do it! Please, just do it!” she almost screamed, and I could see how freaked out she was.

“Alright. But I need you to calm down, alright? Have a seat. Everything is going to be fine.”

She nodded frantically and sat down—curled up on herself, swaying back and forth, self-soothing. I felt sorry for her, but I knew the best way to help both of them was to get the bean out of the kid’s nose.

I turned to him and smiled. “So, Julius, I’m gonna get that bean out of your nose, alright? It won’t take long, and I don’t think it’ll hurt. Will you be a brave boy for me?”

He nodded slowly, his brown bangs bouncing on his forehead. He reminded me so much of Celia at that age. So cute and responsive, and very quiet.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and picked up the forceps. I talked to him as I burrowed in his nose, clamping onto the bean and pulling it out carefully. He didn’t so much as flinch.

“What a brave boy you are!” I hummed. “There, all done.”

I sprayed some antibacterial mist up his nose just in case, cleaned up the snot, and handed him good as new to his mother. She burst into tears, clutching him close. Julius was unmoved by her hysterics, and I had a feeling she freaked out often enough that it wasn’t new to him. I waved awkwardly and left her to it.

My next patient was more… complicated.

Claudette Stevens, twenty-three years old. Her dark brown hair did nothing to hide the bruises on her neck, and her downcast eyes were tired. I could hardly bear to look at her, but I had to smile and be professional. All my patients were bringing Celia to mind that day.

I felt as if someone was trying to send me a message.

Claudette was five foot six and a hundred-and-ten pounds—way too thin. Her elbows stuck out like tiny spears, sharp enough to pierce her concave stomach. Her collarbone was stark, and her cheeks were slightly hollowed. But she stood straight and unbowed, looking at me with defiant eyes.

Just like Celia.

“So, what brings you to the ER today?”

Claudette looked away. “I fainted and my stomach aches.”

I cocked an eyebrow in disbelief, staring at that bruise around her neck. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

I expelled a breath and turned away, shaking my head as I picked up the blood pressure cuff. She pulled back her sleeve so I could get an accurate reading. More bruises. To nobody’s surprise, her blood pressure was on the higher side of normal.

There were so many times I stood to the side while my mother told a nurse or a doctor about her own “accidents”: running into a door or falling down the stairs. I glanced towards the curtains separating the cubicle from the rest of the corridor and saw a man peering in. His eyes were steady on Claudette.

“You know, the hospital has certain resources that can help you in case you’re in… a tricky spot,” I whispered.

She shook her head, still not looking at me. “Thanks, but I’m not in any sort of spot.”

“Do you have kids?”

Her eyes slid along the floor and then flicked towards the curtain. She shook her head. I didn’t know if I believed her, but there was nothing in her file to indicate she was lying.

“Well… if you change your mind, you know where to start,” I whispered.

She nodded, not lifting her head at all. With an inward sigh, I walked out of the room with her file, eyeballing the man lurking in the corridor.

“Excuse me, sir. You can’t be back here unless you’re a patient.”

“It’s fine,” he said, not deigning to look at me. “I’m waiting for someone.”

I hesitated, wondering if I should insist. He was a big guy, at least six foot three, with wide shoulders. His hair was cut close to his skull as if he was in the military. He wore cargo shorts and a striped blue and white shirt. I could describe him to the cops if needed.

I walked away, perfunctorily knocking on the GP’s door before entering the room and placing the file on the desk. “Hey, doc. You need to watch out for this one. Might be some domestic abuse going on.”

The doctor sighed, shaking her head. “I’m guessing she’s not admitting it?”

“Nah. Walked into a door.”

We exchanged commiserating glances before I shook my head and left. One thing I knew for sure: nobody could help Claudette until she was ready to help herself. Being that broken, that damaged, was something I could definitely relate to, so it filled me with guilt to just have to walk away… again.

I checked my watch and saw that it was almost noon. Late enough for me to take my lunch break. I was already sick of this shift, so I alerted the front desk and took off for the taco truck across the street.

Buying two tacos and two coffees, I headed down to the morgue where my friend Jodie worked as a pathologist. I found her in her office, transcribing her notes, and held up the brown paper bag.

She immediately stopped typing and grinned at me. “My Lord and savior.” She held her hands out wide, and I stepped into them and let her hug me before she snatched the bag of food. She opened it and peered inside.

“Mmm, tacos. It’s like you read my mind.”

“Yes, I’m psychic.” I collapsed into an empty chair with a sigh.

She stared at me, her bright blue eyes taking me in. “Rough morning?”

“Ugh.” I covered my face with my hands.

“Is it the clinic or your sis?”

“Both. Got a domestic violence case just now. Chick is denying it and not even trying to do a good job of it.”

“Maybe she needs a knight in shining armor.” Jodie shrugged, taking a bite of her taco.

I snorted. “Yeah, well, best of luck getting through her meathead boyfriend.”

“Is she like… hot?”

I opened my eyes to glare at her. “Did you not hear the part where I said she’s in an abusive relationship?”

Jodie shrugged. “You know I’m a sucker for a damsel in distress.”

“You’re a sucker for any damsel.”

“Hey!”

I grinned at her, feeling a lot better. “What? You know I call them as I see them.”

She shrugged. “Fair.” She handed me a taco, “Now eat and tell me what else is bothering you. You look rough, and I know it’s not just because of this.”

“Jeez, thanks. Always good to know that I look as bad as I feel.”

“You know what I mean.”

I sighed. “Yeah. I do.” I bit into the taco.

“So, what’s up, doc? Is it your sis?”

I sighed, leaning on my hands before telling her about our visit to the detective. She was outraged on my behalf and totally agreed with me that the detective was hiding something.

“Dick. Do you think he’s on someone’s payroll?”

I stared at her. I hadn’t even thought of that. I just thought he was being a lazy son of a bitch. “You think so?”

“Hey, Jeffrey Epstein had some cops in his pockets.”

My eyes widened further. “She’s too old to be caught up in something like that.”

“Would you prefer to think that she’s dead?”

I didn’t want to think about that.

“Well… anyway, I’ll find out soon enough,” I said.

“What do you mean by that?”

I gave Jodie a side-eye. She was my best friend, and she had my back, but I didn’t feel comfortable bringing anyone else into my plan. If I told her what I intended on doing, she might have insisted on helping me… or changing my mind. If I knew one thing for sure, it was that my plan was dangerous and possibly stupid. I wasn’t going to drag anyone else into it.

“Let’s talk about something else. I need a distraction from the bad dreams and the worse thoughts. What are you up to?”

“Nothing fun. Madly swiping left on Tinder, trying to find my soulmate.” She shrugged but her blue eyes twinkled.

I had to laugh. “Maybe lower your expectations a bit?”

“Okay, fine. I just want a hot girl with a sharp mind and one hell of an ass.”

“Ah, much more attainable.” I grinned as I took another bite of my taco. I sat back and we ate in silence. I felt the peace of the morgue wash over me, the deep quiet, the sense of profundity brought about by the fact that we were surrounded by the end of life. It was impossible to think petty thoughts while I was down here.

Jodie finished her taco and wiped her hands on her tissue. She straightened up, grabbing her latte and sipping at it with a frown on her face. She flicked back her dark hair and focused on me.

“So… to return to your Detective Reed. What are you gonna do? Report him to his superiors?”

I gave her a look. “Does that ever work?”

She shrugged. “No idea.”

“I’ll figure it out.”

She lowered her head. “What does that mean?”

“It means I’ll figure it out.”

Jodie shook her head at me. “What are you planning, my dear scheming friend?”

My mouth twisted as I took a sip of my coffee. “Something stupid, obviously.”

