Arianna
Chapter One
The thunderous sound of boots retreating from the room echoes long after it’s empty. As the front door slams closed, the house falls silent, eerily quiet. I close my eyes. Taking a deep breath, I exhale the tension that exacerbates the situation, then inhale deeper. I roll my shoulders with a shuddering sigh as my neck cracks. My eyes open, and I look around, blinking, trying to clear the fog and shift my mindset, taking in my new reality for the first time. My new life, my new world.
Staring at the carnage in front of me, a small smile crosses my lips as I look at what I’ve achieved. My father, dead, facedown in a pool of his own blood, pathetic even until the end.
Taking in the beauty of it all, my father’s right-hand man, my abuser, my ex, Alfredo Conti, sprawled on his back, laid out like some kind of Picasso. His twisted body, limp and unmoving. Crimson delicately speckles the surrounding furniture, glistening against the floors like delicate flecks of glitter. Larger pools seep across the surface—my art I’ve etched into Alfredo’s face. The smile he deserved, so distorted across his sullen features, hismuddy eyes wide and dull, lifeless. But the more I look, they’ve never looked so alive; the scarlet tracks form tears as they creep across his cheeks and down his neck, soaking into the collar of his shirt.
He wears the face I left him with. Crosses gouged into his vacant eye sockets, and the grimacing smile I gave him. Beautifully slashed from the corners of his mouth to his ears, the eerie grin twists across his features, making my heart pound. I did it. I’ve taken them both out. I’ve reclaimed my life.
I take a step back and then another, basking in the exquisite scene before me. I pull out my phone and snap two pictures. Macabre? Perhaps, but memories need to be cherished and immortalised. This moment, although burned into my soul, is a moment I never want to forget. The beginning.
I now need to take it all. Everything will be mine. It’s my birthright. My legacy.
A moment of realisation washes over me. No one has entered the house. Where are the staff? Why haven’t Father’s men come back? I snatch up a few of the weapons lying around and storm through into the kitchen. I can hear mumbled grunts and groans coming from the pantry, and mild thumping filters through the door. Clutching my knife, I tentatively click the door open and reach inside, tugging at the light cord.
Wide eyes blink from the sudden brightness, bodies squirm as I open the door further to find them all tied, bound, gagged, and unceremoniously piled on top of each other. I drag Marianne out of the pile and slice the ropes, ripping off the tape across her mouth. She throws her arms around me and hugs me tight. I pull back from her.Her lip quivers as I stare into her red-rimmed eyes. She swallows and nods, stepping back.
“Thank the Lord,” she murmurs.
I nod and give her a curt smile. Emotions won’t help my cause. These people are about to meet the real me.
“We heard the gunshots. We heard the shouting,” Marianne whispers.
“Who put you in here?” I snarl out, staring around the tight space in the pantry.
Her eyes flick to the exits before she trains her gaze back on me. “Alfredo and his men.”
His men?“Who don’t we trust?” I snap. She lives and breathes this house. She knows them on a more personal level than I ever will. Their inner demons, their struggles and strife—she will know it all.
She turns and stares at the faces. Their eyes widen as she glances at them all, one by one, assessing, taking them each in individually and basing her decision on every factor she can fathom. Turning back to me, she says with firm confidence, “Sophia, Manuel, Josiah.”
They try to scramble, to move away from me, trying to disappear further into the pantry. But bound as they are, they just flop around pathetically on the floor. I lean in.
“Isabella, Elena, Christopher, Bianca, you have a decision to make. You can leave right now, with no repercussions, or you can stay and work for me. If you choose to stay, I expect your loyalty, and you will answer to Marianne. Choose now.” I step forward, tearing the tape from their lips.
They wince and stare at each other, willing one of the others to be the first to decide.
Isabella, the youngest, stutters out, “I’d like to stay, Miss Bianchi. I… I don’t have anywhere else to go. I”—she stutters out a breath before continuing on her train of thought—“please, I want to stay, I’ll work hard. I’ll be loyal. I promise.”
I give her a single nod and cut her free. Marianne pulls her to her feet. Her breath catches between sobs as she rubs her wrists.
“I can go? You’d let me leave?” Christopher asks suspiciously. I nod, but he eyes me dubiously, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“Marianne, untie him.” She makes light work of it. Tugging at the ropes and releasing his bound hands, he stands cautiously, glaring down at me.
I step back and gesture to the door. “Thank you, Christopher, you’re free to go.”
He doesn’t need telling twice. He scowls at me and at Marianne, and then he bolts, making a run for it. The only sound audible ricocheting off the high ceilings is the squeaking of his shoes as he sprints for the door.
The other two sniffle out in unison that they’ll stay, and they’re cut free, too. “Bring them out into the kitchen,” I bark, and Marianne nods. I turn and step out into the space next to the island. Sophia, Manuel, and Josiah are pulled to their knees and left in front of me—still bound and gagged, at my mercy.
The women who decided to stay need to see what I’m capable of. I tug the gun from my back and point it straight between Sophia’s eyes. I pull the trigger. There’s a squeal from behind me, but I don’t turn. The body slumps before it thumps to the ground.
I move on to Manuel.Bang. And then Josiah.Bang. I slowly slide the knife back out of my boot and step over Sophia’s limp body; her face is twisted in shock. I lean down and thrust the blade into her soulless eyes. The crosses I gouge are symbolic of a memory that they all chose not to see the real me until it was too late—and now they’ll never see anything, ever again.
I mutilate her smile to match Alfredo’s—fake, untrustworthy, just like the people who pretended around me. Slashing across her cheeks, I smile down at my calling card, tug my phone from my pocket, and click a photo. I step over to the others, turn, and disfigure them too, taking a picture of each when my handiwork is complete.
