by Rina Kent
Silence grows between us like that one in horror films right before a character is killed. I wait for the blow and wait and wait.
Nothing happens.
I slowly peel my eyes open. Shadow is standing straight with both his hands in his pockets. Due to the position, his arms are in straight lines. The hint of light outlines his bulging biceps and the colourful tattoos spilling from his T-shirt’s sleeve.
He’s watching me intently with a raised brow like a predator sampling his prey. There’s something about the easy danger he emanates that drops my stomach and causes sweat to break out on my forehead.
This man is bad news. Super bad. He really is the monster Mum warned me away from.
“Don’t touch me without permission again,” he says in an authoritative tone.
He reaches for the doorknob, and I stumble away.
Shadow pushes past me with one last undecipherable glance.
I stare at his back and, not going to lie, that arse. He leisurely walks down the hall, uncaring and nonchalant. It’s like he owns half of the world and couldn’t give two fucks about the other half.
Only maybe he does.
Perhaps Shadow wasn’t playing a sick game. After all, he tried to control his reaction. Maybe he genuinely hates being touched.
Maybe, just maybe, his demons are as haunting as mine.
A week passes, and my integration in Le Salon isn’t as hard as I thought it’d be.
Or perhaps I’m underestimating how easily darkness can suck someone in.
I made it my mission to befriend the girls. Not only for information, but also because I always thirst for company. I’m better not left with my chaotic head or I’ll backpedal to muted, horrifying memories.
The downside is that I miss Elle so freaking much. We’ve never been separated for this long. I try to talk to her and Liam every night, but it’s hardly enough.
Hopefully, I'll get used to this feeling of loneliness because I can’t meet them while I’m at Le Salon. I’d rather die in a corner than put either of them in danger.
I spent hours and days being the new rising star of the club. It’s so freaking hard to be likeable when most girls think I’m after their positions or escorts’ ranks. They wouldn’t believe me no matter how much I swear I have no such ‘ambitions’.
They only began to take my word seriously when they saw me hanging out with Natalie. Apparently, she’s one of the lowest here because of her demotion. Even other waitresses look down on her, calling her ‘a useless whore’ behind her back.
Those girls can be real bitches.
To spite them, I spend most of my time with Nat. She’s the warmest person here.
My roommate, Scarlett, is… whelp, eccentric is the understatement of the century.
While applying green nail polish to my toes, I peek at her. She’s swaying to an old Oasis song. Her eyes are closed and waves of platinum blonde hair fall in a chaotic mess around her face.
She’s in a fluffy pink top on which is written, ‘An apple a day can keep anyone away if you throw it hard enough.’
No kidding. She has a stack of all these tops and T-shirts with the weirdest sayings on them. Her jeans shorts reveal pale thighs and a sublime hourglass feminine figure. Her features are petite and soft like a French doll.
No wonder she’s the number one escort here, but I can’t get a read off her. She flips too fast, and it’s impossible to keep up.
She was the blondie who came with Mist and the others the night I first met Shadow in that underground fight ring. Then she... disappeared.
Something doesn’t add up with her and yet, I couldn’t find anything so far.
The song comes to an end.
As if feeling me watching her, Scarlett snaps her huge amber eyes open and stares at me. Poker face. Her body is as unmoving as a board.
Then she smiles, and it seems artificial. It does reach her eyes, but not really, and I noticed that’s the only type of smiles she offers to anyone.
“Did you know Hitler was a soldier in World War I?” She asks enthusiastically.
“Yeah.” I nod and go back to painting my toes. World War II trivia is her kink or something.
“Humph.” She sounds disappointed that I know. She always is.
I did well in history. It was one of my favourite subjects. I’m not someone who lets go of the past.
In a few seconds, Scarlett is standing beside me. “Do you want me to do your makeup?”
“I can do it myself, but thanks.”
She throws her weight on the bed and groans. “Why are you so boring, Zoe?”
Still perching on the stool, I twist my head to look at her. “I’m not boring. Maybe you are.”
She glares, but I don’t know why she appears like a child. “You think because you have a few friends, you’re not boring?”
“Well, at least I have them. I can’t say the same about you.”
I’m not supposed to antagonise Scarlett, but she’s an impossible information source, and wouldn’t talk about anything of value. No matter how strategically I try to broach the subject. Perhaps if I piss her off, she’d throw true, anger-filled words.
She stands and smirks, and it’s a horrible flashback from Shadow’s. That sadistic, amused energy hits me straight in the chest.
“Be careful of said friends, Zoe. They won’t hesitate to stab you in the back and watch you bleed.”
I pause and carefully screw the nail polish bottle shut. “What do you mean?”
“You will know.” She heads to the closet and turns on ‘Talk Tonight’ by Oasis. That’s Scarlett’s move to cut off any type of questioning.
Scarlett – no, Scar, because she likes being called that – only reveals whatever she wants and then retreats.
Her hide and seek game is starting to wear me out.
But she’s of high rank in Le Salon, even when she’s a lone wolf. The other girls automatically avoid her and she gets no discipline from Mist.
One thing for certain, the new leaders of this place, are more secretive than the previous owner.
