by Dee Garcia
I jump out of Mr. Ravenna’s car and run as fast as I can to the doors of Daddy’s job. Gio runs behind me, trying to beat me, but I'm faster. He hates that. He hates that I'm faster, because he's a boy, and boys think they're supposed to be the fastest. But they aren't always. Sometimes there are girls like me who are super duper fast. Alessio says it's because I'm a Scarsi and Scarsis are better at everything, but Daddy says it's because I'm a special little girl.
I run inside the big white building, high five the guards who smile at me really big, and run even faster to the elevator.
My thumb smashes the big white up arrow and then I spin around and yell, “First!”
Gio growls and crosses his arms. “No fair, Petal. You always win.”
I giggle because it's funny when Gio is mad. He thinks he should win because he's older than me, but he's really not. We’re both eight, and we have the same birthday. Even the year is the same. Sometimes people think we’re twins. We’re not. We don’t even look the same. I have light hair and blue eyes, and he has dark hair and brown eyes. It makes me angry when they ask Daddy if we are twins because it makes him uncomfortable. He doesn’t like to tell them that Gio’s mommy had him in the morning and my mommy had me at night. He also doesn’t like to tell them that my mommy didn’t want me or that Gio’s mommy died when we were two.
The silver doors open and we hop inside over the crack in the floor. I let my brother press the number ten so he won’t be angry with me again and then we watch the doors close. The elevator zooms up really fast and when the doors open on Daddy’s floor, I take off running, yelling over my shoulder, “Last one to Daddy’s office gives up dessert for a week!”
“Petal…” My father’s voice broke through the haze, effectively bringing me back to the here and now, his fingers sifting through my hair as they had been for the last two hours. Typically, his gentle touch would’ve put me right to sleep but waiting room chairs were not meant for those who wished to rest. They were stiff and narrow, and the worn armrests prevented one from getting too comfortable. Even laying across Daddy’s lap on one of the backless benches was a futile effort. I'd drifted off several times, but never really far enough away to drown out of the rest of the world. I was too worried about my brothers to sleep anyway.
Dragging my gaze over my shoulder into my dad’s awaiting stare, I noted how his usually bright brown eyes were dull, sullen, and the bags underneath told a story of exhaustion.
“Feeling okay?” he asked quietly.
“I'm fine. It's them I'm worried about, and you, too,” I admitted.
The soft smile he flashed me didn't reach his eyes. “I've been better.”
“I know…we all have. When do you think they’ll let us see them?”
Daddy shrugged. “Who knows. Last time I checked, they were waiting to situate Alessio into an actual room and Gio was still in surgery.”
“For fuck’s sake,” I muttered, dropping my head into my hands.
Images of my brothers and I in the line of fire right before Gio went down viciously assaulted my mind to the point of heart-wrenching pain. Each time I thought about it, I wondered what we could’ve done—what I could’ve done—differently to better protect my brothers. In retrospect, there wasn’t much. We were outnumbered, plain and simple, and no matter how precise our aim or how quick our hand was, ten hulking men would’ve always outnumbered our four.
“I never should’ve sent you and your brothers,” Daddy said in a hushed voice beside me.
His tone, the fear that had briskly festered there, prompted me to pull my hands from my face and turn to see him perched forward on his elbows, his head hung low in grief.
In remorse.
My chest tightened at the sight of him so clearly in despair and my heart ached, because I knew no matter what I or anyone else said, he would forever blame himself for the series of events that brought us here, especially if our worst possible fear came to fruition.
Which it very well could...
While Alessio would recover fairly quickly, suffering only two gunshot wounds, Gio wasn’t as lucky. LeRoux’s team had done quite a number on him, six shots specifically in which only three had made a clean exit. The other three had lodged in different areas—two to his chest, one near his lower back—and although they’d missed his organs by sheer millimeters, there was still significant nerve damage. Severe hemorrhaging was also a big concern, hence emergency surgery.
The situation was critical and every possible shade of terrifying, and not being able to see them was the nail in the fucking coffin.
