Mafia Puppet: A French Mafia Romance

by Bella King

  A smile down at James until his face melts into a state of relief, then I snap my hand out to his face and grab him by the cheeks, sinking my fingers into the sides of his jaw. I yank his head forward and shove the plastic bag full of white powder under it.

  “Smell this for me, would you?” I ask casually as he hyperventilates over the drugs.

  I watch him writhe, feeling nothing at all, not even contempt, as he inhales a dangerously high dose of what should be a good time. I’ll end his misery soon enough, but I want to make sure he goes out with a bang.

  I remove the bag from underneath his nose, closing the seal and tucking it back into my pocket as he coughs and sneezes.

  “And now,” I say, stepping to the side and lowering the revolver to his temple. “In his drugged-up, miserable, cheating state, he kills himself.”

  Chapter 3

  Shaye

  The hook on the wall barely holds the weight of my soggy coat, but I’m relieved to have finally arrived at my new home. I slip out of my heels, letting out a sigh as my socks make contact with the firm, stable ground again.

  I look around at where I’ll be spending all my evenings and weekends until I make some friends around here. The opposite wall slants up into the ceiling, holding a window that overlooks the city. There’s a bed beside it, attached just below the windowsill. It would only fit one person, but I doubt I’ll be having any men over. The dating game has escaped me, and I honestly don’t know what to do to remedy that.

  I leave my suitcase at the door and slide my feet across the wobbly floorboards. It doesn’t take me long to get a feel for the room because of how small it is. The kitchen counter is on the other side of the bed, sandwiching it in against the slanted wall. It’s all one room, except for the toilet.

  My hand runs along the similarly drab wallpaper as the hallway, reaching the bathroom door and pulling it open. There’s a toilet and a stand-up shower inside, but no sink. I suppose the kitchen sink will have to suffice.

  As small and minimal as this place is, I don’t hate it. It’s better than having to live with a roommate, which I’ve loathed doing. I took out extra loans when I went to college just to ensure I’d have my own room. I only just got done paying that shit off.

  Yes, this is the fresh start that I dreamed about, and I’m going to take it with a smile and a sense of achievement. After all, I’m the one who studied their ass off and worked at various museums to be able to become a credited art appraiser. It’s not a job that many people are honored with, but I’ve finally claimed my position, and I’ll be damned if I let anything get in the way of fulfilling my dreams.

  I start removing my clothes, stripping down in front of the window. It has no curtains, but with how far up I am, I don’t think anyone will see me. Aren’t Europeans more comfortable with nudity, or is that a myth?

  I shrug off my blouse and drop my black skirt to my feet. It feels good to be out of the cold, wet clothing that I flew in wearing, and the flat is adequately warmed by a gas heater beside the bed. The final step to feeling at home is the satisfying freedom that comes from removing my bra and flinging it as far as I can across the room.

  That isn’t very far.

  A sudden movement out of the corner of my eye causes me to jump. My hands fly up to my breasts, hiding them as I leap onto my bed from fright. Someone, or something, is in the room with me!

  “Oh, Jesus,” I mutter, letting out my breath and dropping my arms to my sides.

  A cat walks across the floor, looking up at me curiously.

  I cock my head to the side. “What on earth are you doing here?”

  The cat meows and jumps onto the windowsill, pawing at the glass.

  “You want me to let you out?” I ask, leaning toward the latch on the window. “I suppose that’s where you should be, isn’t it?”

  As soon as I crack the window open, the cat leaps out and scurries away across the edge of the slanted rooftop. I bet that it came in when they were airing out the room, and it’s been inside for god knows how long until my arrival.

  The poor thing.

  I close the window, saving the warm air and blocking the rush of cold afternoon air that was eager to make its way into the room. My nipples perk up from the fresh air, and a sudden wave of shyness overcomes me. I step away from the window and walk back to the door where my suitcase is. I need an oversized sweater and a cup of tea to celebrate my arrival.

  Once unpacked and dressed in dry clothes, I attempt to conquer the stove. It’s a gaslit one, but I’ve dealt with these before. The only issue is that once I turn the gas on, I don’t hear the click of a lighter underneath.

  Matches it is, then.

  I begin pulling open drawers, shuffling through old silverware, stamps, and more corkscrews than I could ever possibly need, before arriving on a small box of matches. I’ll have to buy more when I go out for groceries.

  The oddly pleasant smell of burning phosphorus reaches my nose before the eggy scent of gas, and I only have to lower the lit match a few inches off the stovetop to get a burst of blue flames. I shake out the match and waft some of the smoke into my nose as I grab the kettle from the counter.

  I feel like a woman in her own little quaint world, where no one can bother me, and the days are as long or as short as I wish for them to be. I like it here, and I think things are going to be a lot better from now on.

  The kettle grows heavy with water from the sink, and I place it down on the stovetop, watching the flames lick the blackened underside of it. It’s funny how something as simple as heating up water can be so relaxing.

  But I don’t have long to relax before my daze is broken by a firm knock on the door.

  I wasn’t expecting guests.

