by Sadie Black
"The better question is, 'Who am I talking about?'. I'm not going to make you guess though, Luka. I don't play games, and I don't appreciate being played. I'm sure you don't, either."
For a man who claimed to be so forthcoming, Vittore was doing a piss-poor job of getting to the point. In the reflection of the window, Luka caught sight of himself. His smooth brow was creased with lines from how he scowled, lips tightened into thin lines. The dark of his eyes disappeared against the New York skyline, pallid skin like a ghost rather than a man when caught in the abstract. Luka turned away from the window and looked instead towards his bedroom door. The thick wooden partition was closed, and he doubted anyone listened beyond it.
"No, I don't. So how about you tell me what this is about." The respect he had once had for Vittore had died following his visit to the hospital to see Gino, and he was sure the man could detect the hostility in his tone. Vittore was powerful and unpredictable, but Luka found he didn't care. Were it not for the tightened security around the Don's estate, he would have driven there directly after dropping Ciara off to take him on, man to man.
"An older, wiser, more experienced little birdie sang a song," Vittore announced. "It was a love song, and everyone in this game knows that love is a dangerous thing, Luka. Love makes men do things they later regret. Love makes men blind and stupid. Love is what keeps most men from doing what they need to do truly spread their wings and soar."
Ciara. All at once, Luka's mouth went dry and his heart shot into his throat. What did Vittore want with her? She had no stakes in any of this.
"So your friend, Vittore Lombardo, decided to do his research on the pretty little bird the song was about. Do you know what came up? Don't guess; I'll tell you. The little bird you fell head over heels for is a mockingbird — she's listening to your song, and when she goes home, she sings it out loud for all to hear."
The metaphor was infuriating. At a brisk pace, Luka crossed the room and sank down onto his bed. The sheets were freshly laundered and smelt of cotton. Not even such a basic comfort could qualm his spirits.
"Get to the point. No more birds, no more stories."
"Ciara, your black beauty, is a reporter. She is currently employed by TCD. She came into your campaign headquarters swinging her hips and batting her eyelashes, and now she's leading you by the dick into the inferno. I don't like insincere people, Luka. I don't like it when my friends are friends with insincere people. But, more than any of that, I hate it when my friends think with their dicks instead of their heads. Did she get your phone, Luka? Does she know about us? Because if she did, you've got bigger shit to worry about than the messy breakup that's about to happen."
Could it be true? Luka felt sick, but beyond that, he was incensed. He turned onto his side, staring at the wall as he willed the white-hot flames of his anger to die. Had Ciara been playing him since the beginning?
"No. I kept my phone on me, and when I sleep, I keep it locked up in a drawer. Besides, there's a lock screen. There's no way she got in. No way she knows."
"Then that's one small blessing. Two accidents are much harder to explain away than one, and I'd rather keep you in one piece, anyway. With election day so soon, it would be a shame to have to say goodbye. I am looking forward to a long, profitable friendship with you."
The words were jarring. Luka froze, eyes narrowing as he bit back rage.
"Are you saying you're going to take her out?"
"What I'm saying is that I'm going to take care of your problem for you. I'm glad that you kept our secrets to yourself, or I would have had to take care of you as well."
Static crackled between them. For as angry as Luka was about Ciara's betrayal, he didn't want her dead. Vittore had stunned him into temporary silence, but as soon as he regained his wits, Luka sprang to her defense. What had happened to Gino had shaken him to the core, and he wasn't prepared to deal with the thought of Ciara enduring worse treatment than that. Death wasn't easy and painless when Vittore was involved; she wouldn't go down pretty.
"No. If she really is a reporter, she's just doing her job. You're not going to take her out because of that. She doesn't know about you, so you're going to leave her alone and go on with your life, and she'll go on with hers. She doesn't even know about you." Luka's found himself pleading.
The irritation Luka had detected in Vittore's voice early into the conversation inched further from its cage. Each word dripped cold venom, carefully concealed beneath wicked fangs. Vittore was sprung and ready to lash out.