But I had faith in my brothers, especially Gio. He'd always been a fighter, even when he didn't want to be.
“Pa,” Matteo said from across the way, his chocolate brown eyes flickering between us both when we glanced up at him in unison. “They’re going to be okay.”
For once he said the right thing, at the right moment. If he were Gio or Alessio, I would've tackled him with a hug, but my relationship with Matteo didn't allow that. At this point in time, we were essentially strangers. All I knew about him was that he inked killer art in the city and slept around way too much.
“I agree,” I offered him a small smile. “They’re going to be just fine. Alessio is a tough bastard, and Gio is a fighter.”
Several seconds ticked by before our father nodded, and while him agreeing should’ve appeased me, I knew it was more of a resigned nod than anything else. Daddy wanted to agree, I could see it painted over his expression, but fear of the unknown was overwriting his ability to believe. And if I knew my father, he was deeming this his karma.
Perhaps it was. I mean, the karma that awaited my family was definitely going to contain the utmost undeniable power to break us, but Gaspard LeRoux fucked with my family first. Us coming after him was his karma, and although he’d gotten away this time, he wouldn’t be able to hide forever. One day he’d come out of whatever dark hole he’d crawled into and I was going to be the one to finish it. To finish him.
Suddenly, my phone began vibrating in my back pocket, reminding me of the time, and what I had penciled in for the evening. I silenced the alarm and turned back to my father, who sat motionless, blankly staring off in a world of his own.
“I've gotta go, Daddy,” I said softly.
He paled long before his eyes finally swung to mine. “Fiore, you can't…”
“I have to.” I reached for his hand. “He's another bastard. It's bad enough we have one on the run.”
“All the money in the world doesn't add up to what you and your brothers mean to me, Eden. I can't let you—”
“I'm going,” I blurted out calmly. “And I promise I'll be back really soon. James Hart is an in and out ordeal. Grade-A dumbass.”
Daddy eyed me warily, his brows knit together, but eventually he sighed and nodded, giving my hand a little squeeze.
“Fine. Go. Just be...be careful, baby, please.”
“Always.” I kissed his cheek and hugged him a moment longer than usual. “I'll be quick. And if anything changes, will you up—”
“You know I will,” he said, more firmly than anything he'd spoken since arriving at the hospital.
I squeezed his hand again and pecked one last kiss on his cheek as I rose to my feet and slipped away into the night, hoping that good news would await me upon my return.
The Silent Reaper, New York’s infamous serial killer since 2009. Known for engraving a smile on its victims faces along with slicing their throats, it was one of the top most wanted killers in America.
I was an it.
The thought always amused me.
They had no idea I was woman; hell, they didn't really know much of anything. Except that I'd strike again. Randomly and unannounced. I'll admit the whole signature thing wasn't the brightest idea, but I literally had no control over that. I had to do it. It's like a switch would flip somewhere within me and in a matter of seconds I'd go from Eden Scarsi, the angelic girl next door whose father owned Scarsi Iron, to
her, my alter-ego. She needed that, she needed those markings to thrive, and I needed her to thrive. A kill just wouldn't feel complete if I didn't mark them before I drained them of their lives. After all, they were my kills and although I couldn't shout it from the rooftops, I was proud of my work, and I wanted the world to know. Daddy didn't quite approve of my little charade, but I gathered he chose to turn the blind cheek because I always got the job done.
I always had, and I always would.
When he first started training me, neither one of us thought this could be a possibility. He was teaching me because I was unafraid, eager to learn, and he rather I know how to protect myself than the alternative. It wasn't until I excelled in each craft that he finally realized the truth.
I enjoyed it. All of it.
Preeminently, the thought of a kill.
