Junkies are the worst people to owe you money. They think of their next high over their lives.
“Fuck!” Mickey cries, flinging his head back as blood gushes from his nose.
We took Mickey from his deli an hour ago after he admitted he still didn’t have my money. We dragged him into the warehouse, kicking and screaming, and shoved him into the chair. After pulling the burlap bag off his head, I provided him the same opportunity I do to other men who have disrespected me.
A chance to save himself.
I told him the rules of my Seven Seconds game with a shit-eating grin. A game I created a decade ago because, over time, murder had grown boring. I’ve yet to lose a round of Seven Seconds.
I gave Mickey seven life-saving seconds to run and dodge the single bullet I’d shoot at him. Most men at least attempt to save themselves. But I didn’t even have to waste a bullet on Mickey. The imbecile tripped and fell on his face before making two steps. He then crawled back onto the chair and begged me not to kill him.
Men begging and crying for their lives becomes a goddamn headache.
My wife. My kids. My fucking Pomeranian.
It’s laughable that these men assume I care about their lives.
That I have a heart worthy of compassion.
I’ve murdered men.
Thrown dead bodies into the Hudson.
Watched men’s skin dissolve off their bodies after I poured acid over them.
Then, as if I were an average family man, I’d attend my daughter’s dance recital with no regrets.
You wrong me, my family, or my business, you die.
“Please,” Mickey pleads, raising his dirty hands. “Don’t make my kids grow up without a father, Cristian. You have kids!”
I place a palm on my chest over my heart in fake sincerity. “You weren’t thinking about your children when you chose not to pay me.”
“Give me three days!” Drool slides down his chin. “I’ll go to every bank for a loan on the deli tomorrow.” He groans in pain, struggling to keep his eyes open. “I’ll even give you half the deli.”
“No one wants your piece-of-shit deli,” Rocky shouts before taking a bite of the roast beef sandwich he took from said deli.
“It generates good money! I’ll give you every cent it makes until you’re paid back.”
Out of patience, I shoot Mickey in the face. His head jerks back on impact before his body slumps in the chair. Blood leaks from the cracks in his skull and begins puddling on the concrete floor.
“Burn down the deli with his body inside,” I instruct Rocky. “Leave a suicide note in his car, apologizing for being a worthless father.” I gesture toward the blood. “Make sure this is scrubbed clean.”
I spit on Mickey’s dead body before tipping the chair over. His body collapses onto the floor with a thud. Motherfucker took too much time out of my night when I had more important shit to do.
Rocky nods, an evil smile on his lips. “I’ll call our boys Lorenzo and Luca.”
Just another day in the office.
CHAPTER 3
NATALIA
Things are working out in my favor for the first time in days.
With Dario as my protection, I’d opted out of going home yesterday. Instead, I’d borrowed clothes from Gigi’s closet. Cristian didn’t come knocking on the locked guest room door last night, demanding a list, so I got a few hours of sleep.
And this morning, I padded down the marble staircase, and Cristian was nowhere to be seen. When I realized the coast was clear, I grabbed a blueberry muffin from the dining room before making myself comfortable on the couch in the living room.
So far, the day is looking up.
Not sure how long that’ll last, though.
“This shit is disgusting,” Dario says, staring at the TV in repulsion while sitting on the other end of the couch.
I sweep my arm toward Dr. Pimple Popper on the screen. “This is coming from a guy who literally kills people for a living.”
Dario hasn’t admitted to killing anyone, but it’s what you do in this life. You can’t be in the crime world without committing at least one murder. Vinny explained that’s how all families work. If they do differently, they’re not a family worth being feared.
Our attention leaves the TV when the front door slams shut.
Panic charges through me.
This is it.
Time to hand over my failure of a list.
Time to find out if I’m worthy enough to keep alive.
But who’s to say he won’t kill me after I give him the list?
Crime families aren’t exactly known for being honorable.
“Yoo-hoo!” a woman shouts. “Where is everyone?”
My muscles loosen at the familiar voice of Helena, Cristian’s older sister and Gigi’s aunt. I turn to see over the back of the couch while Helena continues yelling for Dario. She walks into the living room, a Gucci bag swung over her shoulder, and the shopping bags in her hands bump into her with each move she makes.
“Dario, my brother—” Helena flinches, pausing for a moment when her gaze settles on me. “Cristian demanded I bring outfits for his dinner date tonight.” She scans the burgundy-walled room, searching for someone else.
Dario points at me with his phone. “I’m assuming it’s her.”
Helena dramatically gasps as if she were a soap opera star. “Natalia?”
I violently shake my head. “It’s definitely not me.”
Helena drops the shopping bags and pulls her phone from her purse. “Cristian!” she shouts into it. “Who is this woman I’m dressing?” She nods, listening to him, and worriedly stares at me. “Natalia?”
I wave my arms and make a slicing motion across my neck. “No, it’s not Natalia.”
“She said it’s not her,” Helena tells him before quieting again. “All right, all right.” She nudges the phone in my direction. “He wants to speak with you.”
I take the phone from her as if it were a bomb. “Hello?”
“Pick one of the fucking dresses, Natalia,” Cristian orders. “Be ready at eight.”
The call ends.
I slowly hand her back the phone. “I guess it is me.”
Helena’s eyes widen. “That damn brother of mine.”
Helena brought five dresses in different sizes in hopes that one would fit me, along with four pairs of heels.
Each dress is sexy, designer, and black. As if the monster wants me to match the color of his soul. After trying each one on, I choose a knee-length cocktail dress with a deep slit up my thigh and pair it with strappy black Louboutin heels.
Helena became the mother figure in Gigi’s life after her mother was murdered. She also became one for me when I was with them—taking me to spas and helping me pick out prom dresses and apply for colleges. She’s kind and a bit on the dramatic side, and like Gigi, she doesn’t seem to fit in this world.
“Natalia.” Helena sighs as I stare at myself in the floor-length mirror. “I don’t know how you got yourself mixed up with my brother, but be careful, honey. Sweet girls like you should stay away from men like him unless you’re looking for heartbreak … or death.”