Mafia Puppet: A French Mafia Romance

by Bella King

  Charles warned me not to be out past ten, but I think I can handle myself tonight. It’s not that late. Most regular people are still wandering around well past eleven, at least where I’m from. I’m sure in a city like this, it’s no different.

  Still, I don’t want to linger around for too long. Risks are better saved for things that are worth it, and staying at work late isn’t a risk that many people would consider thrilling enough to justify.

  I gather up my papers, leaving them in a pile on the table beside the laptop. I look at the painting in front of me as I remove my gloves, studying the careful work that went into creating such a lovely piece. I can tell that the artist had a firm grasp of what love really meant. I hope to understand it myself one day.

  I toss my gloves into the silver bin in the corner.

  But not today.

  All I want to do now is get back home, fill my stomach up with some of that delicious bread and butter I got from the store last night, and take a well-deserved rest to the sound of the rain against my window.

  I close the laptop and turn toward the door, checking my pockets for my belongings before grabbing my coat from the hanger and throwing it on. I click the light off, pushing open the door and stepping out into the main area of the gallery.

  The whole place is nearly pitch black. All the lights have already been turned off, assuming that nobody was still here.

  But I am, and now I have to maneuver through the foreign gallery in the dark. I’m unfamiliar with the area, having only swept through it once in the morning and once during lunch. Thankfully, it’s not too large, or I’d be concerned about getting lost.

  I take my phone from my pocket and use the flashlight on it to guide me to the exit, scanning my card at the gate and hopping through it to freedom. The door locks itself on the way out.

  I breathe a sigh of relief and follow it up with a deep inhale of the damp air as I break out into the street. It’s cold, but I’m dressed for the weather, and the atmosphere is pleasant against my flushed cheeks. I always get hot when I’m concentrating hard, like the blood is congregating in my brain as I think.

  A car passes by, but otherwise, there aren’t many people out. My guess is that they’re hanging around at the bars in the center, not on the outskirts where I am. I’m not sure if that gives me more or less safety but I don’t intend to test fate tonight. I turn to the right and begin my walk home.

  “Ma’am,” a deep voice with a healthy slathering of French accent calls from behind me.

  I nearly jump out of my skin at the sound of the voice, spinning around immediately to locate its owner.

  A tall, muscular man in a suit steps out of the shadows next to the gallery, his eyes glinting like diamonds in the night and his lips holding an unlit cigarette. He smirks at me, somewhat perverse confidence painted on his face as he steps forward.

  “I don’t speak French, I’m sorry,” I reply, holding up a hand. It’s a response I’ve already learned to deal with stragglers approaching me for coins or to steal a bit of my time. It usually works, but this time, the man is able to evade my tactics.

  “You speak English then,” he purrs. “An American.”

  I purse my lips in a forced smile. “Yes, do you need something?”

  He shrugs. “A light would be nice.”

  “Sorry,” I reply, “I don’t smoke.”

  “But I do,” he says, stepping closer. “So, I need a lighter or a match from you.”

  I straighten up, a frown creasing my forehead. “Well, I don’t have one, so good evening,” I snap, turning around to walk away.

  “Dawn,” the man says from behind me.

  I freeze at the sound of my surname, then turn back around to face the nameless man. “What did you just say?” I ask.

  “Damn,” he says. “Because I thought you might have a lighter.”

  “Oh,” I say, melting back into a state of lesser tension. I place my hand over my heart. “I thought you said Dawn.”

  “Dawn?” he asks, pulling his cigarette from his lips and digging around in his pocket with his free hand. “It’s not even midnight, darling.”

  “Yeah, it’s just that… never mind,” I say, shaking my head. I’m not about to tell this creeper what my name is. I’ve given him enough of my time already.

  He pulls out a silver lighter and holds it up triumphantly. “Would you look at that,” he says, placing his cigarette back between his lips and leaning in to light it.

  I give him another forced smile before turning around and hurrying away into the night, trying not to think about the gleaming mischief in his eyes or the sharpness of his wide jaw. I think the only reason I gave him the time of day is that he was wearing a suit. Bums don’t usually dress that nice, but I do know some wicked folks who do.

  But this is France, and I’m far away from my past. I don’t know a single crook here, and they don’t know me. I’m safe, I’m employed, and I’m living a new life now.

  That’s the mantra I repeat to myself as I rush home, longing for the comfort and safety of my heavy cotton sheets and bakery-fresh bread. Nothing can get me there. You need a key just to get into the building, and then another to get into the flat.

  Chapter 10

  Pierre

  Picking locks is more of a hobby than a useful skill, even for a crook like me, but I have the feeling I’ll be able to put that hobby to fair use once I locate Shaye’s apartment building.

  It was almost too easy to confirm her identity, but things have a way of getting more complicated the further you run with them. I know that breaking into an apartment building will require that I come in with a disguise. I must also take care of business without permitting Shaye to make too much noise and alert her neighbors.

  There are many ways in which this can go wrong and put a serious kink in my plans, but if it does go right, I’ll have the Red Door and the ability to rebuild my mafia empire in the same month I was released from prison.

