by A. Zavarelli
“Get her some breakfast and then give her a lift home,” I call out as I walk down the hall.
“You need to be at the church in forty minutes,” he says. “Don’t be late, or Crow will have both our nuts.”
I hate him right now. But the lad is right.
The only time you’ll ever see a whole load of mafia men in church is either something grand or something bad.
Weddings, funerals, repentance.
Today, we’re all here for Keeva’s baptism.
Crow’s baby daughter, who has just entered a lifetime of protection better than the president himself.
She’s a sweet little girl with the looks of her mother Mack. And this is the reason we’re all here in a church on Sunday instead of hungover at Slainte like usual.
Being that Crow’s now the boss of the Irish syndicate, there isn’t a lad in our crew that isn’t here today. We’ve all come to show our respect and support.
Family is important. Family is everything.
And apart from my mammy, these lads are the only family I’ve got. My brothers. There isn’t a thing I wouldn’t do for them. This is the code that we live by. We are in it together until the end, and there’s nothing that will change that.
I’ve got it in my head though, that I’d like a family of my own someday. A thought only driven home when I see Crow and Mack together. Even Ronan and Sasha. The lads have all reached the age where they are settling down and changing their ways. At least as far as life outside the syndicate is concerned.
I have a good life. I get to do what I’m best at. Hustling and fighting. I spend my days with the lads, fucking shit up, and my nights with whatever hot ride catches my fancy.
But right now, in this pew, hungover and hungry, there is a moment of clarity. This hunger inside of me- this emptiness- is for something more.
I have a vision of myself like that someday. Like Crow is right now, holding his daughter. And when I imagine my wife beside me, there’s only one face that comes to mind. It could only ever be her.
The woman who does my fucking head in.
The woman I haven’t seen in months.
The woman with a suit of armor so goddamn thick I need to bring my entire arsenal just to speak to her for a few moments. Crow likes to give me shite for it. Tells me I only want what I can’t have. But that isn’t it.
When I met Scarlett, I was kidnapping her and holding her at gunpoint… just for a wee bit. Until the dust had settled with the Mack situation, at least. I had no ill intentions against her, but I knew that didn’t matter. That wasn’t my first rodeo. Most women would have crumbled in the situation. Broken down and become hysterical. But not her.
Not only did she fucking stab me- a battle scar which I still carry on my arm- but she didn’t shed a single tear. She was stone cold and hard as fuck. And that’s when I knew, she was a ride or die chick.
The Letty to my Dom.
I came at her hard, and she didn’t cower in my presence. She came back harder.
I made up my mind then and there, this was the woman I needed by my side.
Only problem is Scarlett doesn’t see it that way. She’s a one-woman act, and she’s not about to make room for anyone else on her stage or in her life.
I know this.
But when I catch the soft clip of heels behind me, I’m hyperaware of everything in the room. The weight of someone’s presence beside me on the bench. The soft cloud of honey and caramel and arsenic.
The energy is raw and dark, a force not to be reckoned with. And there’s no doubt in my mind, Satan has just entered the holy land.
My temples throb and my fists grip the wooden pew beneath me.
I want to look, but I know better. She is Medusa, and if I look into her hazel eyes, I’ll be done for all over again.
She’s toxic. Poison.
But I’ve never wanted to taste my own death as much as I want her.
She’s the star of my darkest fantasies. The centerfold on every page of my favorite book. Even now, as I sit here in church, I’m thinking about throwing her down on the floor and eating her out. Bending her over the pew and fucking this insanity out of my system once and for all.
I have a notion that Scarlett would like the depravity of it. Because she’s a whole lot of fucking crazy. But a whole lot of fucking hot too.
Jesus. I don’t want to look. Because I won’t be able to stop myself from staring at her. Which is the last thing she needs from me. And exactly what she wants from me.
She fancies these games.
And it was fun for a while.
Until she got taken by the butcher. It was her association with us that got her into that mess. That got her hurt all over again.
He touched her. Carved up her chest like a pumpkin.
I can’t get that fucking image out of my head. And now I’m simultaneously thinking about fucking her and murdering every last bloke who’s ever touched her too.
I blame myself for what happened, even if she acts like it never did. It’s easy to forget with that Oscar worthy act of hers.
She brings out the bad in me.
But I have a feeling she brings out the bad in a lot of men.
My eyes drift down to the shoes first. Red suede with a thick sole and tiny straps that wrap around her delicate ankle. All balanced out by a dainty stiletto at the back. I’ve no bloody clue how she walks in them, but she knows I have a thing for the heels on her.
If I ever allowed myself to fuck her, I’d make her keep them on.
Discreetly as I can manage with the rush of blood that’s now headed south in my body, I move my gaze up her toned legs and over the hem of her dress. It rides up her thigh when she crosses her legs, revealing the faintest hint of lace at the top of her stockings.
Pure fucking torture- that’s what she is.
I’m convinced the woman really is Satan. I know I can’t be the only man who would voluntarily pack a bag and go to hell, so long as she was on her knees and worshipping me during my descent.
