Blood & Roses (Vigilante Crime Series)
Page 1
Blood & Roses
Kristi Belcamino
Contents
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Blood & Roses
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Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Kristi Belcamino
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Blood & Roses
Rose, whose tragic childhood made her once vow to become an angel of death, left that world behind to be a normal teenager, sunbathing on the beach, playing chess in cafes, and falling in love …
But her life is ripped apart when an enemy from her dark past appears and goes after everything she cares about.
Rose is then faced with a horrific decision. Leave her new life behind to seek a vengeance that might cost her very soul, or risk losing others she loves.
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Blood & Roses …
In winter time the roses died
Her blood ran cold and then she said
I want to love, but it comes out wrong
I want to live, but I don't belong
I close my eyes and I see blood and roses
The Smithereens
Prologue
Small branches scratched her arms and face as she ran through the woods, heart racing, nearly out of breath. The moonlight filtering down through the tall trees barely lit her way, but she was afraid to slow down. Despite the sound of her own ragged breathing, she could still hear the crackle of the forest growth in front of her, and she followed the sound.
Her eyes searched the darkness ahead for anything moving.
In the blue glow of the moonlight, she could see enough to dodge the trees, but couldn’t make out the ground beneath her. More than once, she stumbled and nearly fell.
A thicker branch scraped against her face, and she instantly felt blood begin to drip down her cheek.
She bit back a curse.
Even though she couldn’t be completely silent in her chase—the dried leaves on the ground made that nearly impossible—she still hoped her prey could not hear her.
But suddenly, the sounds in front of her ceased.
Just as quickly, she stopped. She searched the darkness and listened.
Before she could react, something massive struck her right in the solar plexus.
She crumpled onto the forest floor in pain, unable to breathe.
She felt the whir of the large object swinging right above her, right where her head had been.
Without thinking, she rolled and swept her legs out. She made contact, taking her attacker’s legs out completely. She heard a loud thud nearby.
Rolling away again, she put some distance between her and her attacker before she sprang to her feet.
She was still out of breath from having the wind knocked out of her but was able to see a dark silhouette rising from the path in front of her. They were far enough apart that Rose felt safe holding her ground.
Rose reached for her gun, taking it out of the holster at the small of her back.
“You will pay for what you have done.”
Rose pointed the gun with a steady arm.
There was a strangled laugh, and the black silhouette shifted, taking a step toward her.
“Don’t move!” Rose said.
The forest around them had grown silent. Birds and in sects seemed to be holding their breath, waiting to see what would happen next.
There was the crunch of leaves as her attacker took another step. The distance between them was shrinking.
In response, Rose released the safety.
The dark figure lunged and Rose saw the gun flash in the moonlight.
The blast sent a flurry of birds and other night creatures screaming away into the night leaving the forest deathly quiet.
1
Rose felt her face growing hot as the people she loved most in the world turned their attention to her and sang “Happy Birthday.” Their faces shone with joy and the neon glow from the six-foot-high flashing letters on the wall behind them that spelled out MANGIA.
The remnants of a feast sat on the table before them: wide, shallow bowls still slick with sauce from the pasta Bolognese; smaller plates containing the remains of a green salad; water carafes everywhere; wine glasses still full; hunks of bread still on the white tablecloth, surrounded by crumbs.
It was her favorite restaurant and not just for the food, although it was one of the most renowned Italian restaurants in Barcelona.
The décor was simple and homey. Dozens of tables draped in simple white tablecloths with small glass cruets atop them were spaced evenly throughout the room and lit by the massive flashing letters on the back wall. A bank of windows opened up to a small sidewalk area outside.
There was always a steady stream of Italian arias and folk songs filtering through hidden speakers, loud enough to hear, but not so loud that it drowned out the vibrant conversation that always filled the place.
It wasn’t the food, the atmosphere, or the ambience—which Rose thought were all utter perfection—that made it her favorite place.
No, it was because her best friend’s father owned it.
The restaurant was located in the middle of Las Ramblas, the wide, pedestrian-only street that ran through the heart of the city. The tree-lined boulevard stretched nearly a mile from the Christopher Columbus statue at the Port Vell marina to Catalonia Square (Plaça de Catalunya). On one side of the Ramblas, the Gothic Quarter neighborhood stretched to the east. On the west side was El Raval, the former China Town and part of the city closet to the port.
