by Amo Jones
His smile falls. “Was worried.”
My heart clenches when I realize I might be a trigger for him now. I step forward until I’m directly in front of him. “I promise I’m okay and I’m not going anywhere.”
He sniffs, and then leans down into the crook of my neck and inhales deeply. “Manik wears Dior, huh? I would have thought he’d wear something else a little more expensive, but I get it. Sauvage is a good smell.”
I ignore the comment about his cologne, tucking it away in my brain for a totally innocent reason.
“I’m fine and I’m not going anywhere, Kyle, I promise.” Then I walk past him carrying my stuff and heading down to the bathroom. I close the door, sagging against it.
I’m pleased I’m home. I am. No one is trying to kill me, or keeping me prisoner in their basement, and I can wear yoga pants. I don’t have to be afraid when I hear footsteps pounding down the stairs and then wonder if I’m going to die or get manhandled by Manik.
This is a good thing.
So why does my stomach ache.
“Eastside”—Halsey
I rip off the headphones and hang them on the mic, walking through the booth and back into the studio. I sag onto the couch, scrubbing my face.
“You ok, dawg?” Lenny asks, but my head is leaning against the top of the sofa and my legs are spread out.
“Why wouldn’t I be? We’re six songs deep into an album—finally, and it looks like we can pull it together faster than we have ever pulled together an album.”
“And it’s going to be your best album, Ae, but what’s got you all fucked up?”
I lean my head so I can see him out of the corner of my eye. “Nothing has me fucked up.”
“Oh yeah?”
Here we go.
“Lenny?” I muttered, leaning forward to rest my elbows on my knees. “Shut up.”
He throws his hands up. “Listen, I’m just sayin’, maybe you ought to go see her or some shit. Figure that shit out?”
“Lemme ask you something…”
He folds his arms in front of himself and leans against the table the mixer is on. “Sure.”
“When have I ever given a fuck?”
He laughs, his head going back. “Bro, there’s always one girl. Even serial killers have that one girl.”
“Yeah,” I say, kicking my foot up onto the coffee table. “And they’re usually their first victim.”
Lenny sobered. I think he likes her. Actually, scratch that, I know he likes Beat.
I get up from the couch and stretch my arms up. “Katiya has her on tap.”
Lenny chuckles, switching off the table. “She’s gonna be Mrs. Steal Your Girl. Call her Mrs. Trey Songz.”
“She’s been there done that already.” I roll my eyes and head for the door, flicking the lights off. Katiya had a whole month fling with Trey. “And Beat isn’t my girl.” I shiver.
Lenny laughs, shaking his head. “You need to do something about that—that’s all I’m saying.”
Once we’re in my bedroom, I push him out the door and then fall backward onto my bed.
Fuck.
My phone starts ringing in my back pocket and I answer quickly when I see it’s Dad.
“Hey!”
“Syn, I need a job.”
I freeze, squeezing my eyes closed. “Dad, I’m busy with this album. You said you’d go easy with it this year.”
“You going soft on me, son?”
Son, not Syn.
“No,” I answer, exhaling and getting to my feet. “I don’t have any of my gear here so I’ll be down in an hour.”
“Good, Syn, that’s real good. See you soon.”
I throw my phone across the room. This will probably be good. Work off some pent-up shit that I have inside of me on something else.
The drive isn’t long—into the deeper parts of New Orleans. It’s where the Romanov Bratva all reside for family meetings. It’s a house surrounded by high, wired, private fences. There are guards who circle the grounds constantly and a pack of Rottweilers too. The Rotties are owned by my dad and the Bratva.
The wired fence opens when I roll up and I turn the music down on the radio, my headlights flashing on the old Victorian styled mansion aka—Dad’s house—aka my home. This is the holy grail of the Russian mafia and no one sets foot near this soil unless you’re supposed to set foot on this soil—you’ll be shot on the spot otherwise, and before you ask where the bodies are buried, we protect and run a private cemetery and cremation center as private partners. In other words, you’ll disappear in a cloud of burnt up ash.
