by Jen Davis
I want to say something feisty back, but I bite my tongue.
I lay my hands on my crisscrossed lap and breathe a small sigh of relief.
My eyes narrow at what he’s holding. “Is that…” He walks toward me. I know my eyes are rudely wide. “What is that?”
It’s a black instrument case.
He sits down across from me. He puts the case on his lap, and opens it, revealing a beautiful black acoustic guitar.
My brows pull in together. “How…where did you even get that?”
He nods behind him. “I keep it in a place here.”
A small smile creeps up on my face. “So, you play?”
“Yes. Does that surprise you?”
I decide to go the honest route. “You don’t seem like you have enough patience for a musical instrument.”
His fingers work the tuning pegs. “You weren’t surprised when you learned I worked out.”
“Uh, of course not. Working out is more of your style. You get to punch and throw things, probably imagining it was someone you didn’t like.”
He cocks his head and regards me for a moment, his fingers still on the strings.
Then as if having decided something, he goes back to tuning. He strums a couple of the strings. “Playing takes the same kind of passion and strength, Kitten. Do not be so quick to judge.”
I open my mouth to speak and then close it again.
I always took for granted the importance of gathering your thoughts before speaking.
I think about what Valentin said for a long moment.
He is right.
I nod sheepishly, playing with the grass beside me. “You’re right. I’m sorry for assuming…”
“But you tell anyone I play the fucking guitar and I will kill you.” His eyes glint and humor coats his words.
I choke out a laugh. “Yeah, yeah.” I take a new breath. “So how did you start?” I wave toward the guitar. “Like, what made you want to express yourself in an instrument like this?”
He looks up for a moment, before going back to working it. He places his left hand on the fretboard and feels his way around. His right arm curves around the body naturally. He plays some notes.
“When we were little, my little brother—”
“Nate?” I interrupt.
He nods. “Yeah, Nate. He loved to sing. He would belt out songs all around the house, and even sing for the guests who came to our house. Our father hated it; thought music and singing was for pussies—”
“Women?” I interrupt again to clarify.
Valentin’s lips curl at the edges. “Yeah, Kitten, women. But Nate wouldn’t drop it. And each time he caught him, he would beat him.”
My face turns sour. “He sounds awful.”
Valentin doesn’t register my words. He simply continues. “Finally, I had enough of it. So I bargained a harmonica off the streets, and each time our father would come into the room, I would start playing it with whatever song Nate was singing. My father wasn’t happier and he beat me the first few times.”
I have no idea how to react. I mean, my mother hit me, but it was spanking, not abuse.
“Then when he realized I wasn’t going to stop, he took my harmonica and broke it.”
My eyes are wide. I lean in toward him. “And then what happened?”
Valentin chuckles, “You are way too interested in the story.”
“You’re the one who started this, so tell me, please.”
“All right, only because you said please.” He winks. “Then I walked out to the market and bought a guitar. It was a better instrument anyways.”
“Why?”
He sighs in frustration. “I am telling you why. Stop being so impatient.”
I lick my dry lips quickly. “Okay, sorry, sorry. I’m just…invested.”
He looks away.
“Then I brought it home and started to play it to a song, Nate’s favorite song.”
“And your father?”
“He saw us on the living room floor, and said, ‘how the fuck did I give birth to two pussies in one day?’ Me being a smartass said, ‘Actually, Mother gave birth to us.’ Needless to say, that did not go well.”
He sounds far away from here. I can see he’s falling into the memory of that day.
And from the pain in his eyes, I know it is a horrible one. Before I can think, I put my hand on his arm and say, “I’m sorry.”
His eyes slowly turn toward me and lose their glazed look. He blinks, and I realize what unnaturally long eyelashes he has. For a moment there’s a connection between the two of us, some kind of understanding.
But he quickly shakes me off, seeming uncomfortable. He continues the story, his voice colder now. “So then my father drags me outside to an outdoor house where all the people who have wronged him are kept. He grabs one of the men from the rooms and throws him on the ground. He looks down at me, and with the coldest eyes I have ever seen, rips one of the strings from the guitar. He…”
I can see his Adam’s apple moving as he swallows hard.
My heart is hurting for him. But I have no idea how to say it in a way that he won’t take offense to my words or brush me off. So I simply listen.
“He gives it to me and says, ‘You want to play the fucking guitar? Then play it like a man. Kill with it.’”
My heart pounds against my chest as if it’s about to burst. I look down long enough to realize my fingers are digging into my palms.
Guess that habit is making a recurrence again.
But I can’t find it in me to care about that right now. All I can think is:
Tell me you didn’t do it. Tell me that wasn’t what broke your innocence.
“Tell me,” I whisper after what feels like an eternity.
He avoids my eyes.
“I was eight years old,” he says after a while. His voice is a low growl.
I inhale sharply. “Did you?”
…kill a man?
