by Coralee June
“I hired you to kill my rapist, actually,” I replied simply, surprised that I was able to vocalize that so easily. With everyone else, I couldn’t spit those damn words out. Admitting what had happened to me was like chewing on sewage. It hurt and disgusted me, but something about Forty-One made it easier to spill. Maybe it was because I knew he was my missing link to salvation. I’d never be free as long as Pick lived.
His eyes dropped to his cup, but I didn’t see pity on his expression. It was refreshing not to feel like a victim. “I see,” he replied before sipping his drink.
“I was kidnapped. Kept in a sex ring with other girls. There was one guy...he was my handler, so to speak,” I said, but it was getting harder to talk. My earlier bravado was slipping behind an impending panic attack, and I wrapped my trembling fingers around my cup to hide how fucking terrible I felt. “I want revenge, but I’m not stupid. I know I can’t do it myself, no matter how much I imagine doing it. I need outside help,” I explained steadily. “I need you to kill him for me.”
It felt so odd saying this in the busy coffee shop, but it was empowering too. Forty-One observed me with calculating eyes that made me feel stripped bare. It was hard sitting across the table from him as he watched me like that. If the circumstances were different, we could just be sitting here as friends, talking about what we’d be doing in Savannah during the summer, or what party we went to last night. He was much younger than I anticipated, and he put off such a cool vibe that I couldn’t help but like him. I never thought I’d like my hit man, and I couldn’t help but question my judge of character because of it. But my dad always said you should trust your instincts, and my instincts told me I could trust Forty-One.
He sipped his frozen drink, licking his lips again, before he set his cup back down. “Underground sex ring, hmm?”
I nodded and sat on my hands to keep from fidgeting more. “That’s right.”
“I need a name.”
I nearly jumped out of the booth when I registered what he’d said. “You’ll do it?”
He laughed. “Stay on your throne, Blondie,” he said, glancing pointedly at my hair. “I didn’t say that. I asked for his name.”
“I—I don’t have a name,” I admitted. “They didn’t use them in front of the girls. He always had a toothpick in his mouth, so in my head, I just called him Pick. He was in Johnny Jack’s gang.”
Forty-One’s mouth widened into an O shape. “You were a part of that?” he asked incredulously. “Word on the street isn’t good when it comes to JJ and his Macon Mob. There’s a lot of in-house conflict going on. Lots of moving parts, and none of them good for Savannah.”
“I’m just asking for one man,” I replied.
Forty-One crossed his arms. “JJ’s crew was huge. I’ve heard some defected, and others ended up dumped in the ocean, but even so, that gang is massive, and they’ve got connections. I need his full name and a photo.”
I sucked in a breath. “I don’t have that.”
He shook his head. “Even if you did, this ain’t some Joe-Schmo off the street who’d be easy pickings. Everyone in that gang will be on high alert as it is. They’ve got bloodier hands than I do, and I literally kill people for a living. He’ll be a tough hit.”
“Keep your voice down,” I hissed, looking around the cafe nervously.
Forty-One just laughed. “Let me bestow some wisdom on you, Blondie. Nobody cares.”
My confidence in this guy was quickly dwindling. Maybe Mr. Trench Coat was still around, and I could hit him up. “You’re insane. Can you at least attempt to be discreet and whisper?”
He just shook his head at me like I was silly. “Trust me, people are too self-absorbed. The only reason they would stop talking or thinking about themselves long enough to listen to us is if we looked like we had something to hide. Whispering is the surest way to make someone pay more attention to you. So speak up, Blondie, and tell me all about the man you want me to kill,” he said easily as he draped his arm across the back of the booth. “Talk normally, and no one will give two shits.”
My argument faltered on my lips. “Huh.” He had solid reasoning, so I tucked that bit of information in the back of my head for future reference. “So you need a photo and a name?”
“Yep. I mean, if you happen to have his address and social security number, that would be ideal, but I’m guessing you didn’t discuss that when he was abusing you,” he joked.