I pull the car around the high concrete fountain that’s squirting water out of the middle and jump out, just as one of the soldiers, Jesse, nods his head at me.
Fucker.
I don’t mind the soldiers, but this particular one doesn’t sit right with me. They all drop to their knees when I arrive, which is where they belong, but Jesse has something else about him that I don’t like. Can’t quite put my finger on it.
I walk into the open foyer and go straight to my dad’s office which is the first door off the hallway. As soon as you walk in, you get a direct view of the front of the house, thanks to the tinted glass that serves as a wall. They’re reflective, so you can see out, but people outside can’t see in.
I shut the door behind me, my attention on Dad who is sitting in his leather chair, smoking a cigar.
“Syn, take a seat.”
I do, going straight to the chair I usually choose when I come here.
“Do you have the file?” I ask, reaching into my pocket to pull out my cigarettes.
He leans back a little more, blowing out a cloud of grey smoke, then slowly reaches for a pale folder and tosses it to me.
“This one—make it quick and easy. Because the next one I have for you is going to take some time to prepare for.”
“Another one?” My eyes shoot up to meet his as I flip through the papers inside the folder.
Dad nods, rolling the cigar around in his mouth a few times. “Yes, Syn, I know you need to concentrate on your career, but don’t forget the deal you made with me in order for you to gain that career…”
My jaw clenches. “I got my career because I worked for it…”
His eyes narrow and I physically feel the temperature in the room kick up a notch. It always got like this when this subject was raised—not that it was a reoccurring subject in our household. “Maybe, but I allowed it. Remember you’re a Vor, Syn. You can’t get out now, you’re just lucky that we give you a long leash.”
After hitting the end of the folder, I toss it back onto his desk and lean my elbow onto the armrest, my finger drifting over my upper lip. “Fine.”
Dad’s eyes crinkle around the edges as he grins, thinking he won this round. Which he had in a way, because he is right. I can’t walk out. No one walks away from the Bratva and lives. I pull a smoke out of my packet and put it in my mouth.
“Don’t forget your bandana.”
I blow out my smoke, relaxing on the exhale. “I won’t.” I never do.
“How’s the girl?”
I pause slightly. He threw me off with that question. “Fine. Katiya is staying with her.”
“Really?” Dad asks, obviously surprised by my sister’s taking to a new girl. “She hates everyone.”
I agree. “Yeah, well she doesn’t hate this one.”
Dad pauses, watching me carefully. “And you?”
I blow out another cloud of smoke. I might need something stronger. “What about me?”
“Do you hate this one?”
I flick the smoke around with my fingers and lick my bottom lip. “My feelings, or lack thereof, ain’t got shit to do with that girl.” I bait him, and our eyes stay locked for a while, the burnt smog from my smoke floating into the air.
Dad stares at me, his focus differing from what he usually looks like. Dad is focused, determined, and always aware of everything going on around him. It’s intimidating and damn
near genius, so to see the unfocused look in his eye is a little alarming, thus, he took my bait enough for me to see the slight, and very brief, shift.
“Interesting,” Dad mutters, leaning forward to flick the ash off his cigar. “Well, remember what I said. You can’t go near her again.” We’re back to that.
“Not that I would, but why?”
He grins at me. “Because it’s not good business.”
What?
“That makes no sense.”
“Oh,” he chuckles. “It will soon.”
I’ve always hated when he gets cryptic with me, but it’s Dad’s MO. I narrow my eyes on him, tossing my ankle up over my knee. I hate that he can’t trust me either, and his lack of faith in me is getting a little irritating. “This doesn’t have anything to do with her witnessing that murder, does it?” I damn well know it doesn’t.
He seems to think over what he’s going to say next, and then a slow smirk crosses his mouth. “No.”
And there it is.
“Are you going to elaborate?” I further ask, tilting my head.
He keeps the same grin. “Not yet. All in good time, Syn.” He sucks on his cigar, blowing out the smoke. “All in good time.”