Now, I lived for it. For the thrill of the stakeout, the high of the assault, and the satisfaction that came when another thieving bastard took his last breath in my arms. Much like Alessio, the true family business pumped ferociously through my veins. The plan, however, was never to leave behind a paper trail, and for the most part, Daddy’s goons did an excellent job of cleaning up after me. Why should they have to clean up my mess, you ask? Because that's how Daddy wanted it. He wanted me to focus on the job, to be in and out, not how to dispose of the bodies, or where. We made a good team, and those successful group efforts were then the marks who ended up on the missing persons list for the state of New York. Never to be seen or heard from again. But sometimes Daddy’s guys unfortunately weren't quick enough and an innocent bystander would find the body. Those were the unsolved kills connected to her, The Silent Reaper. Alessio often gloated his track record was impeccable with no paper trails in sight, but I always reminded him it was me the city feared, not him.
I guess what saved me from an orange jumpsuit and a seat on death row was my stealth, agility, and consciousness for leaving no evidence that could trace back to me or my family. I always wore gloves and made sure my hair was restrained. Blades were my weapon of choice unless the job called for a firearm. But even when I had the help of steel and gunpowder, I always went back in with the blade. They were silent tools with effective power. I suppose all serial killers were the same though, right? They all had a little ritual that needed to be seen through before they left the crime scene. What differentiated me and them was that I wasn't fucking crazy. My mind was right, and I didn't feel the need to kill just anyone. I was an assassin, my father’s personal hitwoman, and I was doing away with people who deserved it. People who thought it was okay to wrong or hurt someone else to benefit themselves. Thieves, predators, drug addicts, you get the picture.
Like James Hart.
He was every bit the Grade-A dumbass I'd told Daddy he was. He’d come to my father over two years ago with the sob story that his corporate America job had fired him for no reason at all and that his wife wasn't capable of working because they had two young children. They were expecting their third too. Apparently, he'd been having a hard time finding a new source of income because of the unjust termination, and the money they had saved was quickly dwindling down to nothing.
So Daddy, being the generous man he was, lent Mr. Hart quite a bit of money without a second thought. Not once, but several times, because he admired a family man. Turns out the slimeball was single with no kids, had been fired for a sexual harassment lawsuit, and also had a slight—and by slight, I mean severe—gambling addiction. Cue where he got moved to the top of my list when Mr. Andrews, our family lawyer, brought Mr. Hart’s true identity to light.
All that gambling must've rotted his common sense because the moment he knew he was in deep shit, he thought fleeing was a genius idea. His biggest mistake, though, was booking a hotel within a fifty-mile radius to concoct his permanent plan. Why? Because I'd notified every hotel in triple the radius to inform me if someone under the name of James Hart made a reservation. The concierge agreed under the notion that I was with the government. Funny how simple it was to convince them all I was FBI. A random badge number and some scripted dialogue worked like a charm.
Hidden in the safety of my car just across the street, I watched the front doors of the Marriott for a sign of my mark. He was due to arrive any moment now, and I wanted to catch him by complete surprise. I wasn’t alone though. Daddy’s guys were here too, waiting in the blacked-out SUV parked in front of me. But they weren’t here just for cleanup duty. In order to flawlessly execute Mr. Hart’s death, I needed their helping hand.
Speaking of Mr. Hart…
A satisfied smile tilted the corners of my mouth when a taxi pulled up to the curb in front of the hotel and said mark emerged from the backseat, looking down both sides of the street. When the cab went on its way and Mr. Hart shuffled inside with a large duffle bag, I ducked out of the GranTurismo and skittered across the street to follow him inside. He was sweet talking a young woman behind the reception as I dropped into one of the couches nearby to keep a close eye on him.
Twenty minutes later, after trying and miserably failing to flirt his way into an upgraded room, Mr. Hart was all checked in and had absolutely no idea what awaited him as he made his way to the elevators.
Three…
Two…
One…
Right on cue, my phone buzzed in the back pocket of my jeans, the text displayed on the screen confirming the plan was officially in motion.
Richie: It’s done. Go. But hurry. Fifteen max.
Worry not, little Richie. Fifteen will suffice.
Stuffing my phone back into my pocket, I rose to my feet as nonchalantly as possible and shuffled through the lobby in silence, feeling my heart rate quicken from the sudden surge of adrenaline coursing through my veins. Mr. Hart was jamming a finger into the up arrow on the illuminated panel when I caught up to him, not a look or a word spared my way until we were on our way up to the fifteenth floor.