“I was a child,” he says. I can hear his voice break. Valentin freakin’ Nikolaev.
But all I want is the answer. Was I here, alone, out in the woods, with a murderer?
END OF PART 1
About the Author
Grace Reagal is a young author who is studying medicine by day and serial writing by night. She has garnered over 88K readers on Wattpad and Radish and over 20 million reads.
She writes about mafia men without hearts and the women who find it for them. She writes because the most beautiful thing for her is creating a world where she and her readers can escape to.
When she’s not writing, she can be found crying, studying, listening to One Republic and Lumineers, questioning her existence, reading steamy books under the covers or daydreaming about her characters. Her goals for her life includes becoming a neurosurgeon, publishing a book, and finally living simply in the woods alone while crafting a work that’s going to change the world (whether it’s published or not is not of any importance).
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PLAYING
JASPER
Genoa Mafia Series Book IV
By Ginger Ring
Prologue
Chicago, Five Years Ago
Sid
“Check, please.” Sid Messina waved at the waiter.
“This was a wonderful meal.” His wife, Karen, pushed her dessert plate away and dabbed at her lips with the cloth napkin.
“Good. I’m so glad you enjoyed it.” The man handed the server his card. “Because after tomorrow, we probably won’t be able to show our faces in this
part of town again.”
“You really think it’ll be that bad?” Her face had always been beautiful, but the stress of the last few months had added a line here and there. She’d worked as hard on the story as he had. Unfortunately, his name would be the only one listed. Despite his pleading, she’d insisted that he should get the glory, if they could call it that. When the headlines hit, it’d be a shitstorm.
“We may have to go into hiding.” Sid took a sip of wine. His wife hadn’t taken his last name, so they could go by that, if necessary.
“Here you go.” The waiter set the small silver tray with their card and receipt on the table. “Enjoy the rest of your evening.” The young man nodded and left.
Karen remained composed, but as soon as they were alone again, her smile vanished. “Do you really think so?”
“Dear, we’re about to blow the lid off the biggest crime organization in the Midwest. This is huge. This will be as big as bringing Gotti down.” He reached across the table and took her hand in his. “You knew that going in.”
“I know, and I’m so proud of the work you’ve done, but now that it’s about to become a reality,” she touched her free hand to her heart, “I’m scared.” Her confession broke his heart. She wasn’t the only one that was worried. It’d started out as research on an anonymous tip, and things had spiraled from there.
“It’ll be all right. The paper is fully behind me.” At least his editor, Mr. Hower, was. Unfortunately, even he said to keep things quiet until they went to press. No one else knew but the three of them. Right before they’d left to go out to eat, Sid had pressed the SEND key. Mr. Hower was at the office right now, going over the copy word for word. The man had cleared several hours tonight to work on it and fine tune it to be published in tomorrow’s paper.
Karen smiled and reached for her purse. “I’m glad our daughter’s off at college. When this hits the stands, I’ve a feeling our lives will change forever, whether we want it to or not.”
“Just look at it like this. When I get my first book deal, I’ll buy you more of those high-priced handbags you love.”
“I’d rather have you than a fancy bag any day of the week.” They both rose, and she gave him a kiss. It wasn’t a peck on the cheek, either. The kiss took him off guard. Almost like they were saying goodbye.
Even though the food was top notch, the delicious meal now sat in his stomach like a heavy rock. The weight of what they were about to do was almost too much to bear, but it had to be done. People’s lives were at stake. He’d also put way too much time and effort into this exposé to drop it now. “Can’t you just tell your boss you changed your mind?” Her head titled like a puppy dog, and she gave him that half-smile that he’d always loved. That usually caused him to cave, but he was sticking to his guns this time.
“You know I can’t do that.” It was too late. He’d lose his job if he did, and they had bills to pay. The tuition payments alone were killing them, but they’d never let on to their little girl. The damage was done anyway. In just the last week, the sinking feeling of someone following Sid had trailed him wherever he went. They’d need the income and notoriety the story would bring to keep them safe and above water.
“It was worth a try.” Karen cupped his face in her hand. “I’m really proud of you, and I know our daughter is too. Let’s go home, have a bottle of wine, and celebrate your future Pulitzer Prize-winning story.”
“Ha. Now you’re talking, but don’t count your chickens before they hatch.” He placed his hand on her lower back as they weaved their way through the tables to the exit. “But just in case, I might add more shelf room in the living room for my trophies and another shelf in the closet for all those handbags I’m going to buy you.”
“You do that.” She giggled as the host at the front of the restaurant opened the door and wished them a good night.
It was late September, but there was already a chill in the air. Sid buttoned his coat, and his wife tucked her hand in his elbow as they walked the short distance toward their car. The phone in his pocket buzzed, and he pulled it out. Sid’s gaze met his wife’s, and he smiled. It was their only child and the love of their lives.
“Hey, pumpkin. What’s new?” They both stopped on the sidewalk.
