Doll Face: A Doll Face Novel (The Doll Face Series Book 1)

by Sadie Grubor

  "Where is she?" he asks, finally catching on.

  "Gone," I bark. "I asked Joey to bring her to me while I dealt with Gio, but…"

  "But what?" he demands, buttoning his dress pants before starting on his shirt.

  "Apparently, she bolted," I explain, crossing my arms over my chest. "If this girl is a Fed or working for someone, then we've already wasted too much time and she's long gone by now." At the thought of her being gone, for good, my fists clench.

  "Nico," Felix shouts at the closed door.

  The minute it cracks open, he barks out, "Bring me Joey."

  "He doesn't know where she is," I advise. "I already asked."

  "I know," the quiet rasp of the forgotten woman at our feet draws both our attention. Grabbing her throat, she visibly swallows, then tries again, "I know what building she lives in."

  Felix's head snaps back to me. "Find her, Saint. Deal with it."

  I clench my jaw, grinding my teeth, to keep from punching the arrogant asshole in his face. I don't take orders from him, but Nico is watching. So, out of respect for my cousin's position, I give a tight nod before collecting the used woman from the floor and leaving the room.

  It doesn't take Tricia long to give up all the information she has on Mei. Not just her apartment building, but also her own uncertainties.

  The last person I'm going to listen to is a jealous whore willing to endure Felix's attention when she's clearly not into the lifestyle. Still, the information Tricia provides about Mei's purposely toned-down acts, being so closed off from the rest of them, and that she's sure Mei's running from someone piques my interest more than any of the reservations.

  Finding Felix still in the VIP room with Vicky's body isn't entirely surprising, but the scent of death is starting to take over. I quickly relay the location information Tricia provided, but keep the rest to myself.

  "Bring me Christian and Jimmy," Felix orders Nico, who stands just inside the door.

  "I'll deal with her," I state, letting my curiosity trample down the suspicions. His eyes move from Nico to me, glancing between us. The muscle in my right cheek twitches, relishing in his uncertainty. He's loyal to Felix, but they're all afraid of me, The Saint—the dark creature residing where my soul should be. A place long ago obliterated, only to be infused with blood, tears, dirt, screams, and darkness.

  "Seems a bit out of the ordinary for you," he comments, studying my blank face.

  At an early age, I learned to keep my emotions buried deep. My mentor wouldn't accept anything less, so by the tender age of seven, I could watch a man lose limbs, teeth, and tongue without blinking. If I had, my punishment would've been worse than the tortures I'd witnessed and cleaned up after.

  Giving a casual raise of my shoulders, I admit, "I'm curious."

  Felix grins.

  "The Saint is curious?" It's a taunt, not a question. "Perhaps you've developed new…" he pauses, waving his hand in front of him, "practices in the little game you like to play."

  Anger rages a war beneath my skin, knowing exactly what he's insinuating. I lean forward in my seat, elbows to my knees. Our eyes meet and a moment of fear flashes in his eyes before he blinks it away.

  "I have no need to force myself on a woman," I state, calmly.

  His top lip curls, just a bit.

  "You forget, Dante, I'm well aware of your preferences," he scoffs.

  Snorting, I settle back into my chair.

  "Felix, you only know what I allow you to. You should remember that," I say, my words carrying threat and promise.

  He opens his mouth, but I continue. "The small glimpse you stole into my private affairs is part of a larger picture you couldn't fathom. It's not for…" I pause, mimicking his hand waving motion from moments before, "men such as yourself."

  Eyebrows drawn over narrowed eyes, his lips thin. He's pissed and ready to challenge my authority. Raising one brow, I welcome the confrontation. Felix is getting a bit too full of himself. He forgets who I am. Forgets that, in the life we were born, we may be blood, but I outrank him.

  "You arrogant—" he begins, reaching inside his jacket. Before he can get his fingertips beneath the lapel, his chair is on its side and I stand behind him. My knife to his throat and hand fisting his hair, I focus on the always loyal Nico, who's gun is trained on my head.