Forty-One had some dark humor, that was for sure. “Okay, so if I get you this information, then what?”
His brow dipped. “How do you plan on getting this information, Blondie?”
I had no fucking idea. “I’ll figure it out,” I said with determination.
When a woman walked by us, clearly staring at him, Forty-One winked at her and ran his tongue suggestively across his straight teeth. She made a little noise and picked up the pace towards a table further away. He reached across the table, swiping my chai and taking a sip. He made a face and set it back down, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “How can you drink that? It’s way too sweet.”
I blinked at him and then looked pointedly at his bright pink Frappuccino. “You’re basically drinking an ice cream shake.”
“Yeah,” he sighed, stuffing the straw in his mouth again. “It’s fucking awful.”
Thoroughly confused, I asked, “Then...why are you drinking it?”
“It’s what she drank,” he said quietly.
“I...have no idea what you mean.”
“Never mind,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Tell me, Blondie, why are you even in public right now? If you escaped the Macon Mob, you'd be number one on their hit list. You get that, don’t you?”
I nodded, my eyes darting around the cafe again as if Pick and the others would suddenly jump out and grab me.
“If you’re smart, you’ll run as far away as you can before they put a bullet in your skull. Or worse,” Forty-One said. He didn’t need to spell it out. I knew what he meant by worse because I’d already lived it.
My dad’s overprotectiveness suddenly made more sense. I knew that what was left of JJ’s gang would be looking for revenge, but hearing it from Forty-One made it more...real.
“I’ll need all the information you can get.”
I nodded, but honestly, I didn’t even know where to start. I was kept in windowless basements the entire time they had me, and they kept me so high that I couldn’t even begin to piece together some of the details. But I’d find a way. I had to.
“I’ll get it,” I replied with false confidence. “Whatever it takes.”
He made a tsking noise. “I don’t get paid if you’re dead, Blondie. So be smart. Revenge is sweet and shit, but you can’t suck on a sugar stick when you’re six feet under.”
“I understand.”
We stared at each other in silence, the heaviness of our conversation bleeding out onto the table. “How much?” I asked.
“Five hundred grand, plus travel expenses if your boy is on a private island somewhere. Which I hope to fuck he is. I could use a tan.”
“Why do I get the feeling you want a vacation?” I asked with a small smile.
“You caught me. I like to relax after a kill,” he replied sheepishly. “Much cheaper and more effective than therapy.”
I tried to picture Forty-One talking to my therapist, and I laughed. “Maybe I’ve been doing this wrong all along. I should’ve been lounging by a beach somewhere instead of listening to people tell me I need to talk about my feelings,” I said with a smile. I realized then that I was toying with the line of flirting, and it wasn’t as bad I’d thought it would be. Maybe Dr. Taffy was onto something.
Forty-One smiled back at me. “Tell you what, Blondie. After this is over, we’ll both take that vacation. I have a feeling we’re going to need it.”
My smile grew wry. “For five hundred grand, my vacation should be included.”
His grin grew wider. “You drive a hard bargain
, but I’m in if you are.”
He held out his hand, and I noticed that his thumbnail was covered in glitter. The price tag was hefty, but I knew how to get the money. I’d have to wire him the cash to an offshore account, but it wasn’t impossible. I was Rocco Nomar’s daughter after all. I just had to play this right to get my hands on that much cash before my dad found out. “Okay,” I replied, gently reaching out to shake his hand. “You’ve got a deal.”
We shook, and his green eyes lit up with mischief as he scooped up the notebook and pen that sat in front of me. “Now for the fun part,” he began before tapping the pen on the table. “How do you want me to kill him? I’m thinking some poetic justice. Slice his dick off and mail it to his grandmother,” he started scribbling down notes, aka a picture of a severed dick, while whistling to himself. This dude was psycho but completely endearing. “Or maybe we could have him suffocate in a bucket of cum? Do you think I could order elephant sperm online? That might be an extra charge, but I prefer to use creative methods,” he said, completely serious.
