Chapter 1
CLAIM YOURBOX SET
Andy Carter
It’s been a whole week, and I still can’t get used to the damn smell. Although, for the first couple of days, it had been the constant noise that had bugged me. The screams, the gunshots, the regular wail of police sirens. Then the pitiful moans of those who can’t get their hands on their next fix. I need a fix of my own right now. A fix that will only be satisfied by the sight of Mark Whitlock’s blood on my hands.
Stop it, Andy!
Control. I need control. It’s the only way I’ll succeed in this goal. The goal that has me stuck in this place.
It’s just temporary.
I keep reminding myself of this. But it’s hard when I’m surrounded by so much misery. There’s a woman down the hall who has a baby who cries all night. I’m pretty sure she’s leaving the poor kid alone while she goes out to turn tricks. Everything in me is screaming to call Child Protection Services. For now, I’ve been easing my conscience by leaving anonymous bundles of diapers and formula outside the door every other morning. I can only hope she’s giving them to the kid and not selling it all for drug money.
The place is a dump. Rats and roaches seem to have their own lease on some of the rooms – I’m pretty sure they’re subletting mine. Getting anything done on the narrow linoleum shelf that’s supposedly my “kitchen” area requires sweeping live creatures off with a broom first. So maybe I sweep with too much force. Maybe I smash those bugs with the rage that has simmered beneath the surface from the moment I walked away from that wedding. A rage that has me picturing Mark’s face as I smash and crush. Just thinking of it now has my skin flushing with anger. I force the feeling down. I have to stay calm.
Back to the stench. The combination of stale cabbage and human urine blends with the rot that rises from the dumpsters outside. I haven’t seen them emptied since I arrived. Walking up the stairs means negotiating pools of vomit and piss, often with people lying in them. People who’ve stopped caring about anything but their addictions. A bit like me, I guess. So I step over them as I climb. No chance of grabbing the elevator to my fifth-floor apartment – that hasn’t been in operation since I arrived, and even if it was, I wouldn’t risk it. If it didn’t drop like a stone, I might end up stuck inside with a lunatic.
On the upside, it’s unlikely that anyone will ever come looking for me here. The tenement block has been pretty much taken over by junkies and crack whores. At first, I stuck out like a sore thumb in the plain sweats and sneakers I’d arrived in. They’d seemed like a good choice when I left the hotel the morning of my “wedding” – hair pulled back beneath a baseball cap, dark glasses beneath it. I’d needed to sneak past the bodyguards and lay low, till they stopped looking for me. A day later, I’d found this shithole and realized within minutes that my Nikes might get me killed. At the time, it had almost been tempting. To die…
Leaving Mateo had hurt.
So fucking much.
God, I’m so sorry.
But it had to be done. And I still can’t forget what I saw in his study that day. The whiteboard with my family history plotted out on it like a freaking chess game.
He fucking lied to me. Right from the start, he’d been lying to me. Even while we were spending days in each other’s arms. While he was playing my body like a goddamn violin…
Lies. All fucking lies.
“It was just for show, idiot!” I mutter to myself, wiping down the surface of my coffee table where rats have scattered droppings. Although I guess “coffee table” is a bit of a stretch. It’s a box with a slab of plyboard on it. I set down a chipped mug filled with instant coffee and sit on the solitary armchair to eat my morning meal.
“Breakfast of champions!” I chuckle as I peel the wrapper off a Twinkie and take a bite, grimacing at the sweetness. Food choices are limited. The refrigerator doesn’t work, and it’s impossible to stock up on groceries. I’m pretty sure if I arrived with an armload of fresh produce, my place would get broken into anyhow. The lock on the front door could be jimmied in about thirty seconds. I put a bolt and security chain on the inside after the first sleepless night. Not that it would stop anyone desperate enough to get in.
And everyone around here is desperate, on some level. Even me.
I’m going to kill Mark Whitlock.
The man is going to die, and I’m the one who’s going to deliver the death blow. Not the Caraldis and their mob justice. Not Mateo and his warped idea of the law.
Me. I’m going to do it. Andrea Carter is going to play judge, jury, and executioner to that fucking cunt.
He’s going to die…the way he killed my brother. Knowing there’s no hope. Knowing he has nowhere to turn. Knowing it was me.
But it will be worse. So much worse. I’m going to carve him up like a turkey. Gut him and make him watch as I unravel his intestines. Maybe I’ll strangle him with them. Or use his bloody entrails to string him up. Whatever I do, he’s going to suffer. Oh, God, he’s going to suffer before he goes. Before I—
A sharp knock on the front door rattles it on its hinges, and I jump so abruptly I almost drop my coffee.
Guilty conscience much?
It’s not like anyone can hear my thoughts here. Hell, even if I said it out loud, nobody would care.
“Miz Jones! Bella Jones! Rent’s due!” The hoarse voice of the landlord yells the fake name I gave when I booked the place. Another bang on the door has me on my feet, fumbling into my bra. When I’d paid the deposit last week, he’d raised an eyebrow at the crisp bills I’d handed over. Now I’ve taken care to make sure the next batch looks more well-handled. I’ve got a wad of cash in each shoe for that purpose too. Probably safer there anyhow.
“Miz Jones! I know you’re in there!” he yells again.
