by Dee Garcia
Copyright 2017 Dee Garcia
All Rights Reserved
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to real events, real people, and real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the Author’s imagination and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, organizations or places is entirely coincidental.
All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the express written permission of the Author. All songs, song titles contained in this book are the property of the respective songwriters and copyright holders.
Editing: All About The Edits
Cover Design & Formatting: Decadent Designs by Dee
Contents
Dedication
Playlist
Prologue
1. Three Strikes and You’re
2. Plan of Attack
3. Decisions
4. Operation LeRoux
5. Stoned
6. Grade A Asshole
7. But it's enough
8. X-394
9. Lucid
10. Surprise
11. X Marks The Spot
12. Seconds Chances
13. Running Scared
14. Troubled
15. Back Seat, Windows Up
16. Under the Radar
17. Netflix and Chill
18. The Call
19. The Truth Hurts
20. China Man
21. Routines of a Hostage
22. Metaphor
23. Even in Anger
24. Return of The Reaper
25. Hallelujah
26. Aftermath
27. Lost and Found
28. Caged
Acknowledgments
Dedication
To women everywhere,
Find your inner badass and set her free.
Show the world how fierce you really are.
Playlist
Kill of The Night - Gin Wigmore
Bad Girl - Avril Lavigne
Titanium - David Guetta feat. Sia
In 4 The Kill (Pon De Scream Remix) - Major Lazer and La Roux
Shape of You - Ed Sheeran
Despacito - Luis Fonsi
Skyfall - Adele
human - Christina Perry
Fracture - SLUMBERJACK feat. Vera Blue
Tremble - Nicole Miller
TiO - ZAYN
Young and Beautiful - Lana Del Rey
Gold - Kiiara
Never Be Like You - Flume feat. Kai
Can’t Let Go - VALNTN feat. Emilia Ali
Be Together - Major Lazer feat. Wild Belle
Eye of the Needle - Sia
Scared to Be Lonely - Martin Garrix feat. Dua Lipa
I Don’t Wanna Live Forever - ZAYN
Hallelujah - Jordan Castro
Better Love - Hozier
Prologue
“Please d-don't,” the older man stammered the moment I lifted a lace-gloved hand from over his mouth.
With my blade still pressed to his neck, I brought my lips a hairsbreadth from his ear and hissed, “Careful, Mr. Williams. You move but a millimeter, and you'll be gasping for air.”
“I need more time. Please,” he begged, his body rattling against mine in pure fear.
I chuckled darkly.
They all say that.
“You've had more than enough time. Not only has my father granted you several extensions, he's spared you the consequences when you failed to meet your deadlines. But now you're playing games, John”—I bore down the knife with a bit more pressure—“and Daddy doesn't particularly enjoy being toyed with.”
“I'm s-sorry!”
“Yeah,” I cooed. “I bet you are. Unfortunately, sorry isn't going to clear your debt, and your time seems to be exhausted. I'm sure you have an inkling as to how this ends, right?”
“Please, d-don't do this. I have half stashed away at home. I-I just need one more extension and then…”
I thrust the blade between his lips, tearing the corners of his mouth ever so slightly, then yanked his head back against my shoulder. “Ehhh, wrong answer.”
Wide, panicked brown eyes met mine, unshed tears bubbling just at surface, waiting to be set free.
“Why so sad, Mr. Williams? Doesn't debt-free sound so…liberating?”
He nodded frantically.
“Exactly, so you should be happy I'm offering you even a spec of said freedom, after all you’ve done. Think of it this way…if I don’t kill you, my brother will come for you. And his tactics are…well, they’re infinitely worse than mine. Now let's turn that frown upside down, shall we? You want to look your best when Satan welcomes you home,” I said, amused, dragging my weapon from one side of his face to the other in a perfect, bloodied smile.
A garbled moan echoed from his throat as pain began amplifying the effects of his fear, and in my world, it was one of the most satisfying sounds to be heard. Music to my ears, if you will.
I took a moment to admire my handiwork. The new addition to his mug wasn’t deep, but that was the point. It merely served as my signature. Well, one part of my signature, anyway. I'd cross my T’s and dot my I’s here in the next few minutes.
“Please, please don't d-do this,” he stammered again, in yet another feeble attempt to save his life.
I rolled my eyes. The pleas never got old. The bastards behind them, however, did. John Williams knew he'd wronged my father—more like, stolen from my father—and here he was, thinking crocodile tears and a handful of stuttered excuses would clean his slate. Just like the lot of them. They all begged, and it wore my patience thin.
I clamped a gloved hand over his blood-streaked mouth once more. “This will be quick. Close your eyes and count to ten.”
John shook his head silently, and I nodded without an ounce of remorse.
“Go on. One…two…” I encouraged.
“Three, four,” he mumbled against my hand, a single tear trickling down his cheek.