Popping open the trunk of the stolen Range Rover, I zip open my satchel and take out the black bandana that I use to disguise my face, tying it around my neck and tucking it into my suit jacket to hide it. The bandana is something that started when I was a kid. Before my first kill, Dad gave it to me and I’ve been using it ever since. It’s faded as fuck from all of the chaos it has seen, but I hardly go anywhere without it. The leather gloves that are on my hands stick to my palms as I take out my small bag, swinging it over my shoulder. Closing the trunk, I make my way toward the stairwell, pulling my black bandana up to cover just over my nose. I could take the elevators, but there are operating camera’s in there, and none in the stairwell—I know this because we’ve run all the checks needed. I take the steps two at a time, clutching my bag in my hand. Once I’ve reached the top, I pop open the door and check the hallway, ignoring the soft melody music that’s playing. Shutting the door behind me, I check the doors.
113
115
117
I stop, crack my neck, and then swipe the card down to unlock it. It clicks unlocked and I slowly push it open, shutting it behind myself. A quick glance down at my watch shows it’s just after midnight, perfect time for murder.
Darkness shades my vision, but the moonbeam from the large window at the end of the room gives me enough light to make out someone sleeping in the bed. I walk closer, my footsteps calculated, my mind racing a hundred miles an hour. The bedding moves up and down in slow movements, indicating the deep breaths of someone in a rich slumber. Poor fucker. No, not poor fucker. This fucker owes money—big fucking money, and he’s on the run from bad men. Those men weren’t able to find him—but I was.
I drop the leather satchel to the bed with a thud, not giving a fuck if this fat piece of shit wakes up. He doesn’t. I carry on and unzip, bypassing my .50 with a silencer and all the other bullshit I carry in this bag.
I take my dagger, pulling it out from the leather pocket I keep it in. It’s still thick and heavy and fits into the palm of my hand effortlessly.
I’m not Manik right now. In this moment, I’m Aeron Romanov-Reed.
I yank the blanket down off his body and slam the palm of my glove covered hand over his mouth. His eyes pop open and land on me and he starts tossing and turning under my grasp. “Keep fucking still, Nigel.”
Nigel doesn’t keep still. He keeps wriggling like a deranged cat.
“Last warning…” I say, narrowing my eyes on him.
He doesn’t stop.
I squeeze his mouth again forcefully, bringing my knife up to his neck. Pressing the sharp tip down onto one side, I watch as dark blood oozes from the incision, right down onto the bright, vivid sheets. His movements get frantic now, and it’s pissing me off.
I slice across his neck, just a little. Not deep enough to cause a semi-decapitation, but just enough to freak him the fuck out so that he—yeah. I watch as his eyes close and his body goes limp. Until he passes out.
Taking my hand away from his mouth, I scoop up his body, lifting the heavy-weight up and start carrying him into the small bathroom that’s off the bedroom. I hit the lights on my way in, clenching my dagger with my teeth—the metallic sting of his blood seeping through the material of the scarf and down my throat. It doesn’t bother me—blood never has.
I drop the sack of shit into the tub and hit the shower, turning it on to cold.
His eyes flicker open again, and when they focus onto me, I can see he’s about to start talking, so I yank his mouth open more, grab my knife, and sink it into his mouth until I find the base of his tongue. Once the blade is pressed to the thick of the muscle, I slice it in one motion and yank it out, throwing his tongue into the tub.
He moans again, but it’s all muffled bullshit that I honestly can’t be fucked with dealing with right now. Lyrics start floating in my head. It happens when I’m on a hit. Murder is inspirational gold for me. Prison holds flesh that’s washed up in sin… knock knock, bitch, now let the devil in… I’m a cannibal, motherfucking Hannibal, Lector, bounce up from this sector before my hellhounds eat ya…. Sic em. Yeah, that shit is definitely going on the album.
He looks up at me in shock, and for a second, I wonder if he knows who I am—but there’s no way. I always wear the bandana when I’m on a hit, not because dead men can talk, but because sometimes ghosts linger.
I tilt my head and chuckle, walking out of the bathroom and going for the TV. I turn it on to a music channel and crank it up a bit—just enough to drown out his moans—then turn back into the bathroom. I lean against the side of the tub and bring my face close to his.
