“Bianca!”
I blink at Mr. Hamilton seated at his desk. He’s not on the floor covered in blood.
“Whatever has gotten into you, fix it,” he snaps, his face free of keyboard dents.
What the hell?
My pulse races in my throat. I check my hands once more for blood. This job is going to kill me or force me to catch a body.
“Take the rest of the day off. We’ll discuss your little outburst tomorrow.”
Outburst?
Little?
He’s lucky Viola Harris, Mama Vee, raised me. God rest her soul. Otherwise, I’d be reaching back into my hallucinations like Freddy to pull out the Bianca who will air this bitch out.
Be humble but nobody’s doormat, Mama Vee instilled in me.“If they won’t appreciate your presence, bless them with your absence.”
I draw a deep breath and exhale. “I’m resigning from my position, effective immediately. This position, this company, no longer aligns with my values.”
Reality squared up to pop me in the face. If I’m daydreaming about using my boss for batting practice, it’s time to go. The professional in me is yelling at me for quitting without another job. The other part of me—the one so damntiredof being sick and tired—knows deep down there’s something better. Bending to fit into a place that doesn’t value or respect me is what I’ve always done, because it’s what I thought I had to do.
“You’re emotional. Take the day.” Mr. Hamilton dismisses me for his computer. “Before you go, order a few of those crepe cakes from that place. Lex’s birthday is tomorrow. You should do something.”
All I do is stare. He wants me to get a cake for his mistress?
Peace and professionalism have left the room. We’ll figure out the bills.
“You know what? You and everyone else here can kiss my entire ass,” I say on my way to the door. “Not the corner. Not the crack. The whole thing, open wide.”
Fuck this place and that damn cake!
Chapter 2
Gutting a Rat
Salvatore
“Please, sir. There’s been a misunderstanding.”
Sharp metal scrapes my fingertips. I pick up the seven-inch filet knife from my collection and lean against the table.
Franco’s eyes double in size. They shift from me to Andrea. He’s standing in the corner with his legs crossed and a stigghiola pressed to his lips.
Slurp.
“Want some privacy?” I ask. Andrea sucks on the meat like he didn’t inhale half of the roasted octopus my chef prepared for tonight’s dinner service.
“My apologies, boss.” He smirks with a nod toward the knife in my hand, like I need a cue to release someone’s soul from their body.
Testa di minchia.
If we hadn’t grown up together, I’d string him up next to Franco. No one tests me and lives to see the next day. Andrea is the only exception. He’ll push, but only so far. Friend or not, I’ll shoot his ass and not think twice.
I cut my eyes at him and the goofy smile lifting his cheeks. The fishing industry builds a tolerance for blood and guts, but I’m not eating skewered intestines in a kill container.
The chains suspending Franco in the air rattle as he struggles in the restraints cutting into his wrists. Days in confinement with no food or running water cling to his skin in a thick odor.