“Here for business?” I asked, my tone light and seemingly friendly.
He hummed softly. “Somethin’ like that. You?”
“Same. Top secret assignment. I’m pretty stoked, actually.”
“Top secret, huh?” he chuckled, raking a hand through his dark greasy hair. “You like a cop or somethin?”
“Worse.” I stifled a laugh, and James arched a brow. “I’m your worst nightmare.”
With lithe movements he hadn’t seen coming, I thrust him into the metal wall of the cart, trapping him with an arm at his neck. My handgun flew down his throat, forcing him to gag around the tip, his body hiccupping against mine as bone-chilling fear surfaced in his eyes. Holding his stare, I felt my lips spread in a cheshire grin.
“Surprise, Mr. Hart. Your lies finally caught up with you and they earned you a prime spot at the top of my very prestigious list. Know what list that is?” I cooed.
He shook his head to the best of his ability.
“The one where you get to swallow one of my pretty little bullets as payment for playing my father like a fool. Any last words?”
The barrel in his mouth wouldn’t allow him to speak but the bastard tried anyway, and all I could make out of his plea was “Pwee, pwee.”
“I’m sorry, what was that?” I asked, thoroughly amused as I pulled a blade free from the holster on my thigh and forced a smile on his face with two quick flicks of my wrist.
“Pwee, oh.”
“Yeah, I’m not quite understanding. And even if I did”—I touched the tip of my nose to his—“I don’t spare despicable scumbags like you. Good night, Mr. Hart. See you in hell.”
My fingers hit the trigger, blood splattering the steel wall behind his head, and within seconds, the light within his eyes slowly began to burn out, bringing me somewhat of a sense of satisfaction. That sense of satisfaction, that peace that came with his death wouldn’t feel complete, though, until it was LeRoux whose name I was crossing off my list. And I had a feeling it would be soon, because Gaspard LeRoux was not a man who remained idle for long.
I chose option A while sitting in the bustling waiting room of Lincoln Medical Center, going out of my right mind. I'd been so intent on waiting until the last minute to decide, but when push came to shove, I couldn't. Seeing Scarsi in that hallway had really fucked with my head and also ensured that on top of feeling every anxious and fearful emotion under the sun, I was paranoid too. Not paranoid because I knew he was there, but paranoid of what he'd do if he knew I was there. Would he demand an answer? Would he call off his end of the deal and leave me only with option C, which in reality, wasn't really an option at all. I couldn’t risk it, especially when Mama’s wellbeing was on the line, so I weighed out the choices he’d laid on the table and came to a decision once and for all. Not that it did much to calm my nerves, because with making that decision, I now had a whole other ordeal to work through, namely acquiring fifty thousand dollars in one month.
“Mr. Royce,” said a voice I vaguely recognized, pulling me away from my troubled thoughts.
I whipped my head up toward the sound and locked eyes with the nurse who’d helped me when I first arrived.
She smiled warmly. “Your mom is doing great. Her scans are currently being reviewed and they’ve moved her into a room. I’m not sure how long she’ll be staying, but she’s ready for visitors.”
To hear Mama was doing well was somewhat of a relief, but I wouldn’t feel completely at ease until I saw her myself. Snatching my jacket from the seat beside me, I shot up to my feet and fell into step with the nurse—who introduced herself as Jane—to the elevators and up to the second floor. She made small talk on our short journey through the hallways to which I answered at the appropriate times, then left me in front of Mama’s door with a gentle squeeze to my shoulder.
Taking a deep breath, I pushed down on the handle and shuffled into the virtually silent room, nearly bursting into tears when I found Mama sitting up in bed, watching TV as though it were any other day. Aside from her dark, slightly graying hair being mussed up, likely from transport and all the scans, she looked like herself. No tubes, no IV, no oxygen mask, one-hundred percent normal. Her tired brown eyes flickered to where I stood by the door when she caught wind of me.