  Chapter 4

  Pierre

  They made a huge mistake letting me out of prison, but there was only so long they could keep me there without adequate evidence of a higher crime. I never got caught on murder charges, and I was able to clear my name simply by picking off a few people before the trial.

  I got ten years – long enough to plan how I was going to reclaim my mafia empire.

  The rain is coming down in sheets now, smothering the shining yellow sign outside of the King-Smith Gallery. It’s a locally owned museum, but the security is so high that I wouldn’t dare set foot in that place. They would know immediately that I was up to no good by a quick glance at my ID.

  No, I’ll have to find someone to put eyes on the inside, someone with no other choice but to listen to me. Everyone has dirt, but I need someone who’s so filthy that they’ll sell their soul to the devil for a sock full of pennies.

  James was a good find. I’m honestly glad that a man as pathetic as he is was the one who got my art collection after the trail. I don’t care about much of what we lost when my mafia empire crumbled to the ground, but I do care about those paintings.

  Especially the Red Door.

  I take a drag of a hand-rolled cigarette as I look through the window of my car at the museum. The place isn’t terribly large, but it houses some of the most expensive pieces in the country, and from my quick research on the way here, they’ll sell things if they can find a buyer willing to pay the price.

  But acquiring the Red Door isn’t just as simple as walking in and handing the museum a wad of cash. For one, I don’t have a half-million euros lying around. They took all of that from me when they locked me up, and I was only able to get a hundred-thousand or so from some safes hidden around the country once they let me out.

  I’m not a billionaire like I used to be. I fell off.

  In addition to that, I don’t actually want anyone to know that it was me who took the painting. I’m a free man, and I’m not on anyone’s blacklist yet. James’ murder was clean, and I didn’t leave any evidence of foul play behind. I’d like to stay in the shadows until I can rebuild, and then all bets are off.

  I take another drag, holding the smoke in my lungs until it dissolves into my bronchioles, and my bre
ath comes out clean. I shouldn’t abuse my anatomy in such a way, but I’m in this for a good time, not a long one.

  I roll down my window, flicking the little end of paper into the flowing water. I figure it’s fine for the environment because I don’t use traditional filters. Those are the really shitty parts of a cigarette, and some people even think they’re what gives you cancer.

  I don’t buy it, but I know what I roll is biodegradable. I can still pretend to be a decent human being while I run around killing people. Perhaps I’m even doing the world a favor by lowering the population. Even the smallest contributions count, right?

  I chuckle to myself, quickly rolling the window back up as the rain threatens to soak half my car.

  There’s not much for me to do here since the museum isn’t currently open. My best bet is to come back early in the morning and see who arrives for work. I’ll pick a target and roll with it. This might take a while.

  But I’m a patient man. Ten years of staring at walls and dreaming of getting out and burying my cock into the first woman I hit it off with will do that to you. You have to be patient in jail, or you’ll end up crazy like the rest of them in there. I’ve seen some sad shit go down.

  Now that I’m out, dreams of reclaiming my empire have trumped the need to sow my oats. I’ll get around to it, but it’s not in my direct line of vision. I’ll be able to secure an adequate woman once I’ve salvaged what’s rightfully mine.

  The Red Door.

  It means more to me than anyone will ever know. Being an expensive piece of art is just the tip of the iceberg. Once you dig a little deeper, the secrets inside of it come out.

  I would know. I was there when they were placed, and the person who placed them was buried ten minutes afterward. I don’t care much for witnesses.

  That’s another reason on a whole heap of reasons why I’m doing this one solo. I pick a target, blackmail them into aiding me with this theft, and hopefully, I’ll never have to show my face in the museum. The cops will never know who took the painting once I eliminate my little helper.

  It sounds like a smooth plan, but I know well enough that things never go as cleanly as you want them to. Life has a way of taking your perfectly good ideas and twisting them into some sort of horrendous beats that you have to slay before you get your piece of the pie.

  Well, my piece is huge, and I’ll willing to take on the gnarliest beast in order to get to it. Nobody on this godforsaken planet is going to stop me.

  Nobody.

  Chapter 5

  Shaye

  I’m a nobody here, a faint whisper engulfed by the pouring rain. There’s no reason why someone should be knocking on my door in the late afternoon, but someone is, and I must answer them.

  I take cautious steps toward the door as a hammering fist comes down harder. My hairs are standing on end as I wrap my hand around the oddly-shaped brass doorknob and pull the door open. I don’t know what to expect on the other side.

  “Letter for Miss Dawn,” a deep voice grumbles, shoving a stuffed off-white envelope under my nose.

  “Oh, thank you,” I managed to say before the mailman turns around and floats back down the hall toward the elevator.

  I stand at the doorway for a moment, holding the letter in my hand before stepping back inside and closing the door. I look down at the envelope, feeling the bulge from within the crisp paper. It’s addressed to me, and the return address is for the King-Smith Art Gallery. They’re the ones who set me up with these accommodations.

  I flip the envelope over, sliding my finger under the red wax stamp and popping the seal. I let the contents fall into my hand – a card badge on a crimson lanyard with the same picture as my passport (not flattering!), alongside a folded letter from the museum.

