She was the catalyst for death, for a new life, and now for the season I currently found myself in.
She thought she was clever showing up at The Club with the exclusive invitation, one that belonged to a dead girl, nonetheless. Armino Scarponehad killed her. Like father, like son.
Thenmia farfallamentioned Guido when the doorman had caught her, thinking she could slip past my security that easily.
Searching her bag had brought me closer to who she was.
The butterfly clip. The piece of broken pottery with the butterfly painted on it. The book with all of her notes. Coloring books and crayons.
A grown fucking woman carrying around crayons.
She was an odd mixture between a woman and a child.
As the piece of terra cotta in my hand had taken shape, so did the memories stored in my head.
If anyone deserved loyalty, it was me from her.
She just didn’t know it yet.
She couldn’t have remembered. She was only five.
When I had touched her at The Club, though, she had relaxed, melted into me, and the years disappeared. It brought me back to that place, that time. No matter how much she’d deny it, and she would, she trusted me. She had reason to.
Before I could stop myself, I had let go of the image of the child and kissed the woman standing in front of me. Crossed a line that couldn’t be set straight again. She was attractive in a way that was hard to explain. But one word came to mind when I looked at her. Regal. She was a queen. And those lips? They were the softest things I’d felt since my pillow.
Being that close to her made something inside of me restart. My entire world went black, faded out, and when I opened my eyes, the taste of her blood had invaded my mouth.
Red. A reminder.
Someone had touched her. Put their fucking hands on her. The child I had given my life to keep safe.
Whatever happened to her over the years had turned her into a woman who refused to allow anyone to help her. Kindness meant she owed something. It was clear that she refused to owe anyone. Even if it meant being starved. Even if it meant her life.
Most people called me Mac. Others called me their worst fucking nightmare. But no one—no one—ever called meboss. Not like she did, with a sarcastic twist of the tongue. Despite not knowing the circumstances in which she had found herself in, she was going to set her terms.
She demanded to touch life after merely surviving it for so long.
Her willingness to do whatever it took to get the job, no matter how life changing, showed me just how desperate she was. She had hit a turning point, stumbling right into the crux beyond starved and ready for more. She had run out of options.
No home. No job. No money. She was running on zero, on fumes. The stale bread in her bag was a dead giveaway, not to mention that she was skin and bones and wasn’t purposely trying to stay that way.
Desperation doesn’t always mean a person is loyal, but after someone has been in the trenches for so long, the hand that helps them up, takes them in, and feeds them will become the hand that inspires trust. For someone like her, who owed me even if she didn’t know it, she would become loyal.
Loyalty was rewarded in the world I lived in.
I’d do for her. She’d do for me.
She had the general idea of things already ingrained in her, even though I hated to think how she got that fucking way.
I’d find out about that. I always did.
Blue was once Marietta Palermo’s favorite color—the same little girl who loved butterflies and coloring books. I’d know if Mariposa Flores’s favorite color was still blue by the time I was done.
Butterflies and coloring books still did it for her. My bet was still on blue.
I’d know if she had nightmares and I starred in them, or if she had forgotten the situation completely. The night at The Club, her body remembered me, even if her mind refused to set the memories free.
I’d learn every scar on her body and hunt down every finger that had ever touched her with evil in mind. I had a multitude of sins to pay for. A few more wouldn’t make a difference when it came time for forgiveness.