A laugh jumped out of my throat. “I’m not really picky—” I began, but he cut me off.
“Sure you are. I’m all about customer service, Blondie. I wanna make sure you get your money’s worth. Get creative! You only kill your tormentor once.”
I tried to picture how I wanted Pick dead. I thought about all the awful things he ever did to me, and rage started to fly up in my gut like burning butterflies. “Could you...could you torture him—however you choose—and then shoot him up with a lethal dose of really bad heroin?”
Forty-One’s eyes flicked down to the visible track marks on my arms, and I shrugged. It seemed only fair that Pick would die from the thing that nearly destroyed and continued to plague me. I didn’t want him to have a pleasant death. I liked the theatrics of it. Forty-One smiled approvingly. “You’re making this way too easy on me. I could even cover up his death like it was a drug overdose. I’m still digging the whole drowning in cum idea though, so I might do that anyways. Seems like fun!”
Our meeting now over, Forty-One stood up, and I did the same. “I’ll be in contact. Lemme know when you have the information I need, and I’ll get started. Hopefully, the next time you see me, I’ll be Forty-Two,” he winked, and it suddenly dawned on me what the significance of his codename was. It was how many people he had killed.
“Be safe, Blondie,” he said as he started to walk away. “I’m looking forward to that cum killing and the vacation.”
I grinned. So was I.
Chapter Four
Rachel
Dad was in the business of making money—literally.
I grew up on the smell of cash. I’d been comforted by the process of cutting the counterfeit into perfect rectangles after the printers spat the sheets out. Some kids learned how to do art projects with popsicle sticks and glitter with their parents, but I learned how to watermark twenties by the time I was seven. I’d known how to handle counterfeit plates, how to make dyes that went nearly undetected by the feds, and how to organize stacks of cash before they were hauled away to be distributed. My dad was smart because he didn’t deal in drugs or weapons. He went right to the source of what everyone was really after. Money.
The lawful and the criminals both worshipped the shit, and he was the best damn counterfeit designer in all of Georgia. It’s how he got on JJ’s radar in the first place. At first, they worked in a partnership. Until JJ started taking more and more and giving less. My dad got sick of it, and he broke away, stealing men, weapons, and connections in the process. He even blew up one of Johnny Jack’s buildings as a parting gift. But what he’d really ravaged was JJ’s pride. And the leader of the Macon Mob couldn’t stand for that. So JJ decided that taking Rocco’s daughter was an excellent way to get back at him.
So maybe money really was the root of all evil, because from what I’d seen, those roots were twisted motherfuckers.
Still, I couldn’t help but like the smell.
“You’re here. Good.”
My dad stepped away from the guy he’d been talking to—one of his workers—and strode over to me. After I’d snuck back into my bedroom at home, I’d come out of my room with purposely reddened eyes and informed my dad’s henchman that I wouldn’t be calling my therapist, after all, because I was having a hard day. The henchman nodded and immediately drove me here to dad’s warehouse where he was working today. It was one of his smaller locations on the outskirts of Savannah, and there was nothing inside except for concrete, metal walls, and stacks of lumber that attempted to cover up the scent of new money. The outside of the building read Crowbar Construction, and it was probably the simplest front I’d ever seen, but it worked.
My eyes ran over the plastic flaps hanging in the doorways as my dad walked over to me. “Danny said you didn’t meet with the therapist after all,” he said, coming to stand in front of me.
I shrugged, keeping my eyes running over the room so that I didn’t have to look at him. I was angry again. My numbness had slipped away during my meeting with Forty-One, and my anger at my father had come rushing back to me. I loved him. And I knew he loved me more than anyone in the world. But he was the reason I was taken, and I couldn’t forgive him for that.
“Why did you want me to come here?” I asked.
My dad ran a hand over his forearm, scratching at the faded chain tattoo that ran up and down his skin. “I brought a new guy in, and I wanted you two to meet formally.”