Chapter Three

Alexei

I threw my head back, almost hitting the wall behind me, and I bit my bottom lip to suppress any sound. Jules’ mouth was a godsend, sucking the soul out of my dick like it was her job. She was nothing if not a pro—a valuable resource to have when I was feeling stressed.

My hips jerked as I grunted, coming down her throat.

She pulled away with a soft moan, giving me a lustful look from beneath her lashes. She was kneeling on the floor of my office between my legs, my desk at her back. It was a great look for her, but I knew she was about to start some shit. Asking for a performance review or when we could see each other again.

I had a feeling she was starting to get the wrong idea about us.

The door opened, and Kirill, one of my Brigadiers, came in. “Papa, we have a problem in the club.”

All my brigadiers called me Papa or Pakhan to show their respect. After all, I was the boss. But Kirill and I had grown up together in this business, so it felt weird when he called me that. When we were alone, he stuck with Alexei, but as soon as anyone else was around, he shifted into formality.

I liked that about him. When people saw someone as close to me as Kirill giving me my due respect, it didn’t even occur to them not to do the same.

“What problem?” I pushed Jules off me, buttoning up my fly as I got to my feet.

“Fight broke out on the floor. One of the girls is involved. You want me to take care of it?”

I was tempted for a moment. Blowing my load always left me with a pleasant high for a few minutes. It would have been nice to bask in it.

But then conflict spurred a different but equally attractive kind of adrenaline, and I could walk and chew gum. I shook my head. “Let’s go.”

The Pandemonium was a private club. It had nothing to do with the mob business. It belonged wholly to me, all above board and legal. Almost. Aside from it being an excellent place to launder money, the club was also great for hearing things. My clientele was a mixed pot: other gangs looking to party on neutral ground; rich kids wanting to flirt with danger; Wall Street types wanting to relax somewhere they didn’t have to put up a front; politicians too, mostly those looking to make deals with criminals.

As a result, I expected a certain level of professionalism from my workers. This wasn’t some hole-in-the-wall place. It was a classy joint. I expected my employees to behave accordingly.

Pandemonium had three levels, the first being a dance floor, with a DJ booth and a bar, strobe lights, house music, the works. I had a few girls working the floor, supplying the Wall Street types with every drug they could dream of.

The second floor was the strip club—we had theme nights. Monique, my entertainment manager, set them up. There were cowboy nights on Mondays, where anyone who could stay on the mechanical bull for two minutes got a free, private, lap dance.

We had a live band that played all the country songs.

Tuesdays was BBW night where our plus sized strippers did their thing. It’s been surprising to see what a draw they were. Wednesdays was drag queens. Thursdays, college nights. And Fridays, was free for all.

The third floor was more exclusive—I call it, VIP. Admission was by appointment only. Patrons could order dinner, have their secret meetings, drink the night away, order up strippers, dancers, or drugs, a stenographer, videographer, fax machine… Whatever they wanted, the butler would supply. It was swept for bugs twice a night and no phones were allowed.

I took the elevator down to the second floor, Kirill by my side. It was still early on a Monday night, so thankfully it wasn’t packed yet. There were two men in the open space surrounding the stage, beating the shit out of each other. I sighed, squared my knuckles, and dove in. Taking each man by the scruff of their shirts like dogs, I shook them apart.

“Alright, fuckers. Either of you wanna tell me what’s going on?” I demanded.

One of the men growled, trying to break free of my hold and come at me. I didn’t spend six days a week with a trainer bench pressing three hundred pounds so that some punk in my club could attack me.

I let go of the first guy and punched the second one in the face. Then, quick as a flash, I resumed my hold on the first guy and brought him right up to my face, his feet almost hanging off the ground.

I was never one to display my physical power for fun. But now and then, just to remind the hoi polloi who the hell I was, I did let myself go.

I shook him a bit as he looked at me with wide, scared eyes. “You think this is some piss-soaked back-alley fight club, huh? Nah—here, you drink under me.”

The guy started stammering a reply. He looked to his right where one of my dancers was standing, her arms crossed, shoulders hunched over and looking stressed.

I curled my lip in disgust. “You’re fighting over a girl?”

He blubbered a little more, nothing intelligible, before I threw him on top of the other guy. I looked up at my security that was standing around, ready for anything. “Throw these shitbags out, would you?”

I stepped over the two sprawled bodies before my men picked them up and heaved them off, stalking the girl. I could see her beginning to hyperventilate, her face pale, hands trembling. I came to a stop, looming over her. “Care to explain yourself?”

“I’m sorry, sir. I told him not to come. But my boyfriend gets so jealous and—”

I snorted, lifting a hand up. “Save it. I don’t have time for this.” I raised my voice so the other dancers could hear me. “When you come here to work, you leave your domestic bullshit at the door. I don’t wanna waste my time breaking up fights. You think this is Coyote Ugly? My patrons come here to have a good time, not to be subjected to your baby daddy bullshit. Last warning.” I snapped my fingers before pointing at the stripper in front of me who was trying to sneak away. “Not you. You’re fired.”

She actually whimpered before going down on her knees. “Please, sir! It’ll never happen again. I’ll tell Rob to stay away, I promi—”

“If I had a dime for every time I heard ‘it’ll never happen again’, I’d be rich enough to retire. Go on. Get out. Tell Rob thanks from me.”

She began to cry.

Honestly… I could only roll my eyes. “Come on, stop with that. I’m not gonna hire you back. Collect your things and go.” I pointed sternly towards the door.

“Sir, please.” She came closer, looking me in the eye and trying to bat her eyelashes. “I’ll do anything,” she whispered.

“Yeah? Then leave.”

It annoyed me when girls thought that their pussies could get them out of anything. I turned my back on her as one of my security men took her by the arm, trusting that she got the message.

But something made me look up towards the bar. There was a woman there, staring at me, her dark eyes laser-focused and bright with interest. I found myself changing direction as if a literal magnet was pulling me towards her. She wasn’t the prettiest girl I’d ever seen, but something about the way she stood, the look in her eyes, set her apart from all the other girls in this place.

“Hey,” I said confidently, leaning on the bar next to her. “Sorry you had to see that.” I waved vaguely towards the middle of the now cleared room.

She shrugged. “Don’t apologize. Seeing you pick up that guy so effortlessly was something else.”

Her eyes twinkled with… something. Not really mirth, lust, or interest. More like an amalgam of all those plus some other, undefined emotion. It had me intrigued.

Who was this girl?

I held out my hand. “Alexei Levin, at your service. You have a name?”

She looked at my hand for a moment, as if making up her mind about something. Then she slid her much smaller hand into mine, looking me in the eye. “Nora Walsh—at yours.”

I shook her hand slowly, drowning in her dark eyes. Unlike most people who met me, she didn’t seem the least bit afraid. Maybe, she didn’t let her fear stop her from holding my gaze. I could see the wariness in her eyes, how watchful she was of me, which let me know she knew who I was.

“So, Nora, come here often? Haven’t seen you before.”

Her eyes slid to the place where the dancer had been standing. She looked back at me with a quirked eyebrow. “Yeah, well,” she threw me a one-shouldered shrug, “this isn’t my usual beat.”

“Oh yeah? And what is?” I clicked my fingers at the bartender, indicating that they should replenish Nora’s drink. They did so and brought me my usual—a white Russian. Puns be damned.

“I thought I was out of the business.” Her mouth twisted, “Been out of town, doing the domestic thing. But that didn’t work out.”

My mouth turned down. I gave her a disappointed look. “Damn, don’t tell me. Crazy ex?”

She laughed and then leaned in, beckoning me to do the same. I gave her my ear, eager to hear what she had to say. “The gag is, I’m the crazy ex,” she whispered, her warm breath ghosting against my skin.