  I rub my chin, considering my next moves. Tomorrow night, I’ll be following the lovely lady home and joining her in her bedroom, where the plan will unfurl in front of her big blue eyes like a coiled ribbon. It’s the night of my grand reveal, and I don’t want to come underdressed.

  And by that, I mean that I need to find clothes that won’t arouse suspicion when I sneak into the apartment building at night. The evening is young, and I have a crime to commit. It’s not my first, and it certainly won’t be my last.

  I toss the burning end of my cigarette into the trash as I walk up to my car, sliding into the leather seat and closing the door with a soft thud. Paraphrasing the wise words of a certain rapper, I don’t sell crack where I rest at, and I certainly don’t commit crimes where my head lies, so I’m going to have to go out of the city to get the uniform I’m after.

  One could think of it as a tamer version of going postal.

  I turn on the radio, jazz spilling out into the car as I head out onto the shimmering night streets of Paris. The glowing red taillights of traffic bounce off the road and illuminate my chin with light in almost the same way that the cherry glow of the end of a cigarette would. My home is here in Paris, and it’s finally starting to feel that way again after all these years.

  I drum my fingers on the wooden steering wheel along to the sporadic beat of the drum, racking my brain for the easiest way to get ahold of a mail carrier uniform. I’m not about to assassinate a government worker and have the authorities on my ass. That’s not a good look.

  I was only able to slay James because I had done my research, but I’m not looking to shovel up crap on a random mail carrier just so that I can steal their uniform. It doesn’t have to be so difficult.

  In fact, a basic navy blue coat is all I need. I could make my own if I had the time, but I want to twist Shaye’s world into a cruel reflection of what it is within hours of finding her, not weeks.

  I reach my hand into the backseat of my car, pulling out a black beanie that I would normally wear to ke
ep my head warm. Tomorrow, it’s going to be keeping my entire face warm and hidden as I commit a petty act of theft to complete my little disguise.

  The roads start to clear up as I get further from the city, and soon, I’m cruising down the open highway to the next available city, preparing myself to stake out in a small neighborhood and find a postal worker.

  I roll down both windows, letting the cold air into the cabin as I glide through the night. The crisp air brings with it memories of the first time I saw Shaye. She was trying to swipe olives and cheese off of tables as she meandered through her father’s luncheon. Her dress was white, and so thin that I could see the panties she wore underneath.

  I felt guilty for looking, considering that she was only eighteen, but times have changed. I wouldn’t feel so guilty now. She’s aged and mellowed like wine, and I certainly wouldn’t mind sampling her.

  That day was also the day that I found myself chatting with government informants. I believe that her father was the intended target, but they latched onto me because I was an easy target and worked with international police to bust my mafia organization when I returned to France.

  Just thinking about that day sends a surge of fury through me. I grip the steering wheel, gritting my teeth as the flood of memories hits me like molten iron.

  I was in a meeting, and they came in without warning. There was no knock, no indication of the raid before it hit us, but that’s probably for the better. If I had known a split second before it happened, my gun would’ve been drawn, and I would’ve caught much graver charges than racketeering. I might have even been killed.

  Narrow escapes from death and life sentences haven’t taught me many lessons, however. I’m in it to win it, and I’ll be damned if the cops will stop me this time around. I have even bigger plans, but I’ll also be more cautious this time around. No more business parties and social gatherings with crooks in the United States. They’re FBI honeypots.

  My mind drifts back to Shaye as I pull off the main road and begin to follow smaller ones until I find a quiet neighborhood to stake out. Her voice was like silk pouring from her mouth, and the way she jumped when she saw me almost made me think she recognized me.

  Ten years and a million faces later, and I doubt that she does. I’m assuming that everything prior to her parents’ demise is too far back for her mind to feel safe going. I’m a shadowy dream in the back of her head at best, but I’m about to come out and transform into her worst nightmare.

  Mail delivery starts at five tomorrow, so I’m not getting much sleep tonight. I spark up another cigarette and pull the car over, slumping down in my seat so that the car appears to be empty at first glance.

  And now, I wait.

  Chapter 11

  Shaye

  Another day, another set of paintings to look over. This time, I plan on leaving earlier, though, since I don’t want to catch the eye of another well-built stranger who ends up being less polite than the man that I met last night. As handsome as he was, he gave me some serious creeps.

  I assumed nobody would be slinking around an old art gallery at night, but I was wrong. The city isn’t as safe as I would like it to be, even outside the center. Charles was right, and tonight I’m going to leave earlier.

  I gently brush the dust off a painting on the desk as I eye the food that I brought for lunch. I never look at my phone when I’m working, but I assume it’s just about time to eat. My stomach is good at telling me that, but sometimes it’s early.

  Okay, I lied. It’s always early. The only time when I’m not distracted by it is when I’m deep into work that fascinates me. Back then, it was school. Now, it’s looking over valuable artwork.

  I pull my phone out of my pocket and check the time. It’s noon, which is a good enough time as any to take a lunch break, but I want to walk around the gallery for a bit before I eat. I haven’t had time to look at any of the art here with how busy I’ve been with work.

