Page 1 of Darkest Kiss

Chapter One

Rian

Two weeks before a green-eyed stranger bought me at auction, I was closing up my parents' bookshop and pretending my life was fine.

“Hmm.” The older man peers up at the bookshelf. What book he’s looking for, I can’t say. But he lifts his cell phone to light the titles.

Fair. This shop has always been dim and drafty.

I duck out of the tight space between the cash register and another set of bookshelves. My store has a surprising number of them, all crammed in next to each other with just enough space between them for a large person to fit. Like the smell of old books, the odd placement of the shelves is part of the charm of the place.

My parents arranged the shelves like this and I keep them exactly the same, in their honor. Maybe slightly dustier than when they ran it, though.

“Can I help you find anything else, Dr. Amunson?”

“Ah, no.” The man turns to me with a genial smile. “I’m just prolonging my visit. This is the last stop before I go back home.”

“I see.” I fold my hands behind my back. “Take your time.”

He waves his wand. “No, no. I know it’s almost closing time. Here.”

He hands me his purchase, an older book with genuine black leather bindings. GREAT LIVES OF NORTHEASTERN SEA BIRDS. I ring it up without comment, though I’m wondering how good a dated book on wildlife could possibly be. After bagging it, I hand it over.

"Thanks for coming in." I smile at him. "I'll see you next week, Dr. Amunson."

"Thank you, Noemi. I'm hoping that the book I ordered on the lives of arctic foxes is here by then." He pushes his glasses up his nose and takes the book he purchased.

"Let's hope." I walk him out the front door of the tiny bookshop, locking up after him. Dr. Amunson always comes in right before the shop closes. Normally, I wouldn't mind. He's a true book lover and a reliable customer to boot. Plus, his endless fascination with deeply researching animals one book at a time helps keep Poor Yorick Books open.

But today, his lateness is going to make me late, something I try to avoid at all costs. I like to be punctual.

It keeps my anxiety at a minimum.

Hurrying through my closing duties, I gather my jacket and purse and step outside. The moment I do, I'm nearly barreled down by a middle-aged man in a very expensive suit. He's about my height, not fat but thickened in the middle so his gut strains his white shirt. He shoots me a venomous look as he passes.

Leo Vitelli is one of the Vitelli men that have taken over the offices above my shop. My Uncle Marc once told me that he's important. To stay out of his way and keep my eyes on my own business.

That's a funny way of saying that Leo is in the mafia.

"Will you watch where you're going?" he snaps.

"Sorry," I say. "So sorry, Mr. Vitelli."

Leo sniffs, dismissing me, and heads around the corner. Going, presumably, to the office. I don't know what he does up there, but I often hear raised voices and see people coming and going from the office all day.

Pulling a face at Leo's retreating form, I head down the street the other way. I check the time on my phone. Nonna's, the little Italian place where I'm meeting my aunt and uncle for dinner, is only a few blocks away. The food isn't exactly imaginative — baked ziti, chicken parmesan, fettucine with any kind of breaded meat you could ask for. But the salads and bread are freshly made. So I don't mind that my family has chosen Nonna's as our meeting place since I moved out last year.

I break into a jog, trying to be mindful of the fact that I'm wearing a black dress and ballet flats. I dressed up just a hair for tonight's dinner.

I thought that moving out from my aunt's would mean more freedom and that maybe I would make a few friends. But so far, my only friends are customers like Dr. Amunson, people I see once a week at most, come to check up on their book requests. I guess it's my own fault; my panic disorder and the anxiety surrounding it make things difficult. When I start to contemplate doing any activity that will make me friends, I’m always getting stuck in the planning stages. Putting myself out there seems insurmountable.

After jogging three blocks, I'm a little winded. I really should try to start going to Jazzercise classes at the YMCA again. I pause when I see Nonna's across the street. It's in a two-story brick building with a very crooked fire escape barely holding on above the restaurant's sign. I glance left and right a couple of times.

It seems clear, but after my parents were mowed down by a hit-and-run driver a few years ago, I'm extremely cautious.

As I wait a few beats, I see him.

My follower.