I actually laughed out loud. I was not expecting that. I leaned back, seeing that she was smiling up at me. And she had dimples… kissable dimples.

This might be a problem.

“Do tell,” I said.

She inclined her head, mouth turning down. “He made me quit my job all of a sudden… which means no references, right? Took me to this town in the middle of nowhere and substituted my birth control with sugar pills. Blew through my savings while he was ‘looking for a job’, all the while selling me this line about happily ever after. My sister just died, so I wanted to believe him so bad.” Her voice broke and she swallowed hard but didn’t burst into tears or anything. I reached out and squeezed her hand. It would work in my favor to console her.

She gave me a quick, humorless smile. “Finally woke up. Skipped out of town with the one thing he loved. A Harley-Davidson. Mint condition. Sold it when I got back into the city, but I kinda need to get some work… fast.” She looked at me and smirked. “You know what I mean?”

I couldn’t help raking over her body from head to toe. She wore a white chiffon blouse which was practically transparent in the neon lights. I could see the twin peaks of her breasts pushing into a black lacy bra. There was nothing extraordinary about them and yet my palm itched to curve beneath the swell of them and squeeze. My mouth watered at the thought of suckling her nipple through her shirt, wetting the material so it clung to her skin and rendered her practically naked.

I could feel my body react to my fantasies. I wasn’t used to feeling so out of control.

What hoodoo even is this?

“You want to work for me?” My voice was fairly level, which was gratifying.

“I wanna work in your club, if you’ll have me.”

The way she said it… I was ready to plow her right there.

I cleared my throat. “Let’s talk in my office.”

She nodded, following me as I made my way to the elevator, parting the crowds like Moses did the Red Sea.

I know this is stupid. I know it.

I hardly knew anything about this girl—she was an unknown quantity. For all I knew, she could have been a Fed. Yet there I was, letting my dick lead me into trouble for the first time in my life. She stood in front of me in the lift, turning her back on me. I could smell her. She smelled of mint and strawberry. It was a pleasant scent. Not intoxicating. And yet I wanted to lean forward and bury my face in her neck.
There was another smell. One I knew well. One that fascinated me more than the rest.
It was the smell of fear.

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Chapter One

Lori

I’m sitting in the middle of Central Park and all I can focus on is how the sun hits the trees just right. Tall skyscrapers line the backdrop, although I cannot see the details. In fact, I can’t see any details—of anything. I’m lucky that I can even see at all. Light, blurred objects, color, movement, sometimes even a hairstyle on someone’s head. That’s about all my vision can handle thanks to Stargardt’s disease.

I developed it when I was twelve years old, and remember the moment to this day. I was sitting at my family’s dinner table, a long handmade oak piece adorned with crystal plateware, when the crystal suddenly blurred and stopped glistening. My brothers’ faces faded into shadows, and the pangs of fear in the pit of my stomach caused me to spill my gazpacho all over my white sundress.

I slip my bag off my shoulder and set it down on the bench behind me, my head tilting up towards the sun. It is moments like this when I wish I had normal vision. I wish I could count the clouds in the sky, memorize every little detail of the buildings in the skyline. I wish I could look at the couples I hear laughing around me. Perhaps then, I wouldn’t feel this intense loneliness, perhaps then, all the years of being hidden away would’ve been worth it, because I could revel in a moment like this with eyes wide open.

Since birth, my life has been threatened and I have been in danger, however the day that I lost my vision, was the day that the Saracino’s would have a secret child. See, my father is a very important man. Graziano Saracino is perhaps one of the most feared and richest men in New York City, perhaps in the nation, the leader, and head boss of the Saracino Mafia. So ever since I lost my vision, I have been tucked away, hidden from the danger that is my family’s reality. My father bought me an apartment on the other side of Manhattan, my brothers and him taking turns watching me. Thus, I have been living a relatively normal life, despite the blindness and all.

I pull my camera from my bag and remove my sunglasses. When being in the sun or harsh light, I must wear sunglasses, sometimes even a hat.

I fiddle with the lens and line up the perfect shot, capturing the perfect view of Central Park in the middle of the day, telling a sweet story of this amazing city.

I know what you’re thinking, a blind girl that takes pictures? And yes, that does sound bizarre, but I don’t just take pictures, I throw myself into them. I’ve made them a career. I’ve turned my shadowed haze into colorful storylines and now, I get to tell those stories for a living. Iris Media is one of the top marketing firms in the city and thankfully after I graduated college, they took one look at my portfolio and hired me on the spot, without being aware of my disease.

Now I really know what you’re thinking, why does the daughter of one of the richest and most powerful men in the city even have a job? Well, my answer is simple—I want to.

I don’t want to live in my family’s dangerous world. Although I love them more than words, and sometimes even more than photography, I refuse to let money be an additional reason for my lifelong isolation. It’s dirty money, blood money, money that has kept me away from the brutality of the Saracino world, money that has allowed me to build a safe space for myself. A space where I can live a quiet life, taking pictures and hosting dinner parties with my friends, maybe even allow me to have a partner and someday, a family. A normal, happy and safe family.

As soon as I take the picture, a series of loud noises fill the air. I jump and clutch my camera, knowing all too well that the sounds were gunshots. Since my hearing is heightened due to relying on it for so long, I can almost tell where they are coming from, and that immediately triggers my flight response. They were close by and so is my father’s office. Something in my gut tells me it’s not good, that it’s either him or one of my four brothers, so I pack my camera, slide on my sunglasses and make a beeline for the subway. Thankfully, I’ve memorized all the times of transit since this city doesn’t cater too well for blind people. I know that the next link to my apartment is in five minutes, so I need to book it.

I run through Central Park, rushing onto the sidewalk and waiting for the crosswalk guard to signal that it’s okay to pass. When I get to the subway stairs, I run until my lungs are squeezing inside of my chest, my thighs practically chaffing from brushing together beneath my skirt. When I count my steps and stop at my designated spot in the terminal, I wait and listen for the train. It comes, like clockwork and I step inside as soon as the door opens, sliding in my headphones as I tell my phone to call my oldest brother, Carmelo. He answers on the first ring, like always.

“Where are you right now?” I gasp, my voice thick with anxiety.

“Woah, kid, calm down. Are you okay?” he asks, the calm and deep baritone of his voice soothing some of my worry.

“Are… are you okay? I was just working in Central Park and heard gunshots. Where’s papa?” I ask, grabbing a pole and hanging tight as the subway takes off.

“Relax, Lori. Dad’s fine. Not every gunshot is due to or intended for the family. You forget this city is filled with thugs and psychopaths,” he chuckles, but I don’t laugh. My hand is sweaty as it grips the pole.

“You forget that the family is also composed of thugs and psychopaths.” I hiss, not in the mood for his humor today.

He sighs. “This is true. Look, Dad and I are fine—”

“What about Armone, Amelio and Claudio?”

“They’re here with me. Seriously, little one, you need to relax. You’re gonna turn gray at the ripe age of twenty-two.” He says and I sigh, thanking God or whoever resides in the sky for keeping my brothers and father safe just one more day.

“Look, we were planning on coming over to the apartment for dinner tonight. Dad is going to Jersey for some… business and the boys and I are craving your Cavatelli.”

If there’s one thing that’s true about living in a house full of boys, it’s that they eat. A lot.

I had to learn how to cook at a young age because of this. My mom died when I was a toddler so if the nanny was off duty, somebody had to learn their way around the kitchen and that was me. Which is fine, I love to cook. With my loss of vision, I had to learn how to chop safely, but it’s still therapeutic for me and one of the few things I’m good at.

“Fine. I’ll see you at the apartment at seven. Love you.” I disconnect the call and play some music, tilting my head back and closing my eyes as the subway continues, mindless chatter all around me.

