by A. Zavarelli
“See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” I walk over to my bag and retrieve a shot of morphine. “You could have saved yourself a lot of pain.”
“What are you going to do to him?” he whimpers.
“I told you. It’s not my call to make.” I lean down and stab the needle in his arm. “He stole from The Ruin. Actions have consequences, and we all have to pay, no matter how much we may not want to. But you get to go home tonight. You get to see your little girl, your wife, and your son. Life will go on, and with some luck, you may forget this ever happened.”
“What did you give me?” he whines.
“Just a little morphine.” I remove the restraints from his wrists. “You’re going to thank me for it when I move these joints back into place.”
2
Alessio
Luca drives me to my penthouse in downtown Manhattan with an efficiency that reminds me why I pay him so well. He navigates New York traffic with ease, never flustering over the permanent chaos that seems to reside on the streets here. The journey is quiet, as I prefer it, and I take the time to review the candidates I will be interviewing this afternoon. Their names blend together, and my eyes blur as I read through the files, complete with background checks. I have no particular draw toward any of them, but I won’t until I meet them in person. I prefer to keep socialization to a minimum in my personal life, but my gut instincts about people are next to none. A side effect of my trade, perhaps. Regardless, I have no doubt I will decide within seconds if any of the candidates are trustworthy. And if they are not, I will have to contend with Gwen when I return home empty-handed.
I lean my head back against the seat and close my eyes briefly, not to rest but to clear my mind. Typically, I would have a long, punishing session in my home gym after an assignment, but there isn’t time today. I have contracts to review and two additional meetings with clients I must contend with before concluding my business in New York. For the sake of efficiency, I intend to carry out both contract killings this evening, and still have time to spare to study the new file on my desk before my 6 a.m. appointment in the morning.
“Mr. Scarcello, would you like me to wait?” Luca asks.
I blink and glance at the tower outside. My penthouse is in the heart of Tribeca, and though I do not feel a particular kinship with New York, I can appreciate the location and the views.
“Take a break, Luca,” I tell him. “I’ll be ready at three o’clock.”
“As you wish, sir.”
He waits for me to exit, then whisks the car away as the doorman to the building greets me with a respectful bow.
“Dominus et Deus, Mr. Scarcello.”
I nod in return and make my way over to my private elevator. This building is owned by Imperium Valens Invictum, also known as The Society, and only members are residents. But among them, I am the only Sovereign Son. The title means I am a descendant of one of the founding families. Our organization is powerful and secretive. We have our own hierarchy, rules, and expectations, and we are self-governed. Our members span the entire world and include influential figures in politics, religious institutions, finance, tech, law, and government organizations. The list goes on. In the pecking order, my family name means I belong to the upper echelon, which dictates that other members regard me highly. They often greet me with this common phrase as a sign of respect, but sometimes I wish they didn’t acknowledge me at all.
I use a biometric keypad to gain access to the elevator, and it whisks me directly up into the gallery of my apartment. The space is bright and airy, with floor-to-ceiling windows and panoramic views of the skyline spanning the Brooklyn and Manhattan bridges and both rivers. It meets my requirements for when I’m in the city, including a library with a view of the Empire state building, a lap pool, a state-of-the-art kitchen, and a children’s playroom. I usually find myself contained to the office during my time here, which is where I head today.
After several hours of reviewing my contracts and making preparations for the busy night ahead, I take leave to the kitchen. I retrieve the chef’s prepared meal for my lunch, eating quickly and grimacing at my watch. As I suspected, there will not be time to push my body’s limits in the gym. I’m only halfway through the salad when Luca buzzes to announce he’s arrived.
Discarding the rest of the meal, I take a few mints from my pocket and suck on them as I step into the elevator. The descent is quick, and the journey to the coffee shop even quicker, given the proximity I chose. Luca idles at the curb and tells me he’ll wait nearby for me. I thank him and step out of the car, adjusting my tie. It’s only at that point I notice the speck of blood on my shirt cuff. Annoyance at the blemish has me trying to scrub it away to no avail, so with a sigh, I head inside.
A Society daughter greets me at the door with a shy smile. “Mr. Scarcello. So nice to see you again.”
I dip my head, avoiding eye contact with her. “Please thank your father for lending me the space today.”
“Of course. It’s our pleasure. Would you like me to stay and serve drinks while you conduct your business?”
I consider it and decide for my stomach’s sake that I would enjoy a coffee, but also because the type of beverage a person chooses speaks volumes to their character. I want to set the tone, and then I want to take my candidate’s choices onboard in the decision-making process. Every minute detail matters.
“That would be appreciated. I’ll have a true macchiato.”
“As you wish.” She curtsies before me, and I try to hide my grimace as she hurries off to do my bidding.
I sit at a table in the back and glance over the files one more time, committing the names and photographs to memory. There are already a handful I’m quite certain I won’t be considering, and I intend to dismiss them without delay when my gut confirms my suspicions.