"Learn your place in the food chain, little sparrow," Vittore uttered. "No one tells me what to do. Do you need to be taught a lesson? Your friend Gino learned his earlier tonight, and my teachers are always looking for new students."
Personally and professionally, Vittore had him by the balls. Luka grit his teeth and held back a scathing reply. For now, until he could figure out a way to get back at Vittore where it hurt, he'd have to lie down and take the abuse. Dragging Gino into this was a reminder of just how deep Vittore had his hand up his ass.
"I'm sorry, Vittore."
"That's a good boy," Vittore praised. "Now lay low, bow out of this, and forget about your exotic pet. You have an election to win."
The call disconnected as soon as Vittore's sentence ended, and as it did, Luka howled out in blind rage. Ciara had meant more to him than any other pretty face, had been the one girl he'd been proud to bring home, and she'd stabbed him in the back. What kind of dirt had she been digging up on him? What was her angle? Was she playing with him like this to break his heart on purpose?
He'd been played for a fool, just as he'd played countless women in the past. Karma had come right back around to bite him hard. All this time she'd been a reporter, and he was clueless. It was time to iron out the facts.
Luka picked himself up from the bed and tucked his phone into his back pocket as he stormed towards the door. Before he told Ciara to skip town, he'd get his answers and find out just how deep her corruption lay.
Next time he'd listen to his father when it came to girls. Next time he'd be more careful, more guarded. If a girl as sweet as Ciara was coldhearted enough to play a woman dying of cancer for a quick buck, then he could trust no one.
* * *
Ciara
Sitting innocuously in its folder, it was just a tiny icon. Harmless. Insignificant. Coded data waiting to be deciphered. So why was it that the very sight of it twisted her stomach into knots of dread?
One o'clock had come and gone, and Ciara still sat before her email client, Killian's email plugged into the recipient spot, attachment browser open. She'd managed to navigate to her story folder before she could no longer continue. Ambition had always driven her forward, but never at the expense of someone else.
TCD was all about celebrity news and gossip, but Luka's freedom was on the line. If she sent the story in and he was arrested, Ciara didn't think she could forgive herself. Luka wasn't that kind of guy. There was another element to the story she'd yet to discover, and until that time happened, she couldn't pass judgment.
Not on the man she loved.
There was no use denying it anymore. From the first time they'd run into each other, she'd been spellbound. As the days wore on, her feelings hadn't faded. It felt early to be thinking about love, but Ciara had kept her heart so guarded in the past that she knew that no simple affection could tear down her walls. Nothing short of love could cause her to feel this way over anyone, and it was time that she came clean to herself and admitted the facts. After all, it was what all good journalists were supposed to do.
Ciara canceled the attachment, then navigated to the folder containing the Belmonte exposé. The story she'd investigated for weeks waited there for her, taunting her still. In one little file, the future of her career in journalism. In one little file, Luka's downfall. Ciara did not waste any more time; while she still had the guts to do so, she deleted the story.
In a few clicks it was gone. Killian could fire her if he wanted
to; with her credentials, she'd find a new agency to write for. Even if she had to leave New York, Ciara knew she'd survive. It was time to re-evaluate her dream.
As she rose to bring her empty coffee mug to the sink, there was a brisk knock on the door. Ciara set the mug on the counter and turned to gaze at the front door from afar. There were few people she knew in New York, and fewer yet who knew where she lived. Out of all of them, none would visit at one in the morning. It had to be Luka, looking for comfort after his visit to the hospital. Reassured, Ciara crossed the unit and took to unlocking the three separate locks installed on the door. As she did, she spoke.
"Luka, next time you want to come over, call me first, okay? Even if it's late. I promise I won't—"
As the last lock gave way, the door burst open from the outside. The thick toe of a boot wedged itself in the doorway, and then the first of two men entered the room. Strangers. Ciara gasped, but found herself unable to scream. All she could do was scramble backwards until she bumped up against her couch.