I narrowed my eyes. “You don’t bring new guys in. Ever. You always tell me you can’t ever trust new people. ‘Keep the people you’ve got, and pay them better than your enemy can.’ That’s what you say.”
A pleased look crossed over his face. “Good to know you listen to your old man once in a while.”
He was trying to joke with me. Make me smile just like he used to. Use light-hearted banter to close the gap that had formed between us. But that gap was far bigger than one teasing comment, and when my lips pressed into a hard, thin line instead of tilting up in a smile, it made him stop short. An uncomfortable silence poured into the gap between us, and his eyes darted around like he was searching for a bridge.
Dad cleared his throat. “Come on.”
Gritting my teeth, I kept my spine straight while I followed behind him into one of the back rooms. My mind was still going back to my meeting with Forty-One. I needed a way to get him the information he needed, but I wasn’t sure how to do that without involving my father. Still, maybe coming here, starting to get back into my dad’s business endeavors again would give me a lead. His people must be talking about the Macon Mob threat. If I stuck around, went along with my father to his jobs every day, maybe I’d overhear something or pick up a clue. It was worth a shot at least, and I didn’t have any better ideas. Plus, coming here was killing two birds with one stone. I needed money. I’d never stolen from my father before, but I figured he owed me. Whatever I managed to swipe would go straight toward my hit fund, and I’d come to find out that murdering enemies was expensive. I needed every dollar I could get.
Besides, I knew Dad was trying in the only way he knew how. And as angry as I was at him, I still loved him. But every time I stared down at the gaping, black pit between us, my mind drifted to Godfrey Taylor. I still sneered anytime I remembered how he’d called me a girl with “daddy issues.” For that reason alone, I was willing to grit my teeth and make an effort, if only just to prove the pretentious asshole wrong. I was driven by my need to show a guy I’d probably never see again that I wasn’t a cliche or a statistic. I clung to the memory of Godfrey because that day in the hospital, he’d given me something no one else could. He’d put a fire back in my gut and a hate I could use to burn away the encroaching despair. He might not have known it, but Godfrey had thrown down the gauntlet that day he came to see me, and I picked up that motherfucking glove and used it to build my new armor.
Godfrey Taylor motivated me in ways I couldn’t understand. Whenever I wanted to quit r
ehab or find a way to sneak in drugs, I remembered the contempt in his face, and I stopped myself. In some ways, the bastard even comforted me. If I closed my eyes, I could still feel his corded muscles wrapped tightly around my shaking frame when he’d pulled me out of that car. If I listened, I could hear his stern words rattling my skull, saying, “Keep your shit together.” He hadn’t been sweet. He hadn’t minced words, and he certainly hadn’t handled me with kid gloves like everyone else had. He was an asshole. But I kind of liked that about him.
“Who’s the new guy?” I asked, trying to keep him talking. So long as he was talking, there was a chance I could get something useful.
“He’s not exactly new in the strictest form of the word.”
I frowned, trying to figure out what he meant.
Dad pushed aside the plastic coverings in the doorway and held them back as I walked into the room. It looked like a regular old office, complete with dingy fluorescent lighting, a laminated desk, and rollaway chair. There were even Crowbar Construction business cards waiting on the desk. It was an ample space, so the small desk and chair crammed in the middle looked a bit funny, but I was fairly certain that the door on the other side led to my dad’s real office.
“Why do you need a new guy, anyway?” I asked my dad as he rifled through some papers on the desk. “You have plenty of people who work for you, and bringing in new blood right now is a bad idea. Any of them could be a member of the Macon Mob.”
“Very true,” he muttered as his gray eyes skittered across the pages he was reading.
“Why can’t you just have Beau do...whatever it is you need this new person to do?”
Before Dad could respond, someone shoved aside the plastic at the doorway and walked in, and a warm, Southern voice interrupted us. “Have me do what?”