“Do I amuse you?” I hiss.
He sniffs almost haughtily. “I’ll tell Fly you liked the present. The last one you’ll ever receive from him if you make him cry…”
Is he for real? Marco is shorter than me but equally muscled. If I take him by surprise, the fucker won’t have time to grab his gold knuckles or his gun.
“You’re all about Italian shit, but you carry a Glock,” I try to divert the conversation. And succeed.
“Your Beretta is made in China,” he retorts.
No, it isn’t. “I can still fucking deck you with it.”
“Shit, you’re insufferable. Obnoxious motherfucker!”
“The rude-as-fuck misanthrope doesn’t disappoint.” I glower at him, before looking at Seb, who’s now talking to one of his men.
“Being around an asshole like you turned me this way,” he grunts. The banter is cut short by Seb joining us once again.
“Lieutenant Casper is going to keep the body’s discovery to himself for a couple of days while checking similar past cases.That will give us time to find out what is going on. Marco, take the body to Doc and let him examine it. See if he can find some clues we didn’t.” He turns to me. “Luca, ask around about the pendant you found on the ground, hopefully someone saw it before.” He hands it back to me.
I nod. “What about the youngest Enzino?”
“Do it tomorrow. Remember, make it look like he took off on his own. Do you need extra men since you are down one?” Seb asks.
Santo, the last member of my crew, is with Fly. Marco insisted on always having a man on his fiancé after he got kidnapped. So I gave him one of mine.
“No. Jeff and Vince are enough.” I’ll take care of the brat personally. No need for help.
“Luca, sometimes you can get more with the carrot than the stick.” Seb’s last words before he takes off don’t stay with me for long.
I can feel it. This is a pivotal moment with Arturo Enzino at the starting point. My vendetta has just begun.
Chapter Two
ART
“Should Arturo Enzino just run away?”
My words hang in the air, unanswered. Since I’m the only one here, it would be creepy as fuck if I heard a reply. I’ve been talking to myself for as long as I can remember. My loud brain has always needed an extra outlet. I do have the best conversations…with myself. They help me straighten my thoughts, especially when those little fuckers are popping up from every angle.
“Enzinos don’t run away,” I recite my father’s motto. Ugh. Internal scream. “Especially in these heels.”
I look down at my patent red leather boots. They are my lucky ones. Never been shot down while wearing these babies, especially when matched with my black velvet mini skirt. I do a half spin to enjoy the view of my sweet ass in it. But I’m not feeling it.
I left the dance floor and went inside the restroom to clear my head. I keep remembering the talk I had with my father this morning. Or should I call it a monologue since it ended before I could even speak?
Jack Enzino has always been the reason why I hide my true self. He’d argue that being weak, stupid, pathetic, and insolent is my true character, when I’ve been shackling my real self since I was a kid. I’ve acted exactly as he expected from the product of a one-night stand with a prostitute. The core of my existence is a lie, and repressing and lying are two skills I’ve developed rather quickly, becoming quite the master at them.
After this marriage deal nonsense, though, I’ve been waiting for the right time to stab my old man in the chest…or the back—I’m not picky, anywhere would do. But since it wouldn’t be the first time I try to hurt him, the repercussions would be way too much to bear. Plus, Aurora Coretti, my future wife, and I made a deal ourselves. So here lies the conundrum. Should I stab him anyway and run? Or marry Aurora and keep hiding my true self?
I choose option number three: beam me up, Jesus, or…down, Lucifer. I pout, checking my eyeliner in the mirror.
I hear the bathroom door opening, and then the reflection of a man I saw checking me out on the dance floor suddenly appears behind me. He’s handsome, tall, with big feet and big hands. He’s probably a two-star meal—in my personal sex a-la-carte guide—I don’t usuallytastemen below three stars, but maybe if I let him fuck me against this sink, the post-nut clarity could elucidate some of my thought processing?
“Hey, beautiful. Want to get a look at a real beast?” He grabs his dick over his jeans and proceeds to lick his thin lips while leering at my ass.
Drunk loser alert! Only a douche uses such a pick-up line. Two stars my ass. He has none. He’s…what’s the equivalent of no stars? A black hole that sucks them all.
“A look is all you’ll get from me until you shrivel and die,” I tell him without turning around.