~

When I get home, I busy myself with cooking and pour a few glasses of Chianti to calm my nerves. The apartment is quiet and lonely, so I draw the curtains and play my favorite classical playlist.

The space is huge, over five thousand square feet complete with granite countertops and vaulted ceilings. It’s a true gem in Upper Manhattan, and I’m sure it cost my father a pretty penny, but thankfully he paid for it outright so that I would never have to struggle even if I wanted to. To be honest, I don’t make that much at the marketing firm, but I do well for myself and am able to survive while still enjoying some fancy wine and organic food. Once my insurance kicks in, I’m going to talk to my father about switching doctors and paying my medical bills on my own as well, which I’m sure he will object to. Quite frankly, I’m tired of the frequent appointments. Of the pointless surgeries. If this disease is as hopeless as my childhood doctor says it is, then I want to make it easier on myself.

I straighten my throw pillows on the leather couches and reach for the fireplace remote, turning it on and sipping from my glass while gazing out the large, floor-to-ceiling windows. I’ve made this place as colorful as possible to help me move around, but the view is my favorite, albeit blurry.

The doorbell rings and I hear the door open immediately after, all four of my brothers’ laughter filling the apartment. I smile. It’s been a long time since all of them came here. Usually, people visit me in shifts now that I’m an adult, except for holidays. In all honesty, the men in my life are much busier doing crime than they are spending quality time with family. It’s something that I’ve had to accept at a young age.

“Lorena Rose!” My second eldest brother, Armone, shouts from the foyer, causing me to roll my eyes in response.

Nobody calls me by my full name but him and he only does it to agitate me.

I stand up and walk into the kitchen, pausing to kiss each of their cheeks. The eldest, Carmelo, is tall like my father. Like the other three, he was blessed with thick, dark and unruly hair and dark eyes to match. They’re pretty much carbon copies of my father, but they all have something unique about them. Carmelo is tall and wise, Armone has a very buoyant sense of humor, whereas the third eldest, Amelio, has the biggest temper, and the youngest brother, Claudio, is charming beyond belief. However, each and every one of them are players. The number of random women I have seen wrapped around their arms have surpassed the hundred mark and for a while, it grossed me out. Now however, it fills me with envy.

Because, while my brothers are attractive playboys, I am the odd, lonely, disabled girl. The girl with the red brown hair and the overly bright hazel eyes. The skinny, petite waif with poor eyesight. It’s safe to say that the only men I’ve ever known are my family members.

“Smells delicious, little one,” Claudio says, patting my shoulder as he pours a glass of wine, my eyes drifting to the long outline of his dark hair.

They all call me little one. It doesn’t piss me off, but rather fills me with warmth. It makes me feel special. Because even in my lonely world—to them, I am special.

“Thank you. I have most of the table set up, but can you pull the pot from the oven and set it on the table? There’s some Pinot Grigio on the table already,” I say, Claudio following my instructions immediately.

He’s the easiest to get along with, always sweet and polite. I feel safe with all my brothers, but he’s always had a way of calming me the best.

“Boys, come on,” I holler, grabbing my glass and walking into the dining room.

We take our spots at the table and say our prayers, wishing for health and safety as always. I hold my brothers’ hands a bit tighter than usual, the nerves from earlier still not completely dissipated.

As we eat, the boys chatter about their newest romances, and the loneliness stretches inside of my heart. After minutes have passed and they realize I haven’t said much, Amelio sits back and speaks to me directly.

“Car told us that you heard some shots and became frantic. Wanna talk about it?” he asks, his silhouette sipping wine as I sigh and swallow my food.

“Not really,” I say, but I should’ve known they wouldn’t listen anyway.

“Tough shit. What’s the matter?” he says, calling my bluff as I play with the food on my plate.

“I just… I haven’t seen papa lately and I guess I’m just anxious,” I say, the room silent as I speak.

“Maybe I just miss home.” I regret the words instantly.

“You know why you can’t go back there, Lori. It’s not safe for you.” Carmelo scolds, sounding just like my father.

“I know. I didn’t say I wanted to go back. Just that I miss it.” I whisper, swirling the wine in my glass as I bite my lip.

“I guess I’m just lonely. I hear you talk about these women, these companions, and I can’t help but wish for something like that for myself. To have someone to come home to—share my life with.” Armone’s hand rests over mine when I fall silent.

“You’re only twenty-two, little one. You have all the time in the world. Trust that you will find someone someday. You’re beautiful, intelligent, and have many talents. Any man would be lucky to call you his,” he says earnestly, my heart sinking at his words.

“I have two talents and a disability. I think I may be off the market for good.” I wallow in my own self-pity now.

“You are special and a prize, Lori. Don’t tell yourself otherwise,” Armone says, patting me comfortingly as I smile at him.

“Enough of this loneliness talk, where’s the cake?” Amelio asks, everyone erupting with laughter as we finish our meal.

“How are you ever going to have a wife if that’s how you speak to a woman?” I tease, reaching to pour myself a glass, but retreating when Carmelo brushes me off and does it for me.

He hates when I try to be self-sufficient in his presence.

“Who said I speak to every woman like that?” Ameilo teases. “And who said I want a wife anyway?” I roll my eyes at him, getting up as Claudio clears the plates from the table.

Carmelo takes the tiramisu from my hands before cutting into it as I walk it into the dining room.

I stare at all four of them, the outline of their laughing figures filling what little vision I have.

“What?” Armone asks.

“Promise me that you’re being safe. I don’t know what I would do without any of you.” I whisper, the men falling silent and all but confirming that something did happen today.

“What happened?” I ask, gazing at them as they sigh.

“There was a robbery. One of the De Vico boys. Our guards caught him a block away from the office with some of our contraband,” Claudio says, the other three hissing and chastising him.

“She’s going to worry, idiot—”

“I’m fine! Jesus, I’m not an invalid. Just because I’m hidden away doesn’t mean I need to be kept out of the loop. The De Vico’s? Again?” I ask, frowning as they confirm.

The De Vico family has been an enemy of my family since the dawn of time. The Saracino’s have fought hard to maintain control over the city, but these people are relentless. Heinous, relentless, and fucking brutal.

“Do I need to worry?” I ask, Carmelo getting up to grab the knife from my hand before he cuts into the dessert.

“Never, little one. We’re finally gaining the upper hand in our war. Now is the greatest time to relax and live your life with ease,” he says, kissing my forehead before he hands a slice of cake to all of us.

Regardless of his words, I can still feel the worry seep into my blood and blossom through my veins.

Chapter Two

Lori

My alarm is blaring, and I have a headache from Hell. My brothers stayed late last night and although I missed and enjoyed their company, I am now regretting my decision as I walk to the shower just before six in the morning.

I shower quickly and dress in my favorite red skirt and white silk blouse, sliding into a pair of nude flats before I blow dry my hair, spray my favorite perfume, and walk out the door. The trip to work is never long. Thankfully, Iris Media is only a few blocks away from the apartment and I usually make it there before any of the editors do, allowing me to develop my photos and have them on their desks by the time they walk in the office. I have a nice little setup here, my own small office and developer room right next to the editing team and John, the CEO.

I’ve always been worried working for men that I don’t know, but thankfully, John Iris is one of the nicest men I’ve ever met. He and his team have always been understanding of my condition, and he always makes an effort to compliment my work and provide guidance rather than criticism. I enjoy bringing him new photos — his words are always refreshing.

Like today, when I slapped a stack of photos labeled “Central Park Series” on his desk. I can hear his awe and see his head nod in approval, his hand reaching out to pat mine.

“Kid, I don’t know how you do it, but you amaze me every damn time,” he beams, pride filling my heart as a smile stretches my lips.