I shift my head slightly, and I know she knows what I’m thinking. Because she’s staring right at me.
Her beauty is as subtle as a grenade.
Scarlett has a heart shaped face with freckles around her nose. Dainty, delicate features and sultry lips she always paints in red. Her eyes are like her personality. A chameleon. Always changing. They can be feline at times, warm like brandy. But they can be a whole lot of dark too, the color evaporating into an endless void. Especially when she has an eye for revenge. Which is often.
Today they are a soft amber, I would swear it. Smoked in black to match her dress. Her dark chocolate hair is pulled up into an elegant bun, hiding the tones of gold I love so much. It doesn’t suit her, but yet it does.
There’s a natural grace that’s been ingrained into Scarlett. She can’t hide it, no matter how long she’s been on the streets. It makes me question her background. I want to know what motivates the cunning little fox. The events that have isolated her from society. The reason she plays dumb when in fact I know she’s always the smartest woman in the room.
Pulling those answers from her is impossible. And I’m not about to go down that road again. I’ve tried with her. I’ve tried to help her. To stop her from being reckless. I’ve invested time and energy into her that I’ve never done with any other woman.
And all she’s ever done is refused it. Thrown it back in my face.
I’m not about to forget that. Even when she’s sitting right next to me, smelling like heaven. Her skin soft and dewy, pure and porcelain. There is a sensuality about her in everything she does. Even the simple act of her leg brushing against mine has my cock sawing at the seam of my jeans. Desperate to break free and plunge inside of her.
She’s feminine. Inviting. And no doubt deadly as hell.
Because Scarlett doesn’t feel anything. She doesn’t show any emotion. She’s colder than a fucking ice cube even though she looks anything but.
And I need to re
member that. Even when she’s looking at me the way she is right now. Like she’s missed me.
Fucking Christ.
There’s a shuffle of movement as the entire church stands up, and I’ve missed the last half of the ceremony. Scarlett stands up too, only managing to meet my chest at eye level in her heels. She’s petite and curvy, and everything inside of me wants to yank her out of this church and drag her back to my cave to fuck the ever-loving hell out of her.
Instead, she leans up on her toes and touches my face.
“Hey, old sport” she says, almost shyly. “Miss me?”
I’m not about to drink that Kool-Aid again.
“How goes the battle?” I redirect.
“Why don’t we skip the pleasantries.” She smiles. “I found a coat closet on the way in.”
I indulge and play her game, even though it pisses me right the fuck off.
“In a church, Scarlett?” I ask. “Ye really must be the devil.”
“Never said I wasn’t.” She leans up to whisper in my ear, her hand brushing down my arm and feathering over my fingers. “And maybe I want you to do unholy things to me.”
“I won’t say that I’m not tempted,” I whisper back into her hair, inhaling her as I do. “But not today.”
She falls silent, as she usually does, and I know I shouldn’t, but I drink the fecking Kool-Aid. Again.
“Go on a date with me.”
“Fuck me,” she counters.
The distance between us is only a few inches, but it may as well be miles. I’m hungover, I’m knackered, and I’ve had enough of this game.
“I won’t allow ye to hate me,” I finally say.
She blinks up at me, rattled by my observation. It’s all been fun and games until now. Most people don’t think I have a whole lot of sense, being loafed in the head all the time. I’m always cracking jokes, having the craic, always up for a laugh. But not today. Not now, and not with her.
“It’s what ye want, isn’t it? You want me to fuck ye so you can lump me into the bad pile and say I’m just like the rest of them.”
She shifts her weight and moves her gaze over my face, sharp and cutting now. But not as sharp her words.
“Oh, Rory.” She brushes her hand over my cheek, and it’s cold. “Haven’t you figured it out yet? I already hate you.”
I take a deep breath and repress the urge to lash out at her. To say something equally venomous, which is exactly what she wants.
“Don’t take it personally.” She retreats into her own space again, and my lungs start functioning, again. “I hate everybody.”
“Bailing already?” I find myself asking as she slips further away.
“You know I don’t do the whole family thing. I just came for the ceremony.”
I reach down and grab her hand to stop her. But the words I’m after don’t find me. There’s always a part of me that wants to tell her to never come back. But there’s another part of me that worries about her.
Scarlett senses that in me, I think.
My warring hatred and want for her.
I never know which one is going to win out until the words spill from my lips.
“Come out to lunch with me. No date, just food. Everyone needs to eat.”
She smiles, that soft and deadly smile. Sadness seeping ever so slightly into her features before she masks it with charm. She leans up on her toes and kisses my cheek.
“I can’t be your Daisy,” she says. “So, don’t ask me to.”
“Cut the shite,” I tell her.
Scarlett’s always talking in riddles. Too smart for the likes of me or anyone else in this room, probably. But she doesn’t show that part of herself often. Only in quiet moments like these.
And I’m like a schoolboy, waiting on tenterhooks to hear her explanation of the inner workings of her mind. If I’d ever been blessed enough to have a teacher like Scarlett in school, I may have actually paid attention.
“The Great Gatsby,” she says. “I would say the book, but the film has become the thing as of late. Ever watched it?”