Mist takes care of everything Le Salon related and turns scary whenever one of the girls is harassed. The phantom Ghost never appears. I noticed a few other men go into Mist’s office, but I doubt any of them is Ghost.
Shadow is distant, and the most confusing of all, but I have to get closer to him. One way or another. He needs to stop trying to sabotage President Joe from joining the mafia business here.
I’ve been thinking about ways to do it. The problem is that I can’t do anything unless I get to know him better.
What ticks him off. What makes him lenient. Things I can use to make him change his mind all without suspecting me.
The girls don’t know much about him, and those who seem like they do are distant. There’s some line I need to find in there. They’re clearly attracted to him but would rather not talk about him. What type of logic is that?
I’m not naïve. It’s loud and clear that Shadow is a dangerous, unpredictable man like his stormy eyes. My mission won’t be easy, but I'll do whatever it takes to accomplish my revenge.
Even if it means willingly approaching the monster everyone else is scared of.
After I dress in a low-cut green gown, I wear my nude pumps and head to Le Salon’s lounge area. It’s still early, so the place isn’t buzzing with customers yet.
A low, alternative rock song plays in the background, bathing the club in a serene halo. I find myself swaying when I distribute some of the drinks. I recall how Mum used to catch me in her arms and make us both dance. We used to laugh so hard and goof around.
And then she was gone.
The mere flashback of those memories causes my body to stop swaying. I turn around, and I’m captured by the greyest, overcast eyes. Shadow is watching from across the club, a smirk tugging on his sensual lips. Leaning back in a chair, he has an arm hooked behind him on the back of the seat and one arm on the table casually twirling a drink. He’s sit
ting with Lachlan and Julian – Mist’s right-hand man — but his undivided, dark attention is on me.
Unwanted heat creeps down my belly and up my cheeks.
He’s been doing this a lot lately: watching from afar like he has a claim on me or something. To my doom, a wave of thrill contorts my stomach every time I catch him staring. I hate the man. He’s arrogant and slippery and… wrong.
It’s just a phase. I’m sure the tingles between my thighs will fade if I ignore it.
I rip my gaze and focus on my task. It’s useless to get caught in a staring contest with him because he never looks away first. Even now, I can feel his piercing attention on my back.
It’s so unexplainable, but I take extra care to sway my hips on my way to the bar.
I spend the rest of the busy night working my arse off and taking a few breaks with Natalie. Once the shift is almost over, I ask Nat a favour to take over for me and then sneak from the backdoor.
As I observed, Shadow always leaves fifteen minutes or so before the closing of the club and wanders outside Le Salon.
I heave a breath and step into the darkness of the night.
Tonight, I’ll follow the beast to his lair.
Chapter Seven
The pounding in my head won’t bloody stop.
It’s constant and buzzy and irritating as fuck. Those little elf bitches are carrying giant hammers and pounding at the walls of my fucking sanity. Otherwise, why would I imagine naked, disgusting elves in my head?
One thing for sure, imaginary or not, once I catch those little bitches, I'll rip them apart.
A stab of pain shoots from the back of my head.
Fucking elves are taking revenge.
I rub my temple as I walk out of Le Salon. The only solution for this constant, numbing pain is a little capsule named Omega drug.
When the pain got too much, I took more than the dose needed for withdrawal. Ghost has been on my arse since he started suspecting it.
He doesn’t fucking understand. I’m not him; all family man and responsibilities. He’d do anything for Team Zero because he considers them his family.
It’s fucking ridiculous if you ask me. We barely remember each other when on Omega and we’re all bloody murderers. What’s so familial about us?
Ghost and his wrapped up sense of reality is all on him. I don’t share the whole family and rainbows rubbish.
Once he figures out how much of a monster I am, everything will be over.
It’s my mission to not let him find out.
I straighten and sprint down the road and run so fast that the streets start blurring. Cold night air slaps my face. I take refuge in the darkness and the complete lack of warmth.
This is my territory. The coldness. The nothingness. The fucking emptiness.
I run.
Like a madman or a free spirit, it depends on the day.
Today, I need to fucking run. Boxing and running help with Omega’s lingering effects. They give me a purpose other than ending other people’s lives.
It takes me thirty minutes at full speed to arrive at the meeting location. My lungs are begging for bloody air, but I forbid them the pleasure. The abandoned building on the outskirts of East London is three-storey high with shopped stones as walls.
I rub my hands together and place them on the cracks between the stones. I haul my body up and start climbing.
My feet slip and I almost fall, so I clutch a crack in the stones with one hand. My shoulder muscles strain at holding my entire weight. I grunt, draw in a breath, grab the wall with my other hand, and continue.
Sure, there are doors and stairs, but where’s the fucking fun in that?
I don’t consider myself alive. I never was. Not before Omega and certainly not during Omega; I only killed like a robot at that time. One hit and I get my dose. No hit and Hades forces the bitching withdrawal on us. Just because he fucking can.
So now, I take every bloody opportunity to feel alive.
Once I arrive at the roof, I blow a breath and dust my clothes. My contact isn’t here. I check my watch. I’m early.