“You know I’m in college. You can stop calling me different kinds of fruit.” Just the sound of her voice warmed his heart.
They’d both loved puns, and it’d been a running joke between the two for years. “You know I can’t do that. You’re the apple of my eye.”
“You’re such a peach, Dad.” He’d hit the speakerphone so her mom could hear.
“Hi, honey.” The two looked so much alike. Thankfully. His daughter had inherited her mother’s gorgeous red hair and not the thick black mess that topped his head. As far as he was concerned, the girl had been blessed with the best of both. Her mother’s grace, looks, and strength and his height, ambition, and brown eyes. They were both so damn proud of her.
“What are you doing? I hear cars. Are you outside?” His daughter should’ve been a detective; she was more observant than anyone he knew.
“Yes, we were just at Alessio’s. You’ll have to come with us next time you’re home.”
“I’d love that. You know Italian is my favorite food.” She got that from him also. Whereas his wife was Irish and Norwegian, he was full-blooded Italian. They were the two most important people in his life, and he’d die for either one of them.
“Are you dating anyone? Meet any nice boys yet?” Karen piped in. He rolled his eyes at his wife, and she just shrugged her shoulders.
“No, I don’t have time for that. School is the main thing in my life right now.” Her voice echoed on the phone.
“That’s my girl.” Sid chuckled. “Hey, we’re almost to the—”
A car skidded to a stop in the street, and two men jumped out. The fact that they held guns registered too late for him to react. Rapid gunfire sounded, and pain like he’d never experienced ripped through his chest. Sid fell backward. Stunned. In a fog, he turned his head. Karen was on the ground beside him. Her pretty ivory dress was covered in red.
No, no, no, Sid mumbled, or was it just in his head? His heart pounded as he crawled to her side. Blood covered his hands, and the phone he clutched slipped the few inches to the ground. This couldn’t be happening. The aching was so severe, he couldn’t breathe. He coughed, and blood sprayed the cement.
“Dad? Mom? What’s going on?” He reached for the phone but couldn’t make it. Sid flopped around in agony. There was no doubt he was bleeding out and didn’t have much time left in the world. He didn’t have to be a doctor to know that. Sweat covered his face as he reached for his wife again, but it was no use. There was no strength left, and she was probably dead. A tear slipped down his cheek. This was his fault, even if he hadn’t pulled the trigger himself. He’d caused this, and that hurt worse that any bullet ever could.
The men with the guns surrounded them and spoke in a foreign language. Both dressed in suits as if they’d been going to a late dinner as soon as the job was done. He didn’t recognize any of them, but it was a good bet who they worked for. One young man stared down at his wife with a haunted look on his face. The other was solely focused on him.
His phone buzzed again, and it took everything he had to turn and read the screen. He didn’t need to see it to know who it was. His pride and joy was calling back. As the leader of the group pointed a gun to Sid’s head, the only thing that gave him peace was the fact that his daughter wasn’t there.
Chapter 1
Lake Genoa, Present Day
Jackie
The alarm wouldn’t stop ringing, but she lacked the energy to turn it off. She was in a rut, and mornings were the worst. Most people spend a large part of their lives at work, and Jackie Smith just wasn’t digging hers right now. Sure, no one really liked work. It’s called work for that very reason. That said, there had to be more to life than this.
Living in a small town was
n’t what she thought it’d be. It’d made her soft. The edge was gone. On one of those cold nights last winter, she’d felt daring and left her car running with the keys inside. The few minutes she spent in the grocery store while it sat idling had her blood flowing. Would it be there when she came out? It was a stupid thing to do, but she was bored.
When Jackie came out, the car was still there. As were all the other vehicles that were also running, the steam from their exhaust pipes keeping each other company. It would have been a story, something exciting to finally write about. She could see the headline now:
CAR STOLEN WHILE OWNER STOCKED UP BEFORE THE STORM.
Jackie knew she shouldn’t complain about the lack of crime, but working for the paper, there were only so many sunny-side-up stories she could write. Nothing ever happened here, and it was wearing on her.
The paper struggled for sales, as did most, in the social media age. If things didn’t pick up soon, she’d be out of a job and circling help wanted ads in the classified section. Being the last hired, Jackie would be the first out the door, and rumors were already circling in the break room. The paper ran with a skeleton crew, and if she got the boot, there’d be even more work for those left behind.
Unable to ignore the alarm any longer, Jackie dragged herself out of bed and stretched. Saying she was tired would be an understatement. Hell, maybe she was depressed, craving a boyfriend, a change of scenery, something?
The only thing she needed for certain right now was coffee and lots of it. Too much caffeine sometimes gave her heart palpitations, but she was young enough not to be too concerned with that. Today, it wasn’t the occasional treat from the Genoa Java causing the heartache; it was the daily stuff at work that gave her issues. There was that W word again. Work. Work. Work. W.O.R.K.