His brown eyes are dilated and moving frantically, his swollen cheeks dosed in bright red shame. “You raped a little girl, Nigel. Remember Jessica Saurez? Yeah, the little girl you cornered at a carnival, dressed as a clown and raped her so badly she can never have kids? That girl was twelve years old, you sick fuck,” I say, flicking the blade between my fingers. My dagger is my favorite. I don’t like guns, I mean they get the job done fast, but I ain’t a fan of taking someone out from far range. I’d much rather watch as the world disappears from their view. “Now you’ve got me, and I gotta say, buddy.” I tap on his flabby chest. “You’re shit out of luck. At least if it was her father who took you out, his rage would have made your death fast. But now you get me.” I chuckle, shaking my head. “And the best part is I’m doing this shit for free. It’s an honor to be able to offer you up to Satan.”
I lick my lip, tasting some of the blood that has seeped through the bandana. “Start praying, fucker, but not even god will save your worthless ass now.”
I flick the knife around again and sink it into his guts, slicing it across until it shreds his flesh open through. Blood spills down over his abdomen and under his pajama bottoms, the hairs on his gut slowly drowning in the mess.
His intestine slips out with blood and fluid from the cut. His eyes are still on me, alive, wanting to scream. I grab onto the organ with my left hand and raise it to his mouth. “You have roughly ninety seconds of life left in you—do you want your last meal?”
His skin pales, the circles under his eyes sink to a dark purple. His pupils dilate to complete black and the ring around his mouth runs pale. He’s about to die—die feeling every inch of pain I inflicted on him.
I yank my bandana down in the final ten seconds.
His eyes widen a fraction larger, and I smirk. “Night, fucker.”
“911”—Wyclef Jean
“I didn’t say that!” I scold Kyle, pulling the chicken tenders from the oven. “I just said that I have never played a real game of Blackjack.
“See, that’s so sad,” Kyle murmurs, throwing back his beer.
“I don’t think it’s sad!” Katiya retorts, evil eyeing Kyl
e. “I think it’s refreshing. Like, come on. How many girls are there in this world?”
Kyle’s eyes narrow. “Are you asking me to truly answer that? Because I think if you are, I might hate you more.”
Katiya rolls her eyes. “No, dick, I’m not asking you to truly answer how many girls there are in this world—like seriously? Where did you find this chump, Beatrice.”
I roll my eyes again, ignoring their fighting. Katiya has been here for a week now, and I was hoping that their fighting would subside, but it hasn’t. I don’t know if they want to sleep with each other or kill each other, but either way, I really wish they’d get it over with as soon as possible so I can hopefully go back to enjoying both of their company.
“What the hell is your point, Kitty Kat.”
“Don’t call me that…” she snarls, her lip curling.
Kyle grins. “Oh, come on. It’s cute. Kitty Kat.” His face falls. “You’re right, it’s way too cute for you.”
“Cunt.”
I widen my eyes at Katiya. “Kat!”
“What!” She feigns innocence. “Oh come on, don’t tell me that’s the first time you’ve ever heard that word, booboo…” She’s also taken it upon herself to call me booboo and I hate it. And she knows it. Which is exactly why she keeps calling me it. “I know my brother would have used it multiple times… just maybe in a different context.”
I start carrying the food to the table, placing the hot items onto a wooden cutting board. The kitchen is right behind the lounge—which has a couple of large windows that overlook the buildings beside us. Kyle comes from money and his parents basically purchased this place to bribe him into going to college—which he didn’t do. He wanted to bartend for a while until he figured out what he wanted to do in life. If Kyle had it his way, he’d spend the rest of his days feeding hungry kids in Africa. That’s just the type of person Kyle was. Someone you took home to meet your parents because they’d love him.
Lucky for me, I don’t have parents so that pressure was one thing I didn’t have to worry about. He has also made it his personal mission to wear less clothes since Katiya has been here, and Katiya has made it her mission to wear more clothes. They confuse me.