  It’s a shame, but I stand to correct that. I drop my brush beside the dusty painting on the desk, returning my phone to my back pocket as I get up from my seat. I leave my food in the room to take to the break room when I finish my tour. I’m pretty sure that Charles said something about giving me one, but I don’t intend to wait on him.

  It’s time to explore.

  I stroll down the echoey hallways and spacious rooms that make up the King-Smith Gallery. The building isn’t that large on the outside, but once you get inside, it actually goes pretty deep. If I wondered too far back, I’m sure I’d be able to get lost, at least for a moment.

  But I’m already a bit lost, being in a foreign country. Plenty of people here speak English, but everything is slightly different like I’m in another dimension. The plugs are different, the smells are foreign, and even the walls are made out of other materials, but they still serve the same purpose.

  It’ll take some getting used to, but I’ve never felt quite so much at home while at work as I do at the museum. The paintings are stunning, and I’ve been eager to take a nice walk through them and see what all Charles has managed to collect here.

  I walk with my hands behind my back, moving around a few distracted guests as they glance up from their phones every once in a while to look at the paintings. I wonder what they’re doing here, if not to look at the art.

  But I shouldn’t judge. I had my nose buried in my phone a lot when I was younger. I think when you have a few years on you, the internet stops being so distracting because you’ve seen everything there is to see there.

  Plus, you don’t have as many friends, so it’s not like you’re getting bombarded with messages and notifications at all times of the day and night. I don’t have a single friend, so you could guess how many messages I get throughout the day.

  Zero. The answer is zero.

  But I don’t mind. My life is more peaceful that way, and I rather like the quiet. I used to seek it out often on my father’s estate. I would go for long walks in the woods by the house, but my mother never liked me to be gone for long. She said it was dangerous and that animals might attack me.

  I’ve never been attacked by an animal, but I’ve sure been attacked by plenty of people. The real threats are all around us, walking down the street and stopping you at night to ask for a lighter. I don’t trust people, and I probably never will.

  I stop in front of a painting as it catches my eyes. I get a feeling of nostalgia from it, but I’ve certainly never been to this place before. It’s a green meadow, with a bright red door sitting in the grass, just slightly ajar, but not enough to see what’s on the other side.

  One would assume that the only thing through the door what be the other side of the meadow since the door isn’t attached to any sort of building, but my mind says that there’s something more behind it. It’s an unearthly feeling, but it sits just below my stomach, telling me that there’s definitely something behind that door.

  I step closer, leaning in to examine the brush strokes. They’re so expertly placed that I can barely tell that a human painted them at all.

  My eye catches a slight defect in the paint, something that looks like it was thrown over the bright red, trying to hide but failing under the expert eyes of an art appraiser. This painting has been touched up, but the only spot that’s not original is in the center of the door. It’s a small spot, no larger than an inch, but it’s enough for me to notice.

  I lean back out from it, unclasping my hands and looking over the painting once more. It’s a nice piece, but it’s certainly worth more than ten thousand euros. Charles wouldn’t be okay with me taking it home, but if I was rich, I would buy it.

  Truthfully, I would buy all of these paintings. Charles has good taste, and the entire gallery is filled with classics from a period of time before things could be captured with cameras and stripped of their emotions. These paintings speak to you, like the walls of a church that’s heard the confessions of thousands of men and women.

  I turn to return to work, only to
find myself facing Charles.

  “A lovely piece, isn’t it?” he asks, looking over the painting of the red door.

  I nod. “Yes, it really is quite striking.”

  “I got it from the same man who killed himself. He sold it to me about ten years ago, but I haven’t been able to sell it. Things take a while, and doors aren’t really that much in vogue at the moment.”

  I chuckle. “Yeah, but it’s a pretty nice door.”

  “Indeed,” he says, leaving it at that. “I intended to give you a tour today, but I see you’ve already started.”

  I chuckle nervously, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind my ear. “It’s such a nice gallery. I couldn’t really help myself.”

  “Well,” he says, a smile creeping over his thin lips. “I can show you around the rest of the place if you’d like.”

  I nod. “Yes, that sounds lovely.”

  Charles turns, and I follow him, glancing back at the Red Door as we leave. There’s something about that painting that unsettles me. There’s something not quite right about it, but it’s impossible to place a finger on what.

  Chapter 12

  Pierre

  I got lucky.

  The mail carrier I’ve been stalking left his uniform shirt in the car when he went back home for his lunch break. It wasn’t easy creeping after him for six hours, but the payoff is enormous.

  I pull the shirt over my head, testing the size as I pull the buttons together in the front. I’m a big guy, standing tall at well over six feet, and perhaps I spent too much time pumping iron in prison because I can barely squeeze into an extra-large without popping a few seams.

  This shirt isn’t an extra-large. It’s just a regular large, but they tend to make these types of things grossly oversized, so I’m able to fit it over my chest without breaking any buttons. I glance at myself in the rearview mirror and laugh. I look so fucking awkward trying to pose as a law-abiding citizen. At best, I can transform myself into a crooked businessman.