With nothing better to do, I hop on the edge of the rooftop where there aren’t rusty metal railings. I stand there and watch the empty street from the shadows. There’s a gladiator-level battle going on between stray cats over some rubbish.
A taxi stops in front of the worn-out building across the street. A blonde stumbles outside. A black man hurries from the other side to steady her. She giggles like some school girl. He drops her to the front of the building, makes sure she’s okay and then goes back to the taxi.
The woman fidgets in front of the building, obviously drunk and about to pass out. She sways in place until the taxi is out of sight. Then, she stumbles to the middle of the pavement.
The whole time I watch her, I can’t put a finger on it, but I want to fucking shake her.
That’s a lie.
I can put a finger on it. From this angle, without clear physical features, she reminds me of that bloody Zoe. Even her name is irritating as fuck. What does Zoe even mean? Life. I kind of searched it up.
She snatches my attention whenever she’s in the room like a bloodsucker. I simply can’t look away – and it’s not from lack of trying.
But I better learn to turn the other way because the consequences won’t be pretty for her.
Fuck. Who am I kidding? Look away? I can’t even rip my gaze from her fucking imitation down the street.
After what seems like forever, the blonde trudges into the building.
A rustle sounds from behind me. I turn in time for a gun to be pointed in my face. I’m on the edge of the rooftop without railings. The fall would fucking kill me. A gunshot would hurt less than having my skull crushed.
A hoodie covers his features, but a few rebel dark ginger strands escape their confinement. All complete with a short beard.
“I can kill you,” Flame says in his signature detached tone.
“You can try.” I ignore his gun and jump down so I’m eye level with him.
He twirls the weapon on his forefinger, flashing me the ‘beware of fire hazard’ sign tattoo on his wrist. That gun better be clicked on safe before he shoots me by fucking accident.
“If it was someone else.” He tilts his head to the side. “You would be dead.”
“I don’t live by ‘if’.” I lean against the rusty railings and they creak in protest. “You’re late.”
“You’re early.” He sheathes his weapon at the back of his jeans underneath the hoodie. He’s about my height but leaner and fucking meaner. At least I care about Ghost. Flame cares about no-bloody-one.
He reached into his jeans’ pocket and retrieves a pack of cigarettes. “Why are we meeting here instead of Le Salon?”
“You know why.”
He pauses with the cigarette hanging from his mouth. He takes his time lightning it, then makes the slowest show of taking his first drag. Nicotine blows in my face.
Silence falls between us – aside from the background noise of the stray cats’ gladiator fight. He’s remaining silent on purpose. Flame is that little bastard in Team Zero — no one particularly likes him — but he’s a useful bastard. In Ghost’s wrapped up sense of family, Flame is the trouble child who might or might not turn out to be a psycho killer who will murder the entire fucking family.
So far, the psycho killer part is correct.
He’s been dispatched with us by Hades. His mission is the financial department of the mafia business. He’s a genius with numbers and hacking, but I need his other genius. Asking for his help is a risk that I fought for so long not to take.
Flame isn’t trustworthy. Even worse than Mist. I don’t even like that old hag, but she’s loyal. Flame knows no such thing. He’s slippery as fuck.
But after that text, Flame became my last resort. I need to eradicate anyone who knows my secret, and Flame has the connections I lack.
He breathes more nicotine in my face. “I assume Ghost isn�
�t supposed to know about this?”
I make a show of grinning wide. “If he knows, I’ll wrench your intestines out of your arsehole.”
“Gruesome.” He grins back. “I’ll have to decline for now. We can try it on a target, though.”
“I need your contacts in the second generation of assassins who are still with Hades.”
He cocks his head. “Why not Celeste?”
“She’s Ghost’s disciple.”
He shows no reaction whatsoever. I just admitted that I’m going to great lengths to hide this from Ghost, and I’m sure Flame will use it for his benefit. Whatever he does wouldn’t come close to what Ghost will do once he learns the truth.
“What do you want?” he asks.
“I need Ink to stay as The Pit’s prisoner as long as possible.”
He doesn’t react to the fact that I want one of Team Zero members, one of ours, to continue being locked up and eventually tortured by Hades. That’s what I like about Flame. He isn’t judgy.
He removes the cigarette from his lips. “The second generation have less influence than we do in The Pit. If you think Hades will listen to them, then I don’t know from which planet you came from.”
I slip a hand in my pocket. “I’m sure you taught your disciples a manipulation or two. If Hades will release someone first, I don’t want it to be Ink.”
Silence stakes claim again. Flame takes his sweet arse time smoking. That obscure brain of his must be counting the pros and cons.
The second generation of assassins came after Team Zero. Once thirty-eight of us died, Hades kind of realised that Omega isn’t a long term solution to build his ‘army’ of assassins. He kidnapped more kids, and they were actual kids, from five to ten. He made us train them and shape his second generation of killers. The only difference is that he can’t control them as he does us through Omega and therefore, they have more room to escape than we do.
Flame clutches the cigarette between his thumb and forefinger as he asks the famous question. “What do I get out of this?”
Before I can say anything, he continues. “Here’s what I won’t get. I’ll risk Ghost’s wrath because you’re doing something he doesn’t approve of.”