“Nah,” I tell her.
“She was the destruction of him,” she tells me. “Of Gatsby. A void of moral decay. An empty husk driven by materialism and social status.”
“Scarlett.”
Sometimes her riddles are cute. At times like these, they annoy the bleeding feck out of me.
“You should really read the book.” She pulls away. Not for herself. She is doing it for me.
Because she thinks she is rotten to the core.
And before I can tell her otherwise, she’s gone.
Same as always.
2
SCARLETT
SOME GIRLS ARE MADE of sugar and spice and everything nice. Some are made of venom and sin. When you open the chambers to their hearts, you’ll find- absolutely nothing within.
My eyes are locked and loaded and the target is in my sights.
Trick rolling is an art. It isn’t as simple as picking the easiest client. It’s about digging deep. Getting your hands a little dirty while you wade through the dime a dozen losers that frequent these types of bars. When I’m bored, and not looking for a certain blue-blood that’s on my list, it all boils down to something simple.
I make up my mind before I ever walk in. Tonight’s challenge is to find the guy that’s leering at everything with a vagina in a ten-mile radius.
It happens before I can even enjoy my first drink.
This guy is a douchebag of the highest order and he definitely has the leering thing down. He wears his entitlement like a crown and looks out over the sea of women like he is a King amongst peasants. In the ten minutes I watch him, he’s already grabbed two asses and dropped three gag-worthy pick up lines.
You’re so hot, baby. You’re too hot to be in this bar alone, baby. I’ve got a suite upstairs. Want to enjoy a taste of luxury?
Two of his potential victims blow him off before he can really get fresh, and the third- a girl from Ohio- is too polite to tell him no, so she endures his hapless attempt at getting her into bed for a full ten minutes before she bounces too.
If this were a theater, it would be called The Encore, because I see this same show every night. It’s a tale as old as time. The upper class fucking over anyone beneath them. Sometimes, it serves a purpose, but mostly I think it’s just because they can.
These men… these stock brokers and financiers, lawyers and marketing executives. They all think the same.
They are the bread and the butter and the whole fucking cake. With sprinkles on top.
The thing about cake is it gets old after a while. The party has lost its thrill. And that sugar rush? The high I used to get from devouring their souls? It’s not really present anymore. It checked out a while ago.
But like any addiction, I can’t be freed from these binds. Even though the thrill grows dimmer with each trick, it’s still the only thing that thrills me.
As I sit here and watch the man across the bar- sans excitement- I have an odd realization. This isn’t the first time I’ve seen his face. In fact, I’ve met with him before. His name is Rix. Yes, seriously. And he thinks it’s cool, and he thinks he’s cool and his parents were friends with the Carringtons, so I was certain he must know Alexander too. But torture him as I tried, he never gave it up.
Lesson never learned, I guess.
I really did a number on him too. I recall there being a very elaborate scene with a wig and makeup and everything. But the problem with him was he was legitimately off social media. No Facebook, no Twitter, no Insta-lookatmeandmylavishlife- accounts whatsoever. So, I had to forgo the most important step. Shaming him where he lived and breathed.
I won’t make that same mistake again this time.
I do a quick check in the compact mirror I always carry and then it’s off to the races. My rules of engagement are very simple, and my affairs with clothing, as basic as it gets. Men live for two colors. They don’t want skirts with pineapples or that ho
undstooth jacket from the fall catalog. They want the LBD.
Little black dress.
The only exception to that rule is the little red dress, which men associate with one thing.
Red equals sex. Red equals hell in the sack. Wild. Untamed. Red screams bad girl.
And I’m as bad as it gets.
I don’t wear disguises, and I very rarely change anything about my hair or makeup. Hair is wild, like I’ve been rolling in bed already. They eat that shit up. Eyes are smoky and black and lips are red.
This look is classic. This look never fails.
Of course, there’s always a chance one of these dopes will sprout a brain cell and that this one in particular might even remember me. If I’ve done my job right, he should well fucking remember me. But it also depends on what type of drugs I used to knock him out.
With any good scheme, there’s always a bit of a learning curve in the beginning. It took me a while to sort out what worked best. And if memory serves me right, this guy was one of my experimental guinea pigs.
Normally, if I bump into a former client, I will just walk the other way. It doesn’t happen often since I rarely visit the same locations twice.
It’s risky and reckless.
But the longer I play the game, the more the reckless side appeals to me. The adrenaline rush in need of a chaser. A need to shake things up. Which is why I’ve temporarily placed my revenge on the back burner to attend to a more urgent matter.
Like the man who left Kylie in a vegetative state. Machines breathing for her and a brain that will most likely never recover.
Kylie and I weren’t particularly close. Given that I don’t like people in general and the list of people I trust remains at zero, I don’t have many friends. Mack is the only person I’d ever consider using the term with, and that’s just because I’ve known her so long and she hasn’t screwed me over yet.
But Kylie and I saw each other every day on the street. She was a working girl too. Of course, her job wasn’t nearly as much fun as mine. She actually had to fuck her filthy clients. I just like to fuck them up.