“Thank you, I can hang around today and work on the next series if you want—”

“Nonsense.” He waves me off, calling in one of his editors to take my stack of photos.

“You’ve been working yourself to the ground and are way ahead of schedule. The next issue deadline isn’t for another two months. Why don’t you take the afternoon off and relax for once?” He laughs and I sigh, unsure of what to do with my day.

If I’m not working or taking photos, I pretty much have no other purpose, but I decide not to argue against him. I want to always be in his good graces.

I shake his hand and grab my bag from my office, putting on my headphones and starting to walk home. Maybe I’ll try a new recipe today. I have a series of audio cookbooks that I’ve yet to dive into.

Right before I tell my phone to open the file, Claudio calls me. I make sure every person in my life has their own specific ringtone so I can identify the caller. Because Claudio is the one who calls me the most, I always hear Elvis’ “Can’t Help Falling in Love.”

“Hey, Claud. What’s up?” I ask, turning the corner towards my apartment.

“She left me.” His slurred voice says through the phone and my heart breaks for him instantly.

Claudio has been with the same woman, Maddalena, since high school. He just bought her an engagement ring, and I can tell by his broken and mumbled voice that this must have happened earlier, which means he’s been drinking all morning.

Fuck.

“Hey, it’s okay. I’m so sorry, I know you must be hurting, but we’ll figure this out, okay? It might help for you to talk about it. I’m off for the rest of the day and I’m about to come home, why don’t you come to the apartment, and we can relax together?” I try not to cry for him as he agrees with garbled words.

My sweet, older brother may work for one of the most dangerous businesses in New York City, but he has a heart of gold and, now, that heart is completely shattered. I’m instantly worried for him.

This week has already been a shit show and it’s only Tuesday.

~

Marco

I’m staring at the ten-year-old death certificate of my father when Sergio, my assistant, calls me.

“I found one of the brothers. I was able to tap into his call. He’s absolutely plastered and on his way to the girl’s house. Tracking his location now,” he says, and I immediately sit up in my leather chair, my glass of whiskey shaking on my oak desk.

Ah, the secret daughter of Graziano Saracino. Has the mystery finally been revealed?

“I want the address as soon as you get it and a van sent over to the office in five minutes.” I order, tossing back the rest of my glass as I straighten my Armani suit jacket.

“Copy,” Sergio says, ending the call as I stare at the certificate once more.

Ten years ago, to this day, Leone De Vico, my father and the head boss of the De Vico mafia, was brutally murdered by our sworn enemy, Graziano Saracino. I was only twenty-seven at the time, just an underboss when the century long business was thrown into my hands. Since then, I’ve been on a wild man hunt with a vengeance that has made me a ruthless bastard. I will not rest until I see every single Saracino dead. Even the secret daughter.

But, if you want a successful operation, you must think critically, methodically. And that’s what I’ve been doing for the past decade: carefully plotting and planning, biding my time and waiting for the moment when I can strike from the shadows with an army greater than ever before. And here’s the moment showing itself, on the ten-year anniversary of my father’s death.

Vengeance.

I could strike the head first, killing Graziano and taking out the heart of the family so everything else can fail instantly, but I want them to suffer. I want them to feel the pain that I have felt for years. And what better way to do that than to start with the two youngest first?

I’m not surprised to hear about the boy. After all my digging throughout the years, I’ve known that Claudio was the weakest, too soft for our world. What surprised me is Sergio’s detection of the daughter. Graziano has hidden her well, for ten years he’s kept her locked away, untraceable. Until today. Until God came out from the sky and granted me a key to my own gates of heaven.

I do not know what the girl looks like, I don’t even know her name, but I do know that she is young, and she is weak, otherwise her father wouldn’t have hidden her so well. She may be the weakest spot of this family. She may be the perfect opportunity for my plans. Meaning, I might not want to kill her right away. Maybe I’ll kill the boy and make her watch as he bleeds out on the floors of her hidden palace. Maybe I’ll put her in the van right next to his lifeless body and then throw her in the cages until I bait the rest with her fragile, pathetic existence.

I pour myself another glass and wait for Sergio to send me the address. When he does, I see that the boy has already made it to the spot.

Perfect.

I throw back the contents of my glass and grab my gun, tuck it into my custom trousers and call for my backup. Once we’re in the van, I give them the location and light a cigarette, watching the city pass me by from the tinted windows.

The drive is long, on the other side of town. You’d think her father would move her to a different state if he really cared, but the man loves control. And since his beloved wife died many years ago, I’m sure he didn’t want the last female of the family too far. Even if it meant still risking her life.

When we pull up to the apartment, I smirk. The girl lives in an expensive skyrise, all the way at the top like a princess locked away in a tower. I grab my binoculars and peer around, stopping when I spot an open set of windows, the boy pacing past them and allowing me to identify him immediately.

Stupid girl, why leave your windows open for the monsters of the city to peer through?

I remain posted, searching for any new sightings of the mystery girl for what feels like an eternity. Until she comes into view, two glasses of water in her small hands. I take one look at her and frown, bewildered that the petite thing is somehow related to the dark Saracino men.

There, right in the open view, stands a small woman with light brown hair, shimmers of red highlights all throughout the long wavy tresses. Her skin is pale, unlike her brothers. And although I don’t have a clear look at her face, I can tell that she is stunning. Small, soft features and decent sized breasts that peek out from the slope of her silk blouse. Her long, shapely legs on full display underneath her short, red skirt.

She’s stunning, I’ll give her that. But she’s also damned, now more than ever.

“What do we do, boss?” One of my men say, bloodthirsty and anxious.

I wave him with a flick of my hand, eyes still glued on the woman in the window.

“We wait,” I say, watching for nearly an hour in the idling van until they disappear from the view.

Minutes go by when suddenly, the large double doors of the apartment building open and out comes the boy and his sister. We all draw our guns, but when I spot the walking stick outstretched in front of her, her eyes covered with a pair of expensive looking sunglasses, I freeze.

She’s blind.

The realization comes quick and hits me like a freight train, everything clicking into place.

Yes, Graziano has hidden her. And she’s not just weak, she’s fucking impaired.

So much for making her watch her brother bleed out.

They hug and right when they let go and the boy turns to walk away, one of my guards cocks their gun and looks over at me.

“Now, boss? He’s getting away—”

“No,” I say darkly, tucking my gun back into my pants as the boy leaves and the blind girl turns to walk back into the apartment building.

“Marco, what the fuck! You had your chance for the first time in ten years and you fucking—”

I rear back and elbow my driver right in the face, the crunching sound of his nose echoing throughout the van. I then grab a tissue from the glove compartment and toss it to him.

“That’ll be the first and last time you address me in that manner,” I growl, turning to look at him.

“Critically. Methodically. Successfully,” I bark at him, the same words I repeat to my men every day.

“I have other plans. I want the girl. And I want her alive,” I grunt, looking back at the apartment before I rest my hand on the door handle.

“And I’m going to get her myself. Get the rope ready. I’ll be back in ten minutes,” I say, stepping out of the vehicle as I strip my jacket and roll up my sleeves, tossing the coat into the passenger seat.

“This is personal,” I state, before I slam the door and walk inside the massive apartment building, ready to meet the hidden princess and steal her away from her little palace.

~

Lori

After walking Claudio out, I walk back inside my building and ride the elevator all the way up to the top floor. I set down my walking stick and toss my sunglasses on the foyer table. I haven’t really needed my stick in a while, but I’ve been anxious this week and don’t want to risk tripping or falling.