  "Don't be a fool," I warn. "I'm not going to hurt my dear cousin."

  Letting Felix feel the steel of my blade against his throat, I release the dark blond strands on his head and step away.

  "Put the gun down, you idiot," Felix barks at Nico.

  Grinning, I slide my blade back into place. Nico lowers his gun, hard eyes focused on me.

  It's been this way with Felix since the day I did what he could not.

  The request was simple, yet gruesome. Felix froze up the moment he met the eyes of his father. I didn't. Not even with my own mother and father.

  While we both wear the title of “boss,” I, unlike him, answer only to the head of the family–Angelo Ruggiano, our uncle. So, on occasion, Felix likes to test the boundaries of our relationship, like tonight.

  After helping him from the floor, Felix sends Nico on his errand and straightens his clothing. When Christian and Jimmy arrive, he orders them to follow my every instruction.

  I give them the location of the building they will be watching. With my final direction to observe, not engage, and to report all information back to me, we go our separate ways. In the hallway toward the exit, Felix and I pass a dirty janitor. Felix doesn't pay him any attention, but my eyes briefly meet his with a knowing look. The cleaner, meant to be unnoticed, has arrived for Gio and Vicky. Before exiting, I wonder if they will dissolve in the same barrel, mixing together forever like a morbid fairytale ending.

  On my way to my Chicago penthouse, I receive confirmation of Meissa's whereabouts, closing curtains spotted in a third-floor window before the lights went out.

  At the information, the demons possessing me stir. Tightening my grip on the steering wheel, the urge to reroute to her tenses every muscle in my body.

  Her response to Vicky's death and the curious excitement in her eyes as I dragged Gio to his end calls to the darkest side of me. Their connection, something he craves to explore, in pain, blood, and tears—all the things even monsters are afraid of.

  Reaching inside my jacket, I run my fingers over the cold steel of the blade tucked away in the special pocket I have custom added to all my suits. The urge settles, calming enough to keep me from tracking down what I currently desire.

  Arriving home, I make my way through the unlit rooms and climb the stairs to the master bedroom. Once I've stripped out of my stained clothes, I stuff them into a black bag to be disposed of tomorrow.

  Naked, my knife in hand, I make my way to the bathroom. Placing the knife next to the sink, I climb into the shower to wash away the events of the night. There's only one thing I can't seem to cleanse from my system. And when I climb into bed, it's with thoughts of the tiny blonde and all the secrets she carries. Skeletons I want to unearth and put on display, just to see how she reacts.

  Waking so sudden, and unsure of what caused it, I scan my dark bedroom.

  Empty.

  Taking my gun from the side table, I slide naked from my oversized bed.

  With the heel of my palm, I slap the control unit on the wall. The mechanical hum of the blinds opening fills the room. Gripping the gun with both hands, I bring it up and scan the room again.

  Empty.

  Dropping my arms, I furrow my brow.

  The fuck woke me up?

  Tossing the Glock onto the bed, I sigh and rub the back of my neck.

  With a deep breath, I shake off the weird anxiousness coursing through my body and begin my day.

  I'm halfway through my workout when my phone beeps.

  Flexing my taped hands, I still the punching bag and glance down at the cell phone resting on the bench.

  She's on the move.

  The text fr
om Christian sends an unfamiliar tingle up my spine.

  Typing my response, the uneasiness from earlier returns.

  Follow. Do not engage.

  There are a million other things I need to take care of today, meetings that cannot be missed, but a tiny woman with fake blonde hair and a glittery painted mask has become my number one objective.

  Unable to concentrate on the rest of my routine, I leave the workout room to prepare for the day ahead of me. I don my own mask—a custom-made, dark blue thousand-dollar suit hiding the malicious, blood-thirsty creature lurking beneath my skin.