“Five… Rest in peace, Mr. Williams,” I said softly.
And then I jammed the blade straight into his throat, very slowly wielding it to one side, watching in fascination as he gasped, and a bright stream of crimson began pouring down the front of his spattered white dress shirt. When his head fell to the side, I tossed him onto the bed without care and wiped the blade clean on his slacks before holstering it at my thigh and sauntering out the door of his suite.
Approximately two minutes later, I was sliding into the driver's seat of my black GranTurismo, mentally checking off another mark from my never-ending list.
Two hundred ninety-eight...
The engine roared to life and I took off for the other side of town, the chirp of my phone grappling my attention as I merged onto the highway. Pulling off my gloves, I threw them into the passenger seat and hit a button on the steering wheel to connect the call.
“It’s done,” I said by way of greeting, already knowing who the caller was.
“Excellent. Job well done as usual, little sister,” my eldest brother, Alessio, praised me. “I'll send the boys ASAP. You know Pa is going to be pleased about this one.”
I smirked, imagining his face. “Yeah, I know. Tell him I'll be there soon.”
“Will do. Drive saf—”
Without another word, I ended the call and cranked the volume on the radio, dropping my foot on the gas as the last twenty minutes of my life replayed vividly in my mind.
The question I’m certain you're dying to ask is, who am I?
Well, I'll tell you, as long as you can keep a secret…
My name is Eden Scarsi.
In si
mplest terms possible, I'm death personified.
It's a dirty job but someone has to do it, especially when my father is gracious enough to lend out his hard-earned money. There are deadlines, of course, and sometimes these loanees have no sense of time.
But time is of the essence.
What happens when they miss said deadlines, you ask?
Daddy sends me.
And I'm the last person you want knocking on your door. Except I don't knock. I don't make a fucking sound.
They don't call me The Silent Reaper for nothing...
The mellow ding of the elevator arriving on the tenth floor jerked me out from the depths of my disquieted mind. Inhaling a deep breath, I stepped out into the darkly decorated entryway of Scarsi Iron, one of New York City’s largest and most reputable bulk recycling companies, and followed the black marbled floors to a set of frosted glass doors. A scaled version of the sleek company's emblem was embossed on them, the mere sight of it a nauseating reminder that what lay just beyond those doors had the ability to make me or break me. Truthfully, I wasn't afraid of Vincent Scarsi himself, although I suppose I should have been, but what I was afraid of was him saying no. Or worse yet, “Time’s up.”
Especially when that's what I needed.
More time.
More time and more money.
Once I got the shop back on its feet, then I would pay Scarsi back every dime he ever lent me, and then some...
Off to the side of the doors was a modern desk the color of slate and the very same striking redhead I’d seen twice before seated just behind it. She looked like she’d hopped out of a time machine from another era. Very pin-up and classy, down to the crimson lips and all.
“Hi, I'm here to see Mr. Scarsi.”
She smiled her usual smile and nodded as she typed something into the computer. “Yes, sir. He's ready for you. Go right through those doors and—”
“Yeah, I know, make a left at the end of the hallway. Thanks,” I said, sauntering away from the desk before the last of the directions left her mouth.
I wasn't trying to be rude, not in the slightest, but she knew who I was. Where to go wasn't a part of the process anymore. I just wanted to sign in, as expected of their “in and out” procedure, and go along my way.
A man on a mission, I guess you could say.
Red didn't protest as I curled a hand around the steel handle and let myself into the seemingly mundane world of recycling. I say that because what really occurred under the radar was the type of shit you'd see play out in a movie. Those who considered it an honest job had no idea of the atrocity it truly was. I myself would never have known had I not been so curious while scouring the recycling lot for salvageable car parts. Then again, I probably wouldn’t have been so curious if I wasn’t fretting over a failing business, mounting medical bills for Mama, and the lack of income from said business to pay said bills.
The end of the hallway opened up to a large room lined with floor to ceiling windows along the perimeter. Traditional exposed brick covered the walls, rather than the dark charcoal gray paint from the entryway, and steel pipes of various sizes hung from the ceiling above. Rows of black cubicles trickled down in two aisles, each one accounted for with an oblivious employee who thought their nine-to-five was as ordinary as every other minimum wage-paying job in America. That, or they chose to overlook the truth. I assumed it was the latter because really, no one could be that oblivious.
Rounding the corner, I trailed through the relatively quiet space of the occasional ringing phone and semi-hushed conversations to yet another hallway that led to the impressive entrance of Scarsi’s office, or as I referred to it, the shark tank. With another deep breath, I tapped my knuckles against the sleek obsidian doors to alert him of my arrival and pushed my way inside, hoping that upon my exit, I'd have another extension and yet another check to finally pull me out from the vicious depths of debt.