I walk into the kitchen and grab myself a glass of water. It took me over an hour to calm Claudio down, his drunken tears still echoing in my mind, my heart breaking for him. If this is what love is like, maybe I don’t want it after all. However, I can’t imagine living a life of complete solitude. And the reason she left him was because of the business, the very same reason why I have chosen to not be a part of it. So maybe… love won’t be painful for me since I’ve chosen to stay away.

My thoughts break when a knock sounds on the door. I smile, wondering what Claudio forgot this time. He may have sobered up slightly, but even so, the man forgets everything. He’d lose his head if it wasn’t attached to his body.

I open the door, freezing when I see the outline of a man that is not my brother, a man that I have never met before.

I look him up and down, trying to make out what little details of his features that I can. From what I can tell, his hair is styled on the top of his head, his face shadowed with a thick, black beard. His body is massive, like incredibly massive. His shoulders stretch the entire width of my door frame, bombarding me with his aggressive size. He smells unlike anything I’ve smelt before. Something foreign and rich, like he had been standing in the woods and soaked up all the sun. And handsome, definitely handsome.

“Can-can I help you with something?” I ask, my voice dry and cracked, coming out as a broken whisper as I stand there, mesmerized.

He chuckles. The sound is devoid of humor, and when I hear it, the hairs on the back of my neck stand up and my entire spine stiffens. This man should not be here. This man is not good.

“Yes, princess. You can help me with something, indeed,” he grumbles, lunging forward as a scream tears from my throat.

Before I can move, his hand is clamped over my mouth while the other wraps around my throat, cutting off my air supply as I flail helplessly in his arms.

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Chapter One

Anna

As I step out onto the curb, I suck in a deep breath and try my best to enjoy the spring air. It sounds dramatic, but when you step onto the Robinson estate you never know whether you’ll see the light of day again. Fresh-cut grass, the faint aroma of lilacs and hydrangeas, and a trace of exhaust from the interstate. Everywhere you look, there is a reminder of destruction disguised as progress. Even when I’m trying to accept my potential end—my mortality—it doesn’t matter.

I haven’t been to the Robinson estate in six years, but it is always too soon to see the place again. It is a modern, sophisticated-looking lion’s den. Blood-thirsty beasts that have no regard for what the society at large has to say, let alone their rules, prowl within those walls. And through the faults of my loving, but harebrained father… it seems as though I’m tied to them forever.

As I walk to the front door, I do everything in my power to calm myself down. The last thing you want to show in front of a mob boss is fear. They can smell it like sharks can smell blood in the water; and Andrey Robinson is absolutely no exception. If he senses fear, he will twist, mangle, and manipulate it just for the hell of it—not to mention his own personal gain.

Deep breaths. I need to take deep breaths and focus on maintaining my composure. I’ll give him nothing to go on, not even an inkling of emotion. No anger, no sadness, and never fear.

I don’t even have to knock on the door; it opens right when I approach. A false sense of security dares to fall over me at the sight of an older woman in a maid’s uniform, with a matching gray tunic and pants. The only splash of color is the pale pink turtleneck she’s wearing underneath. She’s meant to make the unexpecting feel safe, as though visitors aren’t walking into a potential death trap.

“Good afternoon, Miss White,” she greets so cheerfully that my heart longs to warm at the sound. “Come on in.”

She guides me inside and shuts the door behind me. I try my best not to stare, but my mind longs to torment itself, wondering whether or not she is involved with the family. A level of comfort shows in her body language, so I’m guessing she’s worked here for quite some time. Meaning she’s had to have seen quite a bit, right? Hell, why do I care?

Because I’m trying to think of anything that isn’t centered around guessing why the hell I have been called here.

She leads me to the base of the stairs and gestures for me to walk ahead of her. I suppose she doesn’t trust me to trail behind, knowing I could sneak away and end up somewhere they don’t want me to. Without comment, I lead the way. I hate the way my steps sound on the metal, a hollow pang that reminds me too much of the horror movies I watched in my youth. I’m only twenty-two, I should still be ‘in my youth’. Who stays young in a life like this? The person I once was— the bubbly, excitable girl— had died. Getting kidnapped, being treated like nothing more than a pawn in a game I didn’t know I was playing… Well, it changed things.

My father getting arrested cemented those changes for me. I needed to grow up fast, so I did.

We walk down a long, stark white hallway, and I pause right before the only open door. I give her one last look, as though my fate would reveal itself in the fine lines on her face. If she knows whether this meeting will bring me to my end, she isn’t showing an ounce of it. Would that make her cruel, or merciful? Knowing I’ve been staring too long, I nod once and start up the stairs.

I step into view of the open door, and I can hardly think around the sound of my heart beating erratically in my ears. Looking within, I see a tall, older man with salt and pepper hair. He’s leaning against the front of an extravagant, massive, wooden desk. The piece of antique furniture feels out of place with the starkly modern and industrial-styled estate. The wood is warm, handcrafted with care, and inviting—nothing like Andrey Robinson.

Andrey manages to smoke a cigar in an intimidating manner. His eyes constricted before he even met mine. He blows smoke in my direction and flicks the ashes around with reckless abandon. He doesn’t care about anything in the room or the mess he’ll make. Everything in there is pocket change, and like everything else in his life, he has someone to clean up those messes.

“Well, are you going to stand there all day?” he calls. His voice is deep and gruff by nature, and his tone is pointed, maybe even a little irritated.

I step inside the room, and he gestures for me to take a seat in front of him. He tells me to close the door as I come in. I don’t want to. My instincts are screaming at me to stand by the door ready to flee in case something happens. However, I follow his instructions obediently. It’s better to play along; challenging the boss over even the smallest of things could potentially make life hell for me.

Andrey unbuttons his suit jacket as he positions himself to halfway sit atop the desk. I try to act unaware of the way he is eyeing me. I feel put on display for his enjoyment alone, like a private gallery for him to ogle at. Something shifts inside of me at the realization. An irritation comes on so strong that it alters my fear ever so slightly. It’s that grotesque stare of his that reminds me he isn’t some otherworldly figurehead my childhood built him up to be. No, he’s just a man. One that has a history of making me want to crawl out of my skin—which says more about him than me, since the last time I laid eyes on him, I was fifteen.

Still, even with my little flurry of courage, I’m scared. Andrey is not just a cruel man, he has the power and resources to do anything he wants. He can take my life without so much as a second thought, and no one would ever bother to avenge me, not with the state my family is in right now.

“My, my,” he grins. “I have to say, the years have been so, so kind to you… You’re absolutely radiant. With this beautiful blonde hair, eyes as blue and deep as the ocean, and skin as fair as the moon itself… you’ve always been like out of a fairytale, but now—well, you are more like a fantasy.” As though it can’t get any worse, he chuckles a hollow bout of laughter, and adds, “Oh… What was that nickname I used to call you? Annabiotics, wasn’t it? Because your smile can cure any ailment?”

“Yes, you are a true creative genius for that one,” I grumble and soothe my skirt, batting away invisible dust. “Now can you get to the point of why I was called here?” I want to be assertive, to take a semblance of control over the situation. However, my voice fails me. Even to my own ears, I sound strained and meek.

Andrey’s eyes shine with intrigue, apparently viewing my words as a challenge as opposed to anything else. Thankfully. “What’s the matter, sweet Anna, have I happened to catch you in a mood?”

His incessant need to call me some sort of pet name is nauseating. I retort quickly, not to get caught up in my thoughts, “I think anyone in my position would be ‘in a mood’ if they were called to the house of a Don without explanation.”

Immediately, I internally curse myself. While I want to assert myself to attempt to demand some respect, my voice came out snippy. The last thing I want to do is throw attitude his way. He’s not a man to sass.

My nerves are raw. Talking with him feels like navigating a mental minefield. You never know what step could be fatal. Do I assert myself to not be his plaything, or do I fold into his whims and risk angering him?

