“This is sad,” she says, addressing the crowd, then sighs. “Like,reallysad.”
I laugh. “You don’t think it’s absolutelysignificantfor these people to be dressed in clothes that cost more than an average person’s annual salary? Or is it that you’re not a fan of the number of times you’ve heard “Oh my God, really?” so far tonight?”
“Both?”
“Come on, V; live a little. I expected better from you.”
She rolls her head in my direction and gives me an exasperated look. “Eat glass, Ledge.”
“Come shove it in my mouth yourself, you coward.”
She grins. “You’re mad; I love it.”
“I’m glad to hear that I’ve still got it.”
“See, now you’re just pushing it.”
“When have Iever, Sister Mine?”
She shakes her head. “You’re a real douc–” She pauses for a second, and before I can ask her what the matter is, she looks at me and points at something below us. “Ledge, look.”
I follow her hand, and see Jedediah and Selina at the estate’s entrance.
Aras immediately looks up at me from where him, Solo, and Magner are engaged in a conversation with a pro wrestler whose name I can’t remember right now. Solo glances at Jedidiah and Selina, then gives me a nod, which I return.
“Go,” I tell Varsha. “Maintain distance and track them for a while. And don’t forget to text me with updates.”
“Got it.” She makes her way to the foyer, and once she reaches it, she elegantly grabs a flute of champagne from a server and glides over to a group of upper classes that is the closest to our targets.
“Wonderful evening, is it not?”
I turn sideways at the sound of her lush voice, and am hit with the soothing scent of a perfume that’s both rich and distracting. It’s something I’ve never smelled before, and I don’t know why it’s the first thing about her that holds my attention, when there’s so much more to her appearance that I have yet to examine.
She’s quite shorter than me, and has eyes that are just as brown as her shoulder-length hair. The long, pink dress she’s wearing hugs her wide, hourglass frame, and because it has no sleeves, I can see the dark, intricate designs of henna painted on her golden skin. These designs start from the tips of her fingers, and go all the way up to her forearms. She’s holding a glass of water in her left hand, and clicks her long nails against its surface as the seconds pass and I don’t answer her question.
“I thought you were in a committed relationship,” she states, making me meet her eyes. “But I guess there are limits on control, even among the wisest.” Her accent is thick, velvet-smooth, with a heavy emphasis on the letters H and R.
I smirk as I lean against the railing. “Hmm…arrogant, are we?”
“Confident,” she counters with a smirk of her own.
“You flatter yourself too much,” I say.
“Perhaps. But isn’t itthrillingto believe in yourself? Self-empowerment is a beautiful thing. That is, until it turns into self-obsession – which, in my case, isn’t the issue.”
I can’t help but smile. “Yet.”
She lets out a soft chuckle. “Quite the psychic, aren’t you?”
“I’m just good at reading people.”
“Spoken like a true killer,” she muses, and her eyes shine in a way that’s all too similar to me.
And then it hits me – all at fucking once. The accent, the henna, the goddamn perfume…
“You’re…” I straighten and give her a once over. “You’re Safiya Gaddafi,” I say. Of course it’s her. I don’t know why I couldn’t place her from some of the photos I’d seen of her on the internet while researching the mafia families of Anaheim.
Safiya is the younger sister of Naila Gaddafi, who is the head of the Gaddafi family. Known as The Assassin, the exotic tormentor, Safiya’s ways of ending lives are ruthless, and frankly, quite inspiring as well. She isn’t, however, a contract killer, so I’m assuming that her being here tonight isn’t a business thing, but an obligatory one.
