I press my back flat against the lab’s cool wall and bring trembling fingers to my cheek. It was still on fire wherehe had touched it. He was so tender and caressing when he brushed the dust away.
Then, he had wrapped his large hand around my neck, hinting at the strength he possessed. The entire moment will forever be etched in my memory. No one has ever touched me like that, but Dante Vescari did today. I should be more terrified; instead, I’m burning with desire to see what else he’s capable of doing to me with those hands. Hands, I know, have likely killed.
The last time my emotions were this unraveled was when my parents passed away. I was so lost and scared. Now, the familiar fear returns, despite the familiarity and comfort of my surroundings.
Tonight, my mind is racing with Dante’s cryptic remarks about my uncle “making promises” and warnings about my online shipping business. All my thoughts are more alarming than the last.
One thing is certain, and it’s that controlled substancesnevervanish from our inventory. I triple-check my shipments, the label’s barcodes, and the ledgers. I’m a rule follower, always have been. To me, jail is a fate I cannot fathom. Who would keep the pharmacy afloat if I’mbehind bars? This store is my family’s legacy. I went to pharmacy school to preserve that legacy. My heart clenches at the thought, and dizziness clouds my vision.
But my online business? In the back of my mind, I know that something could happen under my very nose, and I wouldn’t be aware of it. As the licensed pharmacist, my attention has always been focused on the pharmacy side of the store.
Our venture into aromatherapy and perfumes began strictly as a side note, a hobby I took to the next level. The pharmacy is our major source of revenue. Sure, I blend the fragrances, compound lotions, and have created a line of everything from hand soaps and bubble bath to laundry detergent, but Uncle Silas handles the business. Both businesses actually. He’s in charge of our online presence, marketing, and shipping of the increasingly popular scented products. According to him, we can’t fulfill those orders fast enough.
Does my uncle really associate with dangerous people? Was Vescari one of them? The image of those two men storming into the pharmacy chills me. If my uncle had been here, it could have turned violent.
The room tilts, and I slide down the wall, elbows on my knees, cradling my head in my hands. I ache for my parents, honest people who taught me integrity and doing right by others before they died in a terrible car crash, hit by a drunk driver. Would they know what to do if they were here?
Tears fill my eyes because, not for the first time, I wish they were here with me now. Apparently, they had some agreement with the Vescari family. One I wasn’t aware of until now.
My uncle had helped fill the void after my parents passed; he’s always taken care of things. He helped with the store while I was in college, saving it for me, making sure it would be here when my degree was completed. I can’t imagine my uncle doing anything criminal, but what if he’s somehow lost his moral compass along the way? Is he in danger?
I’ve always known he might have some money issues. My aunt had a lengthy terminal illness when I was younger, and my father mentioned helping Uncle Silas out. But I would never think of him as a thief or in bed with criminals. My parents trusted Silas; therefore, I trust Silas.
But I’m also not as naïve as people think. I know desperate people will do desperate things.
Minutes, or it might’ve been hours, pass in oppressive silence. Not one person stuck their head in to see how I was doing. Even Annie, my lab tech, doesn’t check in on me.
My guess is they’ve all gone home for the night.
How damn depressing.No one even thought to look in on me after the big, bad mobsters stormed the back room. They could have hurt me or worse. Much worse.
But they didn’t, did they?
Dante asked alarming questions about our business and insinuated my uncle was involved with something dark and sinister, but the entire time, I was never afraid of him. I should’ve been. In the recesses of my mind, I’ve heard his name whispered in hushed tones from people in the community, both in fear and in awe.
The man is a force of nature. While intense, he possesses a smoldering magnetism I can’t ignore. Today, it was as if he was tightly leashing in the violence he was capableof just for me. Restraining himself. It’s hard to explain, but it was as if he could actually “see” me.
I shake my head because it’s ridiculous to think someone like Dante Vescari would see me as anything more than a pest. A little girl in grown-up clothes, who isn’t strong enough to protect herself from the dangers surrounding her, both known and unknown.
For a brief second, I imagine what it would be like to have someone like him, as strong as him, taking care of me. Protecting me. Or more…
Ugh, snap out of it, Evangeline. He’s a mobster. Potentially out to harm your family. Not someone to play a role in your romantic fantasies.
Now, on top of my anxiety, an overwhelming sense of loneliness sweeps over me. I have no one.
My pulse drums against my temples, each beat making me think that my world has just shifted today.
The only certainty is that I know I haven’t seen the last of Dante Vescari, and I can’t stop wondering what he truly wants.
Chapter Three
Dante
Idrivebacktomy family home, a fortified stone mansion behind iron gates on the edge of town, and kill the engine on my matte-black, armor-plated Land Rover. Nodding at my security detail, I waltz through the home that’s been in my family for generations, walk into the modern kitchen, and yank a cold Peroni from a six-pack in the fridge. Clamping my hand around the bottle and twisting the cap off, I stride through the massive open living area and through the large glass doors leading onto the patio.
Collapsing into a chair, exhausted from my day of correcting people’s fuck ups and checking on our business interests, I gaze over the sprawling acres I call home when I’m not staying in the city. Throwing my head back and taking a deep swallow, allowing the cold beer to slide down my throat, grounding me in the memories of being nothing but a foot soldier for my father. The simple Italian beer reminds me of the boy I used to be. Before my father made me claw my way up to becoming boss of Chicago’s deadliest syndicate. Before I was betrayed.
Before they christened me “Il Malefico”, “the evil one,” a title I’ve earned in blood.