The hand that isn’t cradling a cigar clasps over his chest and his brow droops. “I have to say, I am hurt —no, wounded— that you are behaving in such a way. Acting as though I am nothing more than some pest on the street. And to use Italian terminology in this beautiful Irish home!” he expresses himself in a tone that suggests it is the worst heartbreak of his life. He follows the sentiment with a tutting sound as he shakes his head side to side. “I have to say, sweet Anna, after all that trouble I went through to get Sean to attack your abductors… I was expecting a little more warmth from you.”

His choice of using the word warmth makes me itch with discomfort. I can’t help but imagine that he is trying to convey physical touch, as though I would owe him anything for a favor I didn’t ask for. Besides, nothing about him saving me back then had anything to do with me yet everything to do with motives for which I was a pawn instead.

I hate it, but even the mention of the abduction brings flashes of it back to me.

Hands all over my body as I go from the hands of one set of abductors, to what feels like another. Squealing tires as a car attacks the Levines— my original abductors— we had been heading back to their place. Vanessa, my friend, had a terrified expression on her face as I was snatched away. I’d never met any of the men before, but it didn’t take a genius to figure out who they were. Knowing I was in the hands of my father’s associates should have made me feel better, but it didn’t. Even if you didn’t ask for it, a favor from the mob always came at a cost.

And the moment I realized the men weren’t Robinsons, but Mullens… Andrey had to have had something to do with it. The last man I wanted to owe anything to. The man who had wanted me in heinous ways since I was far too young.

As my breath threatens to hitch, I let out a long sigh to cover it up and keep my composure. Fear. Don’t let him notice your fear.

“Yes, I meant to send you a thank you card for almost getting my friend killed,” I fire back at him with the sweet hum of sarcasm to my voice. The Mullens practically killed everyone in the car with me that night. “I’m not so naïve, Andrey… That had nothing at all to do with me. It had everything to do with your desire to kill Ethan Levine, in hopes of getting the Levine clan to fall so the Robinsons could take over the market.”

The mock hurt drains from his face, and it is replaced with an ear-to-ear grin. He claps slowly and chuckles, “Bravo, Anna. Who knew it was possible to have beauty and brains? It’s a rare combination indeed. Even rarer these days given how distracted the world has become. Though, I suppose that works to our benefit, doesn’t it? A distracted world pays no mind to what is going on beneath its skin.”

“I wouldn’t group us all together,” I mutter, despite my best efforts to sound brave. I don’t want to be associated with his organization or anything remotely related to it; however, I am because I am my father’s daughter. He is the only reason I’m sitting here instead of running for the hills. Andrey’s eyes are narrowing again, and I’m struggling to keep my cool. Frustration and terror may be fighting within me, but discomfort is the most dominant emotion I am feeling. It’s so powerful that I begin to wonder if my soul will eject itself from my body just to get away from here.

Andrey takes notice of my fidgeting, and I try hard to stop. My only hope is that he registers it as restless annoyance instead of fear. He relaxes and takes another obscenely long drag on his cigar, not bothering to pretend he isn’t staring at my bare legs. Had I been aware when I dressed myself that day that I would end up here, I would have worn a parka, long pants, or even a snowsuit if I needed to. Anything to protect myself from his hellish gaze.

“So, do you really not know why you’re here today, Anna?” he asks once he finally lets the smoke pour out of his mouth – looking more like a dragon to me than a man at this moment.

“If you mean if I know why you called me here, then I’ve already told you I don’t. I know why I agreed to it, though,” I state as clearly and smoothly as possible.

“Go on,” he smirks, again placing the cigar between his lips.

The muscles in my throat tighten as though my body itself is trying to keep me from saying it. There is no going back once I tell him, and I know I’ll be placing myself right in the palm of his hand when I do. However, if I am going to be forced to do anything— which is the only reason I think I’ve been called here— then I’m going to get something out of it. Even if it means playing Andrey’s game by allowing myself to be manipulated by him.

“I want my father out of jail.”

I don’t need to explain the situation because I know he’s aware of it. Andrey is well-versed in the activities of the Robinson mafia and their associates. My father, Louis Holmes, had been arrested in a police sting. Given that he was the only one implicated in the crimes, it stinks of bullshit. Anything connected to him should implicate numerous members of the Holmes and Robinson families. My father’s family, while not part of the Robinson mafia, certainly operates like it. They run protection rackets and cook the Robinsons’ books to ensure that their payroll and expenses do not raise any flags with the IRS.

Five years for tax fraud, five years for evidence tampering, and an additional two years for a laundry list of misdemeanors I can barely keep track of. Twelve years. A man like him probably has done a few things worth a life sentence alone, so maybe twelve years is lucky… But I can’t just stand by and let it happen. He’s my father, and really, he’s my only family. And I know a man like Andrey is the only way I can free him.

Andrey flicks more ashes away and settles in, looking too smug and comfortable to bring me any ease. “What a coincidence, sweet Anna. I have brought you here to make you a deal.” He pauses to take another drag. I have to make a mental and physical effort not to squirm. The wait is killing me. I think he knows it, and he’s savoring it. “An exchange of your soul for your father’s freedom.”

Chapter Two

Liam

I wonder if it makes me subhuman to be able to feel so calm.

It’s a blissful sort of nothingness, the sort of Zen I imagine other people might feel when folding laundry or washing dishes—a routine task that isn’t enjoyable nor horrible per se, but one that is done so often that the mind can wander or think about nothing at all. That’s the only way I can describe my state of being as I pull on a pair of black leather gloves and stand in the factory hallway. The sort of machinery that used to be in use here was deafening, so the builder made the walls as close to soundproof as they could. Whatever is going on in the room I’m about to enter comes through as nothing more than muffled mumbling.

Drinking in the quiet darkness, I take a deep breath and do my best not to smirk as I turn to the door. Getting my hands dirty is the routine Zen that comes with the job— however, this is my American debut. My first brush with business stateside. In their city. So, I suppose that if I’m feeling anything at all, it’s a tingle of excitement.

Swinging the door open, the harsh, crooning voice hit me first, followed by the sight of Colin Doyle strapped to a chair under the only flickering light in the room. A bit stereotypical, but it’s just as I pictured it. Colin seems to be barely clinging to life; his angry, hoarse cries are perhaps acting as the only tether to this life and the next. Anger is a hell of a drug, isn’t it? It can destroy a life, or motivate a person to live. And in this case—it’s both.

“He insists he knows nothing,” Michael, my underboss, calls from the shadows as I start pacing toward Colin. No doubt the other couple of men I’ve enlisted to assist are lingering in the room with him. I’m a sucker for theatrics, I suppose. It gives me a rush to imagine myself as him. He must be terrified, not knowing where the men who had just beaten him to a pulp were. They could emerge from anywhere to finish the job. Only, the unsettling darkness gives you an uneasy feeling that you can’t shake; that the men there do not possess the mercy to let you go with any dignity or peace.

He would be right if he did think that.

“No matter,” I call to Michael. “I’m sure I can convince him to talk.” I am standing just feet from him now. Colin lifts his bloody head and peers up to me with the one eye that isn’t completely swollen shut. “Seen better days, haven’t you?” I ask him with a trace of mockery in my voice.

“Who the fuck are you?” Colin tries to hiss, blood splattering from his mouth as the word fuck is spoken. He is one of the men originally from Ireland, so his pleadings in this accent sound almost comical.

He’s lucky I am just out of range of his spewing. I’m pretty sure it would have sent me over the edge; and what I would have unleashed would have left him looking to his previous tormentors, my men, as potential saviors. Unbuttoning my collar, I answer softly, “Dear friend, I am your reckoning.” The bound man dared to let out a single howl of laughter. “I also happen to be Sean Mullen’s fucking nephew.”