"So, we was sent here to deliver a little message," the first of the two men said. The second had entered her apartment and closed the door behind him. Both were well over six feet tall with barreled chests and thick arms and legs, corded with muscle. Beefy necks rose into broad jaws, and the matching color of their eyes and hair suggested that the physical similarities ran deeper than coincidence. Ciara had taken self-defense courses, but against two men built as powerful as these two, they were useless.
"Not a message, you dipshit," the second man said. He stood against the doorway, arms folded across his chest. Neither of them wore jackets, cotton v-neck t-shirts fitted tight against their bodies to showcase their impressive physiques.
"Oh, right," the first man said. He rolled some phlegm in the back of his throat, then spat it onto her living room floor. "I forgot, tonight we're supposed to have some fun."
The mafia. It had to be the mafia. How had they found out about the story so quickly? Had Luka noticed the messages she sent to her phone with the pictures of him with the cocaine and the topless girls? After all they'd been through, it broke Ciara's heart to think he'd sent thugs to rough her up over it. Maybe he wasn't the man she thought he was after all. Maybe it really was all an act.
"Do you want money?" she asked, voice quivering. "You can have whatever you want, I don't care. Just don't hurt me."
The man leaning on the door laughed.
"Money? We've got everything we could ever want, babydoll. Unless you've got a quarter of a mil burning a hole in your wallet, we're not interested in any of your money."
Ciara swallowed, shrinking around beside her couch to press her back up against the wall. The first man had grabbed hold of a lamp from the top of her desk and smashed it across the ground. The frame broke, bending like a paper clip, and the glass from the light bulb scattered across the floor. The best Ciara could muster was a squeak as she cowered in fear.
"We're here to make you disappear." A sweep of his arm knocked everything on her desk to the floor. Pencils and pens scattered, and papers went flying. As though it weighed nothing, the man picked up the desk and threw it across the room. The side of it caught the opposite side of the couch from where she stood, and one of the legs splintered upon impact. The goons might not have been the smartest, but they were strong. Ciara didn't want either of them to get any closer.
"Please," she gasped, pressed tight against the wall. She'd yet to change out of the white dress she'd worn to dinner with Luka's parents, and regretted it. In pants her mobility would be that much better. In pants, they'd have one more layer to worry about if they planned on being more than just violent. "Please, let me go. I'll disappear. You'll never hear or see me again, I promise."
"Hmm," the man at the door mumbled. "Tempting. But I'm not sure we'll take you up on that. The boss doesn't give us free reigns like this often, and we want to take advantage."
Were they insane? Each of her breaths was shallow and ragged, as though she'd run a race. Ciara huddled against the wall and began to inch her way towards the corner. There was a window, and even though she was far up, there was a ledge beneath it. Maybe she could skirt around on the outside, like they did in the movies, and escape into another apartment.
"Princess," the first man barked, displeased with her slow attempt at an escape, "where the fuck do you think you're going?"
The chair in front of the desk impacted the wall not two feet to her left, and this time Ciara did shriek. The sound was staccato and wavered as it died. Both men laughed the same ugly laugh.
"You think we're going to let you get out easy? Nah. Not when it's been so long since the last time Vittore let us off our leads. You're gonna stick around, right here, and we're going to have some fun."
The brute advanced from where he stood and hefted the old tube television from its stand. The piece easily weighed two hundred pounds, but he handled it with little strain.
"Boss wants us to make an example out of you, so here's an example of what we're going to do to you. Imagine this television is your head."
A laugh, just as ugly as the first, burst from the man by the door.
"She wishes that the television were her head. That thing's going to be a lot more resistant that her thin little skull of hers."
"Please," Ciara began again, voice shaking, "can't we talk this through? I promise if you let me go, you'll never hear from me again. I'll be as good as dead."