Vincent Scarsi’s office never ceased to fuck with my mind. Mostly because it was a striking contrast to the rest of the building as well as the powerful man who sat behind the ebony desk in his oversized leather throne. Minus his workspace, everything was white, from the walls to the floors to the furniture and everything else in between. Modern bookcases ran along the length of one wall with steel accents and the odd glass fixture strewn about here and there. Other than that, it was all very clinical. The only pop of color was the unprecedented view of the harbor laid out behind him like a vivid painting, courtesy of the full-length windows that wrapped around the building.
“Mr. Royce,” he said in his booming voice, spinning around in his chair to face me directly.
Donning his usual attire of a pristinely tailored suit topped with sharp brown eyes and a slick salt and pepper mane, he was exactly what I imagined Satan to look like. The classic embodiment of evil. I’d heard, though, that his eldest son was infinitely worse. How that could be remotely possible, I wasn't sure, but I had no inclination to find out. One Scarsi was enough for a lifetime, thank you very much.
A sinister smile curled his lips as I approached the desk and extended my hand by way of greeting. “Mr. Scarsi.”
He didn't rise from his seat but merely tipped his head and extended his hand in return. As we shook briefly, I noted his grip to be stronger than it had ever been before. Perhaps it was a silent warning of my impending doom?
“Please, have a seat.” He motioned to the white linen wingback chairs behind me.
I flashed him a small smile for good measure and dropped into the seat in closest range, rubbing my clammy palms on my worn jeans.
“So, what can I do for you today? Xena mentioned it was urgent when she penciled you into my schedule.”
“I have a feeling I know what the answer will be, but I—”
“Let me guess? More money?” he deadpanned, steepling his fingers.
Silence.
I swallowed down the abrasive lump in my throat and nodded because my pride, although already worn down by embarrassment, wouldn't allow me to utter a word. Dead, tense air clogged the room as he observed me from the short distance separating us, and the longer his piercing stare regarded me shrewdly, the faster my heart slammed within my chest. It beat with such ferocity I was positive he could hear the frantic tempo from where he sat.
“How much do you need this time?” he questioned with a curious brow.
“Twenty-five, sir.”
“Twenty-five dollars or twenty-five thousand? Be specific, Mr. Royce, you know I despise vagueness.”
Bastard.
He knew damn well what I meant. Suddenly annoyed, I had every urge to roll my eyes. Did I actually act on impulse? No. I valued my life too much for that shit.
“Twenty-five thousand, sir,” I corrected myself, trying my damnedest to maintain an even tone.
“I see.” He thrummed his fingers together. “How much does that bring your grand total to now?”
“Just over one-hundred thousand, with interest.”
The sum made me want to cringe, but for the most part, I remained stoic. Scarsi hummed and pivoted away from me, rising from his seat to stand beside the windows, his arms crossed, stance wide.
After a thoughtful pause, he stated, “A hundred thousand is a lot of money, son. You're sure you want to tack that on? Or do you have a payment for me today as well?”
Fuck.
I shook my head. “I don't, I'm sorry. I wouldn't be here for more money if I were able to pay you back.”
The error of my ways became clear when he very slowly turned his head to one side and peered at me from over his shoulder. If we were head-on, he would have been burning the most lethal of glares my way, no doubt. I could've punched myself for my stupidity. Surprisingly though, he turned back to the window and went on to say, “I'll tell you what I'm going to do.”
The hairs at the nape of my neck rose to attention. This was it. Either he was going to tell me to fuck off and pay what I owed within days or he was going to help me, again.
/>
“I'm granting you the check, Xander, and I'll tell you why,” he said, returning to his chair. “Because I like you. You're a driven young man who just so happened to be dealt a shitty card for this portion of his life. You're a fighter too and I know that in due time, the deck will shuffle and you'll rise above. And when you do, all of this hardship, myself included, will be a thing of the past. Something you conquered. Following so far?”
I nodded although his angle was both unexpected and unclear.
“If you were out there using my money to feed an addiction, I would've had you escorted out of my office and thrown into the shredder, but you…you, Xander Royce”— he pointed a finger at me, melting into the dark leather—“have potential.”
“Okay, now I’m not following.” I admitted, thoroughly baffled.
“I’m going to remove the interest from your debt.”
I stilled, fearful that if I so much as blinked those words would be nothing more than a figment of my imagination. It couldn’t be that easy though, could it?
“There has to be a catch,” I countered, and Vincent chuckled darkly.
“Oh, there is. Nothing great in life ever comes easy, kid.”
Of course...
“I’m listening,” I said, genuinely curious as to what Satan had up his sleeve.
“It’s more of an ultimatum, really.”
“Go on.”
“I’m very well-aware of your situation, that of which includes your mother’s health. Despite what you think you know about me, this old man has a heart, and I’m all too familiar with the pain that comes when a loved one falls ill. So, with that being said, I’ll forgive half of your debt, free of any hidden conditions, if you pay me back within thirty days.”