  Forgoing my driver, I need to do this on my own. This task, this woman, is more personal, but I don't spend time trying to figure out why. I opt for the less conspicuous silver SUV. Unbuttoning my jacket, I slide into the black leather seat, start the car, and back out of the reserved space. Before exiting the underground garage, I send a text requesting Christian and Jimmy's location. It doesn't take long for them to respond and me to drive in that direction.

  Alerting them when I'm close, they pull out of their parking space along the side of the street, allowing me to pull in. Moments later, Jimmy steps up to the driver side window, and I lower it halfway, allowing him to recap her day so far.

  "She left her building at eight thirty-two this morning, walked three blocks to a small diner, and stayed there until nine forty-eight. Now," Jimmy nods across the street, "she's in there."

  Moving my gaze from him to the run-down fitness center, I scan the large, dirty windows. In the left window, four out of five treadmills are being used. None of them are her. In the right window, one man bench presses while another spots him. Still no sign of her.

  "She's been in there for almost an hour," he finishes.

  Without taking my eyes from the building, I nod.

  "I assume you both have things to do. Go take care of them and find me in a couple hours," I instruct, rolling the window back up without waiting for a response.

  I study the business front—the peeling white logo, the cracked glass in the corner of the right window, and old signs taped on the inside of the double door entrance that announce a new spin class, new business hours, and a heavy weight champion boxing instructor.

  There's no way this place makes enough money to stay open on its own. Reaching for my phone, I'm about to do some research on the business, to inquire whether it's one of our fronts, when Mei emerges.

  Face flush and messy hair knotted at the top of her head, not one swipe of the makeup-created mask she wore last night. Her skin is like porcelain, creamy white, aside from the natural flush of her cheeks. The lashes framing her eyes aren't nearly as dark or thick as before, but do wonders at highlighting their largeness. All of it could be out of place, odd, but there's a natural, almost youthful appeal. Something very doll-like.

  Her face turns toward me, and for the slightest moment, I feel exposed, discovered, then she scans the rest of the street before stepping out from beneath the faded awning. I observe her from my spot for as long as possible, but when she rounds a corner, I have no choice but to pull out into traffic.

  I turn the same corner and watch as she disappears into another shop—a used bookstore. Driving around the block, even while knowing I risk losing her, I hit the car's Bluetooth to make a call.

  "Saint?" Sketch answers, sounding distracted.

  "I need information," I respond. "I'll send you the subjects."

  "And I'm…" he releases a soft grunt, then continues, "sending you new developments in regards to your other requests." A slap comes through the phone.

  "Which one?" I inquire.

  "Both," he says on a pant. "And one is going to put you in a gutting mood," he reveals. "Just don't slice and dice the messenger, okay?"

  "When will I have it?" I ask, ignoring his gibe.

  "Later today. Check out your porn," he instructs, referring to the secure laptop he provided. The one that dons a large XXX sticker on it.

  "How deep do I go with these new…principals?" he asks, knowing not to reveal too much over the phone. A muffled groan in the background follows his question.

  "I want to know the business’s history, if it's one of ours, and the owner. I want everything."

  "Got it," he confirms.

  "Are you sure, because you seem focused on other things," I growl into the phone.

  "Have I ever disappointed?" he counters.

  Fortunately for him, Sketch is right. No matter the shit going on around him, he's never failed me.

  "It's in your best interest not to let this be the first time you do," I inform before ending the call.

  Pulling into an empty space down the street, I send him her name and the name of the fitness center. As if sensing the mention of her name, she emerges from the store, an old backpack over her shoulder, and once again searches the street before heading the opposite direction of where I parked.

  All afternoon, she barely interacts with others, keeping her head down and moving with purpose from the bookstore, a salon, and a convenience store, a revolving enter and exit. And when she's done, she climbs onto public transportation and takes a seat farthest from the passengers already on board.

  My head swirls with questions and assumptions. If she's a Fed, then she's buried herself so deep into the game, she's now a permanent member. But maybe she's just this good at diversion. Or perhaps she's very aware of being monitored, watched, and this is her attempt to throw us off her scent.