His brows try to knit together from confusion, but he winces and stops; his face too swollen, bruised, and cut to be too emotive. “The fuck are you saying? Sean didn’t have any nephews.”

“Because you knew my uncle so well, right? That’s where this confidence is coming from?” I ask him with a hint of a smile. He was my uncle’s underboss—his friend and most trusted, loyal follower. “You know what they say, Colin. Most crimes of passion are done by those closest to you.”

His face fought through the pain to gape at me. “Are you accusing me of bumping off Sean? Are you taking the piss, boyo?”

“That’s exactly what I’m accusing you of,” I respond by lowering my head and looking him in the eyes. “Only, it wasn’t a crime of passion. What do you think the pigs would call it, Dan?” I call into the darkness. My voice is dripping with sarcasm, and I want to remind Colin that there are people surrounding him. I want to see the panic flare in his eyes, again and again, as he becomes more and more aware that this is the end of the road for him. I’ll savor every little twitch of his split lips and tear that pours out of his blackened eyes. That anxiety in a man’s eyes as you deliver the karma that is meant for them— it’s better than cigarettes after sex, or a stiff drink after a long day.

“Premeditated murder, Boss,” Michael responds from a different spot than he was before.

“Right, right. Premeditated murder,” I smile. “That’s what you’re being accused of,” I tell Colin before poking him playfully in his very obviously broken nose.

Colin swears from the pain and does his best to throw himself away from my touch. Once he recovers, he meekly shakes his head. “Clearly, you aren’t from around here. No one would dare accuse me of such a thing. Sean was like a brother to me!”

“Like a brother he says!” I call to the others. There’s an eruption of mild laughter as I close the distance between Colin and I again. “Now, Colin, I am normally not the most gracious of men, but I am reasonable. And I will give you an opportunity to correct yourself, alright? If you’re honest with me now, you’ll be spared from a world of trouble and pain. There will still be prices to pay, but you will find such fees to be much, much more lenient than the alternative. Got it?”

“You’re being too nice, Boss,” Michael says in humor.

“I know, I know. And there’s plenty to go around. So, what do you say, Colin? Do you want to be honest with me and make all our lives simpler?”

Colin’s chest is heaving. He’s nervous, but he’s trying to pass it off as anger. I can tell because his nostrils are flared but not matching his breathing. The excitement of it all seems to be weakening him, his eyes beginning to struggle to focus on me. “I don’t know where you get off accusing me of such a thing—”

“I’ll tell you, don’t worry,” I state, patting his shoulder. “I think you killed my uncle to take over the Mullen family. You thought it was the perfect plan, didn’t you? There’s so much fighting with the other gangs and you and Sean were always like brothers, right? And seeing as how there weren’t any direct descendants left… that you knew of,” I can’t hide my smirk, and couldn’t even if I tried. “It would have never been brought back to you.”

His head is starting to wobble, but the adrenaline keeps him with me. “I… worked with Sean… my entire life. Since we were boys, even…”

I tut and stand straight. “That’s what makes it all the more heinous, doesn’t it?”

“I didn’t kill Sean Mullen!” Colin cries as sternly as he can. “On my honor, I swear it.”

“Too bad that honor means nothing,” I sigh. From my pocket, I retrieve a digital recorder. It feels like a relic from the past, but the mobs still use them because they are disposable, cheap, and not kept on any sort of database or cloud software.

Tapping play, there’s a metallic clicking before voices appear. “It’s simple,” a voice says on the tape. “So many people want the man dead. Think of all the motives. Money, power, revenge… You name it and it’s a reason for someone to want him dead. All we have to do is find someone with enough tangible evidence to pin it on.”

“If there is anyone they’re going to look at first, it’s gonna be you,” Colin’s distinctly accented voice replies.

“That’s why we need a fall guy,” the man urges. “Someone in the Mullen gang. That way there is infighting, and a takeover is simple. We use the evidence to frame the person. Taking him down will glorify you. They will easily look to you as a leader.”

“Fair enough,” Colin sighs. “How should we do it? That’ll play into who we should set up. Sean’s a big guy—”

I click the tape off, needing to play only until Sean’s name was said. There isn’t anything I needed to say, I simply watch for his reaction. Colin has surrendered his one chance at mercy, and I have hard evidence that he was plotting with an unknown party to murder my uncle. He knows what is coming.

“Alright, fine!” Colin hollers, then pauses to take a few heaving breaths. “I was plotting it, alright?” Another few pants. “But that doesn’t mean I went through with it. I’m telling you here and now that I didn’t do it.”

“You’re still going to sing that song after what I just played?” I ask him with a little chuckle. “I have to say, your stubbornness rivals my uncle’s. But I have to ask, do you think I’m stupid? Do you think selling me that story will convince me? Or are you the stupid one, who thinks that I will listen to the cries of a man plotting my uncle’s death? Do you think I’ll be moved? Do you think I’ll show mercy after you’ve already kissed that chance goodbye?”

“I swear to ya,” Colin croaks, tears bubbling from his eyes. “I didn’t do it. Someone got to him first.” When I tut at him and reach for my waistband, his face turns to the ceiling. “Forgive me for my sins, Holy Father—”

“The only ones here are my men and me,” I interrupt his prayer. “If God does exist, he abandoned you long, long ago.” My hand pauses. “I will ask you only once. Who did you plot his murder with?”

“Holy Spirit, please guide me to the gates of Heaven. I am but a mortal, rife with sins worse than my brothers. But I am requesting mercy—” he goes on praying.

“Last chance,” I warn.

“For the Lord died for all our sins, including my own. I am your humble servant, Dear—”

I roll my eyes. “You’re boring me.”

Withdrawing my gun, I swiftly aim the barrel at the center of his forehead and pull the trigger. The silencer is enough not to make the gunshot crackle like a firework, but it’s enough of a noise to cause it to echo through the massive room. Colin’s head jerks backward one last time, and blood pours from the fresh hole in his face. Letting out a sigh, I tuck my gun away again and adjust my jacket.

Michael steps into the light, his eyes analyzing the body. “What a mess of a man,” he snorts. “Think he thought prayer would actually save him?”

“Possibly. He was an idiot,” I mutter.

He looks over at me with curious eyes. “Why didn’t you give him a while longer to admit who his accomplice was?”

“I told you. He was boring me,” I huff. “If these two were stupid enough to plan their scheme on a landline, without considering my uncle would keep his men’s phones tapped, then they are likely sloppy enough to leave some other sort of evidence about.” I sniff and look at the body one last time. He looks so weak and pathetic, just as he had in life. “Besides, they narrowed down our list of suspects in that recording. There are few men that would be an obvious suspect.”

If there is anyone they are going to look at first, it’s gonna be you. The words buzz about my head like hornets, stinging my mind. Someone was bold enough to orchestrate a hit on my uncle with his best friend—someone we would easily point the finger at.

“Fair enough,” Michael chuckles. His lips curling into a grin make the lines on his face more severe, his hazel eyes a little brighter. There was a time that Michael and I could have passed as twins—both dirty blonde, brown-green hazel eyes, and tall. However, there’s five years between us and age is starting to catch up with him. I’m no spring chicken myself, but he’s more cemented in time. Thirty-six looks good on him.

When I look down at myself finally, a deep sneer appears on my face. I curse under my breath and pivot to leave the room. A great annoyance has blossomed to life in my chest, cursing Colin right to Hell for his indiscretion.

“Everything alright, Boss?” Michael asks.

“He got blood on my fucking shirt,” I spit. “Burn his body, sink it in the river. Do whatever you have to do so I don’t have to lay eyes on him again.”

The heavy metal door slams shut behind me.

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