  The kettle in the kitchen chirps, reminding me to take it off the water. I bought my favorite lemon balm tea at the airport when I arrived, and it’s the only thing I have to drink here. I forgot to get a bottle of water, and I’m not sure if the tap water is safe to drink. I imagine it is, but I doubt it tastes good in a building this old.

  I snatch the kettle from the stove and pour myself a steaming mug of tea before returning to the letter from the museum. I’m supposed to start work in a few days. I assume this is just a confirmation of my arrival.

  I unfold the letter and start reading, only to find myself surprised by the urgency of it.

  Miss Dawn,

  We hope that your flight here was pleasant, as is your new flat. Enclosed in this letter is your badge, which you will need to get into the building and navigate the back rooms during work.

  We have received an unexpected shipment of paintings that we would like you to authenticate and appraise. We ask that you come in tomorrow to start work. You will be paid overtime for the hours you work.

  Kind Regards.

  Well, it’s not like I had anything to do tomorrow anyway. I might as well make tonight my trip to the grocery store, and I’ll be able to settle into my new job tomorrow.

  I look up out of the window, and I can just see the glimmer of the King-Smith Gallery sign against the horizon. It’s close enough to walk, but since I don’t have directions, I’ll want to wake up early to make sure I arrive on time.

  I place the letter down on the counter and grab my tea, blowing the settlement of steam off the top and taking it to the bed. I can see the city below as I get close to the cold window. I press my face up against the glass, looking for the cat that scurried off before. I wonder if it’s out there in the frigid rain or if it found a safer place to stay.

  I wonder if it’ll ever come back.

  I stare dreamily at the glowing city lights, like a carnival in the distance that I just came back from, my belly full of corndogs and cotton candy. I’ve never actually been to a carnival because of the high level of security my family kept, but I always wanted to. I imagine it to be larger than life, just like Paris is.

  I want to stay inside and soak in the view, sipping tea and relaxing on my bed. It might be stiff and small, and there might not be any food to eat yet, but it already feels a bit like home. The rain helps.

  I linger at the window, letting the beautiful sight fill my soul with something other than stress and worry, forgetting about the obligations of tomorrow and living only for the moment today.

  It’s a shame when I have to tear my eyes from the window, returning to the door where my soggy coat still hangs. I don’t want to put it back on, but I don’t have many other choices. It’s still raining and probably will be all night. A wet coat is better than no coat.

  So, after pulling another sweater over my head and putting on an extra pair of socks, I slip into my coat, venturing out for my shopping trip in the city.

  Chapter 6

  Pierre

  I’m not a morning guy. I typically wake up at nine and take care of business. The nightlife doesn’t lend itself well to rising before the sun does, but on this particular morning, I’m up before dawn.

  I take my coffee black and settle into the tan leather driver’s seat of my sedan as I wait across the street from the King-Smith Gallery for the first arrivals.

  It’s a cold, wet day in Paris, but I’m not bothered by it. I’ve had my fair share of cold in prison. I think my skin has grown immune to the elements, and I barely even feel the warmth either. Perhaps I’m just broken.

  But I’d rather be broken than broke, and I’m about to wrap my hands around a fortune if I can pull this heist off.

  I take a sip of my coffee, letting the bitter liquid scald my upper lip. It’s too early for a cigarette, but I fancy one anyway. I just don’t want to draw attention to myself, so I resist the urge to fill my car up with smoke.

  Patience.

  It’s only ten minutes before someone shows up. It’s a man with a long black coat that nearly sweeps the rain-washed ground. He’s in his fifties or sixties, but he walks with his shoulders so far back that one would think he’s a military general.

  I wouldn’t mes
s with him. I know the type, and they’re more trouble than they’re worth. Besides, they almost never have any dirt on them. There’s nothing to hold over their proper little heads.

  I watch the man as he unlocks the towering front doors of the gallery, pulling open the aged oak with a firm hand. He must be the owner of this place.

  I rub my chin, glancing at the floor to ceiling windows on either side of the door, watching the owner walk inside and deactivate the overnight security system. I could do it too if I paid enough attention to the way his fingers moved, but the cameras are what concern me the most. I’d rather have someone else take the fall for me with their face on the security tapes. I don’t intend to set foot in the gallery at all.

  I’m the puppet master, and one of the owner’s fine employees is going to be dancing on my nylon strings. All I need to do is pick the weakest of the bunch, the most vulnerable one with secrets and bitter truths to hide, and I will have full access to everything my wicked heart desires.

  My coffee has cooled, and I take larger sips, waking up my brain and body as the city comes to life. Paris was always a busy place, but it’s even more crowded and bustling than when I was roaming the streets ten years ago. It shocked me when I first caught sight of how many people were here.

  The funny thing about crowds, though, is how easy it is to disappear inside of them. You would think that with so many eyes on you, that you’d be caught easily, but in a sea of distracted minds, nobody would notice if you snatched a purse or handed off drugs in the middle of the day. It’s just a small chirp in the flood of white noise.

  I slide down a few centimeters in my seat, getting comfortable right before my eyes latch onto a new employee walking diligently toward the gallery. I slide back up, sitting at attention and taking in the details of the potential target.