The Ramblas, and in turn the restaurant located in its heart, were central to everything in the city.
Rose and Timothy had spent much of the past four years making Mangia their second home. Timothy worked in the kitchen with his father, and Rose waited tables, charming the tourists and locals.
But even when they weren’t working, the two would often come to the restaurant just to hang out, ordering espressos and sitting at a corner table for hours, either playing chess or just talking. Sometimes friends joined them. It was one of those places where teenagers congregated becau
se they felt welcomed and accepted.
And when he’d been alive, Rose would bring Django. The dog would sit at her feet or lay out in front of the restaurant keeping an eye on those who walked by. He became such a fixture that a famous photographer who was a regular at the restaurant always took pictures of him. One black and white photograph had been blown up and took up the entire wall of the restaurant’s unisex bathroom. Rose usually fought back tears when she used the bathroom and saw her beloved pet’s sweet face.
Tonight, however, her only tears were those of joy.
She was surrounded by the people she loved most in the world.
When she’d walked in earlier, thinking she was just meeting Gia for a birthday dinner, she’d burst into tears when she’d seen all the people sitting at the large table in the back.
The first person she had seen was the woman who had trained her to be a warrior so many years ago.
Eva.
Rose considered the woman to be her great aunt.
Dressed in her signature black—long sleeves and pants despite the Barcelona heat—along with her dark mane of hair, onyx eyes, and powerful presence, Eva was impossible to miss.
Her boyfriend, Alex, a graying, sophisticated Englishman sat beside her, and across from them was the redheaded Francesca, Eva’s best friend. Francesca, a slim, tall woman in her 70s, wore a white flowing gown with a gold, twisting bracelet that snaked up her upper arm like she was Cleopatra.
Scanning the table, Rose found Gia, whom she considered the closest thing she had to a mother, even though she wasn’t old enough to be that. Her eyes lit on Gia’s compact frame. She wore a backless black halter dress, and her signature motorcycle jacket was slung over the back of a chair. Her dark hair was pulled back from her face in a messy half ponytail that was effortlessly chic. She was talking animatedly to the rest of the table, but as if sensing that Rose had arrived, she looked up. Her face lit up in a smile when she saw Rose.
But there was a sadness there too.
Rose smiled back, but as always, her heart sank every time she saw Gia alone in public.
No matter how long her father, Nico, had been in memory care, it always was like a knife to the heart to see Gia without him.
Her sadness was quickly forgotten when she saw who Gia was talking to. Gia’s best friend, Dante, had flown in from California with his husband, Wayne.
That’s when the happy tears began.
She turned to Timothy, who hadn’t left her side since they walked in.
“You knew? All of this?”
Francesca, who had made her way to the front of the restaurant, overheard her question and said, “Knew? It was his idea.” She winked at Rose.
Rose turned to Timothy with one eyebrow raised. “Is that true? You did all of this?” She stretched out her arms to indicate the room full of people she loved from around the world.
He gave a shy smile.
Acting on impulse, she stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
When she pulled back to meet his eyes, she saw something there that took her aback. It was a look that she’d been trying to hide from for the past year.
Heart racing, she let go of his hand and turned away, rushing to greet everyone.
After they finished singing and Rose blew out the candles, she went outside with Timothy while his father took the cake back to the kitchen to cut and serve.
Timothy had asked her to keep him company while he smoked a cigarette.
As she followed him out, Dante asked her a question. Timothy stopped to wait for her, but she gestured he should go on outside.
“I’ll be out in a minute,” she said.
As she spoke to Dante, she watched Timothy’s back through the front window.
Two girls came up to him and said something.
Rose was trying to listen to Dante, but she couldn’t keep her eyes off what was going on outside. The girls were smiling and playing with their hair. Oh my God. They were flirting with Timothy. She watched as he leaned over and lit a cigarette for one of the girls—a blonde in a tiny minidress and sky-high heels.