  My phone buzzes with an alert from Christian, confirming he and Jimmy are waiting at her building.

  I have other matters to take care of, but the yearning to follow her causes the demons to rouse, feeling like barbs burrowing into my gut. He will only be denied for so long before demanding his prey. And once she's in our grasp, I almost regret what I'll allow him to do to her.

  When her bus turns right, back in the direction of her home, I turn left, toward the warehouse. Angelo's request cannot be ignored. Special treatment for a business partner is needed—The Saint treatment. The promise of things to come is the only reason my dark half allows his new prey out of our sight.

  Mei

  Three days. It doesn't sound like much, but when you're not used to having this much free time, it is. Not to mention the hit my minimal savings is taking without the steady tip money from the club. My apartment isn't much, but it's secure. In my neighborhood, that's crucial and expensive.

  Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes, and on an exhale, I punch the weight bag.

  "You know better, Mei," Junior scolds, holding the bag in place.

  My eyes flit open, focusing on the worn, cracked material.

  "Never close your eyes on your target," he continues.

  One of the few positives to having so much time on my hands has been getting overdue errands taken care of—selling and purchasing text books, hair and body touch-ups at the salon, and the extra training I've gotten in at the gym.

  "Focus on where you want to strike, memorize their face, study their movements," he goes on.

  After a year of self-defense and kickbox training, I'm very familiar with the ground rules and lectures that follow when I break them. His lectures are much better than what happens with my mixed martial arts instructor, Jake. If I mess up there, it ends with bruises and sore spots courtesy of leg sweeps and surprise jabs.

  "Okay, girl, cool down," he instructs.

  Dropping my gloved hands, I roll my head on my shoulders.

  "Good job," is the last thing he says before walking away.

  A man of very few words and barely interested in me aside from our sessions. The perfect man, I think, removing the gloves. If only he weren't old enough to be my grandfather, I finish my thought before chugging down half a bottle of water.

  When I arrive home, I take care of one last errand. Stopping at the apartment next to mine, I lift my hand to knock. The door jerks open, but in place of the thin, seventy-something-year-old woman with dark black hair and paper-thin skin, a woman with
light brown curls stands.

  Tension fills every muscle, my flight instinct kicking in.

  "Can I help you?" she asks, furrowing her brow.

  "Is Ms. Waltman here?"

  "I'm afraid my grandmother has fallen ill," she states, blatantly examining me from head to toe.

  "I'm sorry to hear that." I cross my arms over my middle. "I just wanted to see if she was finished with the stuff she was mending for me."

  My relationship with Ms. Waltman started over a year ago, when she fixed some tears and reinforced the lining of one of the bustiers I wear at the club. She claims to have found it outside my door, but I suspect she took it out of my laundry before returning the item along with the offer to mend any others—for a price, of course. It turns out she was a seamstress back in the day and most definitely one hell of a hustler. Instead of sending her away, I respected her game. We all have a game, and she does amazing work. We just vary the level we play at based on our needs and desires.

  "What things?" she asks, leaning out the door and glancing down the hallway.

  I take a step back.

  Her curls fall over her shoulders, framing her oval face. She doesn't look anything like her grandmother.

  Ms. Waltman is tall and seriously thin with pointy features. She often made me think of the evil witches I'd read about in books. This woman is average height, not thin, but not fat either. More like abundantly curved. And her skin...well, it's peaches and cream, not the pale white of the old woman.

  Noticing my retreat, she says, "Sorry." Then forcing a smile, she explains, "I'm expecting someone. Now, what was she mending?"

  "There should be a couple bras and—"

  "I wondered why Gran would have those things." Her face tightens briefly before the friendly mask slips back into place. Her smile forces, she lifts one finger. "Just a second."

  When she moves back inside the apartment, an awareness creeps over my skin and the hairs on the back of my neck rise. Glancing to the left, then the right, I find the hallway empty, but it doesn't change the feeling of being watched. My instinct to run surges and I'm about to bolt for my apartment when she arrives to the open door.