The barista approaches with my macchiato and sets it down with an eagerness that betrays her motivations for volunteering her services today. As a Society daughter, she would be expected to offer regardless, but I suspect she envisions me much like I treated my client this morning. A prize fish to be hooked, captured, and displayed like a trophy.
“Can I get you anything else, sir?” she asks. “A croissant, perhaps? Or a cannoli?”
“I’m fine, thank you.” I dismiss her without a glance, not interested in sending mixed signals. It would break the hearts of many Society daughters to know I don’t intend to marry. Though they aren’t interested in me for my shining personality, but rather the status of my last name.
Five minutes pass before the first applicant arrives. Her sickly-sweet perfume blows into the coffee shop when she opens the door, standing there open-mouthed, gawking at the empty space uncomfortably.
“I wasn’t sure it was open,” she says, lingering near the door as she eyes me off like the grim reaper.
Her instincts are telling her I’m a predator, a threat, and she’d be right. I can’t have someone with no backbone looking after Nino.
“Are you Tiffany?” I inquire.
She clears her throat and jerks her chin. “Y-yes. That’s me.”
“You may leave,” I tell her. “You don’t have the necessary qualifications for the position.”
She stares at me in disbelief for a few brief seconds before relief makes her shoulders sag. Without a word, she turns and goes. And so, the process continues. Some make it through the door. Some even sit down and order a drink. Pumpkin spiced lattes, Frappuccino’s, and ridiculous over-the-top drink orders that are far too complicated for my liking. I dismiss one before she can even spit out half of her mile-long list of requirements for a caffeinated beverage. The others that make it to the table have their own set of flaws. Too meek. Too flirtatious. Too much perfume. Not enough experience. Unrealistic job expectations. Questions about the local nightlife in my city and if they’ll be drug tested. It goes on and on until my mind is sufficiently numb, and I’m beginning to agree that Gwen was, in fact, right. This is never going to work.
The door opens, and the last candidate comes through, but I’m already prepared to dismiss her. She was on the discard pile before she even arrived, because something about her background check seemed to prickle my senses. I couldn’t pinpoint it, but something felt off. It was too squeaky clean for my liking.
“You may leave,” I tell her without even glancing up. “I’m done conducting interviews for the day.”
I expect to hear her footfalls as she returns to the door, but instead, she approaches the table. I can feel her gaze on me, and it irritates me when I’m forced to repeat myself.
“I said I’m done. No more interviews.”
She still doesn’t move away, but I can hear her rifling around in her purse. I glance at her shoes out of curiosity, noting the black flats and gray tights that remind me of a schoolmarm. The slow perusal of her body only confirms my suspicion. She’s wearing a navy-blue skirt suit that favors the side of modesty, and her dark, cocoa brown hair is pulled up into a tight bun, matching the tense expression on her face. I take note of her features with equal parts annoyance and disdain. She possesses all the natural characteristics of beauty, though she’s done nothing to highlight them. Unlike the other women, it doesn’t appear that she’s wearing much makeup, if any. Her heart-shaped face has a youthful glow that belies an innocence I’m not equipped to deal with. Her lips are pillowy, and there’s a faint dimple on her chin that makes her appearance unique. But her positive attributes are offset by the shapeless clothing and silk neck scarf that reminds me of the housewives in the Hamptons.
I don’t know what she’s still doing here or why she’s not speaking, but she doesn’t seem to have any trouble maintaining my gaze. It’s somewhat surprising and a little disturbing. Most women seem to sense that I’m not the type of man you want to look directly in the eye. I’m not the man you want to challenge. But she is either too bold for her own good or too reckless to care.
She flips her phone screen around to show me a note she’s typed out, capturing my curiosity.
You agreed to an interview. I am here for said interview, and I intend to follow through. So, please do me the courtesy of keeping your end of the deal. I don’t appreciate my time or effort being wasted.
My lip tips up slightly as I read the words twice to ensure I’m not imagining them. I’m not sure why, but I find myself even more intrigued by who this creature could possibly be. On paper, she was the most boring of all the candidates, but she has managed to capture my interest in person.
“By all means.” I gesture to the chair across from me. “Take a seat. I wouldn’t want to waste your time.”
She sits down primly and nods at me before sliding a file folder across the table. Five seconds ago, I was eager to leave, but right now, I’m in no rush to plow through her file. I find myself wanting to know her secrets the way I know my clients’. What are her fears? Her insecurities? More importantly, what trauma gave her such a steely backbone?
The barista approaches again and asks for her drink order, and I arch an eyebrow as she types out another note in the same app. This time, she uses the text-to-voice feature to place her order.
“One espresso macchiato coming right up.” The barista makes a note of it and walks away.
I make a careful study of the woman I know as Natalia from her file. Natalia Cabrera.
“Do you not speak?” I ask her bluntly.
Her shoulders tense as she stabs a finger at the file folder before me as if to indicate the answers are all in there. I still don’t open it. Instead, I take the opportunity to study the visible scars on her hand and the slim forearm peeking out of her jacket sleeve.
“What are the scars from?” I lean back against my chair and observe her.
Her eyes narrow, and her fingers move rapidly over the keys on her phone screen as she writes a response.