The second man heft the television and released it as it reached its apex. For a moment it was airborne, traveling a short distance away from the goon to come crashing down upon the floor a foot from the tip of his steel toed boots. The screen shattered, glass shards skittering across the floor. Sparks erupted from inside the chassis, and Ciara's eyes shot to the wall socket where the television was plugged in. The cord was stretched tight, the plug teetering by its prongs. The man's eyes followed, and he cussed low under his breath before stomping upon the wire. The plug dislodged.
"You know," he told her, turning the brunt of his anger back towards the television. The sole of his shoe crushed the back paneling, splitting plastic and sending small parts flying. Ciara winced and glanced away; with force like that, he'd split her skull in two, "you're not very fun, Barbie. Most hot little numbers scream and cry and lose their shit, and you..."
"I think we should give her something to cry about," the man leaning against the door said as he advanced on her. Ciara gasped and made a break for the window, but before she could get two steps in, one of the men had grabbed her by the arm.
"Let go!" she cried.
"That's a little better," the man sneered, leaning in so that they were face to face. "Scream for us. His hand squeezed her breast like a vice and tears blurred Ciara's eyes as his other hand reached under her skirt."
"You'd better fucking listen to the lady," a new voice snarled, "or I swear to God, I'll make you wish you had."
That voice. She knew that voice. Ciara's head snapped towards the door to find Luka standing there. He'd already thrown his coat to the floor, and he was pushing the sleeves of his shirt up his arms. Next to the two thugs he was stick skinny, but the vile look of hatred that twisted his features was much more intimidating than the bulk of his body would ever be. It was the look of a man who had nothing to lose, and knew it. The feral glint in his eyes promised pain to whoever dared stand against him.
Luka's hired hand released her, and both men turned to face Luka instead.
"The Belmonte kid," one of them said. "Imagine seeing you here."
Despite the horror of the situation, despite the gravity of facing her own mortality, the sight of Luka stirred rage inside of her. If these were some of the last breaths she would ever take, Ciara would not waste them playing the timid victim. Luka was going to get a piece of her mind.
"I can't believe you," she hissed. "I know who you are, Luka Belmonte. I know what you've done. I thought you were better than this, but here you are sending thugs to my apartment read
y to kill me over a few stupid pictures? Are you fucking serious?"
The corner of Luka's lip lifted in a snarl, and he fixed her with his predatory eyes.
"Shut the fuck up," he hissed back.
Was that really it? Ciara's heart sank. The Luka she'd fallen for, the kind and thoughtful man she thought she knew, was a mask that hid the ugly, corrupted interior.
"If you've had a change of heart, it's too late," she told him, biting back tears. "The damage is done. You sent men to kill me. I can forgive a lot of things, but I can never forgive this."
"Do you listen?" Luka seethed. "Shut up."
Now wasn't the time for a fight. Ciara scowled and looked away, unable to tolerate the sight of him. The goon's hand print still burned on her arm, the fabric of her dress still heated from his palm where he'd grabbed her.
"Get the fuck out of here right now," Luka spat to the two intruders. "Things aren't going to end pretty for you if you don't."
"And who the fuck are you to tell us what to do?" One of them asked, not hesitating to round on Luka. "You'd be wise to let us do what we're here to do and let us deal with the cleanup. You don't wanna piss off the big boss, now do you?"
"I don't give a single shit about Vittore," Luka seethed. "You're going to get out of here right the fuck now, or I'm going to call the number for the cops. And before you get snarky, I'm the prime candidate for mayor in New York; how fast you wanna bet I can get the pigs here if I tell them my life is in danger?"
Heart still racing, anger hitting a plateau, Ciara lifted her head to peek at the two walls of muscle that had forced their way into her apartment. Their backs were to her, but both men looked stiff. There was a lull in the discussion until one of them shook their head.
"Let's get the fuck out of here," he muttered. "Let the Belmonte kid dig his own grave; this isn't over by a long shot."
"Just leave," Luka barked, gesturing wildly towards the door.
Leave the goons did. With nowhere left to look but at Luka, Ciara focused her attention on him once more. The anger that had leveled off piqued. It was time to give him a piece of her mind—
