Chapter 1
I weighed two identical melons in my hands while watching a man in his twenties strut by with his wallet hanging out of his pocket. His oversized Rolex jangled on his wrist as he tilted it. Quickly, I set down the melons and brushed by him.
One moment his wallet was jutting from his perfectly tailored suit pants and the next moment a hundred-dollar bill was in my wrinkled sweatpants. Before he could even notice the weight difference, the wallet was back in his pocket.
That Rolex tempted me. The amount I could pawn it off for would make a dent in this week’s payment to the loan sharks. But it was too risky. A hundred dollars was an amount that man would be unlikely to miss. He’d probably think he’d overpaid his coke dealer, because he’d never suspect someone would snatch his wallet in Williamsburg. Everyone thought they didn’t need to look over their shoulder once a Whole Foods came into a neighborhood.
I gritted my teeth as I visualized swiping the Rolex off his bony wrist. But the last thing I needed right now was to have to deal with the cops when they were no longer under my payroll. Everything had been so much simpler when I could just utter my name, and the cops asked whatIneeded.
Instead, I stepped back into the bodega’s produce section and examined the melons again. Was there even a difference between the two? I could tell the difference between a counterfeit bill and a real bill with hardly a glance: thickness, color, and ridges were some obvious tells. But when I stared at these two melons, for the life of me I couldn’t differentiate between them. It probably also didn’t help that until recently, I’d had a personal chef who handled that shopping.
God, I missed Grace’s soda bread.
Without looking away from the overpriced fruit, I could feel eyes burning into my back. Instinctively, I set down a melon and reached for the knife in my pocket. I stroked the handle for comfort as I glanced up at the mirror that was supposed to keep shoplifters at bay.
Late twenties. Over six feet tall. Armani suit that was filled out by his muscular frame. Square jaw, lightly bronzed skin, a clean shaven face, and lips quirked up into an arrogant smirk. It was a face Iunfortunatelyrecognized from my research. Sebastiano Amato: Underboss of the Amato family. The most powerful of the Italian gangs in New York City. Two bodyguards stood a short distance away, trying to appear as if they weren’t all together.
With a sigh, I set down the other melon. Seriously though, how could you tell what was on the inside of melons? They both appeared good from the outside. But who could tell if they had already begun to inwardly decay while maintaining perfect appearances? Too bad I couldn’t ask Grace. In my father’s typical controlling fashion, he’d evicted me from my penthouse apartment when I left the Irish Mob. And there was rarely gas, let alone a functional kitchen in the places I squatted in now.
I took a few steps towards a coupon dangling from a shelf. The coupon was advertising 50 cents off organic celery. I kept my focus on the coupon as I waited for it. There. The smack of Prada leather loafers against linoleum. Then two more identical steps.
Stepping away from the coupon, I made my way out of the florescent lights of the bodega and into the blindingly bright summer sun. The footsteps stayed in sync with my own as the humid air threatened to suffocate me. God, I wish I could afford to stay somewhere with central air.
Without glancing behind me, I could hear the footsteps maintaining a safe distance as we moved along the increasingly yellowed and cracked sidewalk. First we passed by a vintage store. A woman smoking a cigarette outside glanced disdainfully at my terry cloth sweatpants with sparkly rhinestones on the butt.
I kept my face neutral, so Sebastiano couldn’t judge my reaction to the slight. But internally I was exasperated. A year ago, I would've been wearing a Chanel power suit on my way to scold underperforming men. Now, I didn’t have any reason to wear a suit let alone the ability to afford it.
I ran my finger over my Chanel duffel bag, noticing the threads beginning to come undone. It was the last relic of my previous life. I’d shoved some outfits in it when I’d left behind my old life. The ready-to-wear couture was long since pawned off, but I couldn’t bring myself to let go of the bag.
The three sets of footsteps stayed in sync with me as we moved deeper into Brooklyn. From linoleum to gum dotted sidewalk, the footsteps never lowered their pace. Five minutes later we passed by a Goodwill where I’d stolen the sweatpants I was wearing. Five more minutes later, a bail bond service. Thankfully, I hadn’t had to use their services yet. Another reminder of things I wouldn’t have worried about a year ago.
I moved past a sign exclaiming, “Billy’s the only man you can trust in the bond world.” A cartoon figure that looked like a copyright infringement of the Brawny Man stood with a dollar bill in his hand instead of an ax. Reflecting back from the tinted window was the condescending grey eyes of Sebastiano Amato.
A few blocks farther, and decrepit stores had shifted into dilapidated row houses. I stopped in front of a house with boarded-up windows. I tugged the unlocked door open, and the hinges squeaked as I slammed it behind me.
My eyes adjusted to the darkness of the room, and I didn’t bother trying to flip the switches on. All of the water and electricity in the house had been turned off when it’d been abandoned. And the squatter I’d kicked out of the place certainly hadn’t done anything to improve its habitability.
Leaning against the knife pocked door, I tried to ignore the vague scent of urine permeating the house. Silently, I pulled the .22 out of my waistband and peeked through the surprisingly still in-tact peephole. Sebastiano leaned against the cracked wooden siding, raising an eyebrow in the direction of the peephole as if he knew I was staring at him.
What should I do? His guards were nowhere in sight, but I knew they would be close by. Just waiting for an opportunity to turn the yellowed walls a bright red.
I’d been wondering when this day would come. The day the Amato family finished what they started. I wanted to hide in the house until he left, but I knew I’d just be putting off the inevitable. I stroked the handle of the knife in my pocket for comfort.
If I had to deal with this, I needed to find a way to control this situation. And I knew just having one man instead of all his bodyguards surrounding me would increase my chances. I took another glance at Sebastiano’s casually crossed arms. Something told me this wasn’t a man who was easily controlled.
With a grimace, I kept the gun hidden behind my back as I yanked open the door.
“What do you want?” I growled at him. He quirked an eyebrow, amusement shading his eyes.
“Nice to meet you too, Selene.”
His voice was a deep baritone, but its sound was melodic and almost hypnotizing. That charm wouldn’t work on me, however.
“I can’t say the same,” I said.
“We’ll see if I can change that. But first, why don’t you invite me inside?” he said with a smile that showed off his straight white teeth.
I frowned, so tempted to just slam the door in his face. But I needed to be strategic. “Fine, but you’re bodyguards aren’t invited. Unless you’re too scared of being alone with me.” Heshouldbe scared of being alone with me, I could reach across and snap his neck before he could even blink. He pushed off the concrete siding with an agility that made me second guess that thought.