A streak of jealousy raced over Rose. What the hell? She’d never been the jealous type. Her best friend could have other friends. And girlfriends. Of course. In fact, when Timothy was dating Karla last summer, the three of them had a lot of fun together. Why was this little scene with a petite blonde making her jealous now? Rose was irritated with herself.
Maybe she was an overprotective friend. Maybe no woman was quite good enough for her best friend? Yes, that was it. Come to think of it, even though she’d enjoyed Karla’s company, Rose never saw her as a threat. She was only there for the summer, and Timothy had told Rose right away that he liked her enough to hang out with, but not really for a girlfriend.
“You’re using her for sex?” Rose had said mischievously.
Timothy had squirmed uncomfortably. “I don’t use anyone. It just works for both of us.”
“Aha,” Rose said laughing.
“I have needs, you know. I’m a teenage boy.”
She had shrugged. “Hey, I’m not judging.”
But then he’d stared at her for so long she finally said. “What?”
“Don’t you have needs too?”
“Oh my God. I don’t want to talk to you about this,” she said.
“Seriously, Ro. Don’t you ever see a guy you want as a boyfriend?”
“No,” she said.
“A girl then?”
“No,” she said laughing. She’d then crawled onto the couch and put her head in his lap. Looking up at him, she said, “I don’t need anyone else. I have you.”
He’d smiled at her response, but she’d seen his Adam’s apple bob as he looked away.
Right after that, he got up off the couch and went outside.
She wondered what his problem was.
There had been one boy. Karla’s friend. They had double dated one night.
Karla had said Rose would love him, but the night had gone horribly wrong.
They’d gone to a club, and Rose drank too much. At least that’s what she thought at first.
At first, it had been fun, and they were all dancing. But then she started feeling ill. The boy, who was more than 200 pounds of pure muscle, had gone with her to sit down. But instead of taking her back to the booth where they had been sitting, he took her down a dark hallway and pressed her against the wall. He kissed her. It had been nice at first. Really nice. But then he got rough. She tried to stop him, but he was stronger. Normally, Rose could’ve fought back better, but there had been something in her drink. She knew it. She felt sick and weak and unable to move. He slipped his hand up her dress, and she felt paralyzed. She could feel the tears slowly dripping down her face but couldn’t get away.
Suddenly, the boy was ripped away from her, and she watched hollow-eyed as Timothy jumped on him.
The next few moments were chaos.
Timothy beat the guy to a bloody pulp. The cops were called and both of them were arrested.
After that, Timothy stopped dating Karla.
Rose and Timothy never talked about that night again.
When Rose finally stepped outside the restaurant, Timothy turned toward her and away from the two girls. Rose completely ignored them.
“Well, see you around,” one of the girls said.
The other stared straight at Rose and said, “We’ll probably come in for lunch tomorrow if you’re working.”
He shrugged and said “I should be.”
Then he turned so his back was completely to them and faced Rose. She watched over his shoulder as the two girls glared at her and then walked away.
“The one in the miniskirt wants you badly,” Rose said, watching Timothy’s face.
He shrugged.
She pushed on.
“I mean that minidress, wow, sure leaves nothing to the imagination,” she said.
“It would look better on you,” he
said.
She laughed. “You know I don’t wear black.”
“Why is that again?” he said with a teasing smile.
She shrugged. How could she tell him that she stopped wearing black the day she decided not to devote her life to killing people? Assassins wore black. Eva wore black. Gia wore black.
Rose would never wear black again. Instead, she dressed in turquoise and red and emerald greens and white.
“What, you don’t like this dress?” she said.
He groaned.
“What?” she said. “You don’t, do you?”
He turned to her and looked in her eyes. For a second, her heart stopped and she didn’t know why. She knew she looked good in the white dress. It made her skin look even darker and her teeth even whiter. And it hugged all of her curves in the right places.
“I hate it,” he said with such a twinkle in his eye that she burst into laughter. “And I’m sure every male from ten to one hundred hates it as much as I do.”
Rose felt her cheeks grow red. She’d never fished for a compliment from Timothy before. It felt strange. But tonight, everything felt different.
Was it because she was now an adult? Did turning eighteen make the world different? No.
Timothy reached down and brushed a strand of hair out of her face. She caught her breath. What was going on?