How does that pertain to the job?
Her resistance amuses me on some level, mostly because I am not accustomed to it. A Society daughter would answer my question enthusiastically without delay. She is most certainly not a Society daughter.
“It pertains to the job because you’ll be working closely with my son. I need to know if you’re reckless or dangerous.”
Her brows draw together as if what I said bothers her in some way, but she answers me regardless.
They are from a car accident when I was a child. I was not driving. I’m sure you saw the records in the background check you performed.
“Indeed.” I allow my eyes to roam over her freely as the barista delivers her drink, interrupting us briefly. “I read your file, and I’m inclined to wonder how someone could manage to live such an ordinary life. Not a single parking ticket. No indiscretions to speak of on your school reports. No significant relationships in your life. It’s all so … unremarkable.”
She seems to understand I’m testing her, but her gaze doesn’t waver. Her eyes are clear, her pulse steady. When she writes her reply, there isn’t so much as a hint of deception on her features.
My life may not be remarkable, but it has served me well.
I find it an odd thing to say, and despite her assurances, I still can’t quell this strange feeling in my gut. There’s something peculiar about her. Something mysterious and secretive, and yet, something balancing. I find her honesty refreshing and her stillness even more so. Her inability to speak would serve my needs well, maintaining a quiet home and ensuring no secrets might accidentally spill from her lips, but would Nino like her?
I open the file before me, scanning the typewritten cover letter. She introduces herself as Natalia Cabrera, aged twenty-seven years, with a degree in early child development and education. She has experience in Montessori schooling and references from her time as a nanny. Under the list of her extensive skills, she notes that she is fluent in sign language and can learn and teach other languages as preferred. She is also certified in first aid and CPR. At the end of the cover letter, she notes that she has vocal cord paralysis from damage to the nerve. She makes a point to state that she is unable to speak verbally but can communicate with children through text-to-voice, writing, or teaching ASL if permitted. It all sounds well and good, but I am not certain how Nino might feel about this style of communication.
When I look up at her again, I catch her staring at the blood stain on my sleeve and the faintest hint of her pulse increasing. I wait a moment to see if she chooses to acknowledge it, but she doesn’t. I decide it’s better that way. I suspect some part of her already realizes this is not the typical business arrangement, and I want that cemented in her mind. If or when I allow her to enter my world, she won’t leave until I give her the option. That is if I give her the option.
“I’d like to do a second interview tomorrow.” I close the file. “I’ll send a car to pick you up.”
She shakes her head, typing out a quick reply.
I can make my own way.
I cock my head to the side. “That’s unlikely, considering it will be at an undisclosed location.”
I watch for any signs of fear, but she does not move. The only noticeable tightening is in the crease between her brows. If she were a smart woman, one who trusted any reasonable instinct, she would tell me no. But for once, I find that I don’t want a rational interaction. I want her to pass this test and every additional one I throw at her from now on. She returns to the app on her phone, her fingers moving elegantly as she writes her answer.
Very well. I’m staying at the Paramount Hotel.
“10 a.m.” I rise from my seat and peer down at her. “Don’t be late.”
3
Natalia
I step out into the cool New York morning, discreetly pausing to check my reflection in the glass behind me. The sun isn’t quite peeking through the clouds today, and it feels as overcast as my current mood. My black skirt suit is probably the nicest one I own, but somehow it still feels like a paper sack on my body. I’m a mess of nerves, but I am determined not to show it.
I can
never show it.
With a mournful sigh, I decide that I look professional enough. But what does it matter? For all I know, this man could be luring me to my inevitable death. If I didn’t have everything riding on this interview, there’s no way I would have agreed to let his driver pick me up.
This is a power play by my future employer. A test. It was evident in his eyes as he considered me yesterday, measuring me up like one might examine their produce. He was looking for bruises and weak spots. Signs of malignant decay just beneath the surface. I couldn’t hide the obvious flaws on my skin, or my inability to converse with him as he would probably prefer, but I am well acquainted with hiding the deepest rot. The type I can’t cut out.
Alessio Scarcello is a dangerous man. If my gut didn’t already know it, my research was confirmation enough. There is nothing to be found in his name. Not an address. A phone number. A social media page. He may as well be a phantom. I would be naïve to believe he’s not involved in a deeper criminal network. That’s why he demands secrecy. A private car to whisk me off to an undisclosed location, just as the job placement required a willingness to work anywhere in the world. New York is not his home, and if I do get this position, I will be working in another undisclosed location. Any sane person would run, but I’m willing to sacrifice my sanity in exchange for what I desire.
A black Rolls Royce pulls up to the front entrance, and a driver gets out, his gaze immediately moving to mine.
“Miss Cabrera, my name is Luca. I am here to drive you to your interview.”
I swallow and nod, doing a quick once over of the man. He’s an older man, fifties perhaps, but he’s very large and visibly strong, a detail I can never miss. A detail that always sets off those alarm bells in my mind that warn me to flee, to survive. I have learned to ignore them, so instead, I put one foot stiffly in front of the other as he opens the back door for me.
