Ultraviolence

“We’re so sorry for your loss.” 

I nod and try not to empty my stomach contents onto the funeral parlor floor as another boss offers me condolences that are as fake as the smile plastered onto my face.

My father wasn’t a liked man. Half of the men dressed in two thousand dollar suits gathered in the back of the stiff room are likely envious they weren’t the one to put a bullet in Giovanni D’Ettore’s temple themselves. My gaze drifts to the peeling cream wall paper above their heads. The heads of the other four families didn’t dislike my father because of his wealth and power, though he acquired an abundance of both during his reign as New York’s crime boss. Their hatred stemmed from the direction he wished for the families to take inside the twenty-first century.

“Ivy.” I blink as Vera snaps her fingers in front of my face. “It’s almost time for the committal ceremony.”

Patchouli clings to her pulse point almost as strongly as the tight, little black dress that hugs her nonexistent curves. The cherry red paint on her too long fingernails flash beneath the fluorescent light as she tosses her platinum curls over her shoulder.

“I’m ready.”

“Good.” She doesn’t even try to hide the contempt dripping from her bright pink lips. My skin crawls when my father’s mistress takes another step closer and wipes the outer corner of my eye with her thumb.“Mascara. Do us both a favor and keep your mouth shut today.” She tilts her head and smiles sweetly. “We don’t want to tarnish your father’s memory with too many opinions, do we?”

I say nothing, because although the urge to spit in her face is overwhelming, she’s right. It’s not uncommon for me to think before I speak and make my opinions known where my father’s business is concerned. My business.

Triumph shines in Vera’s eyes as she spins, her six inch Christian Louboutin heels clicking against the polished ceramic tile as she struts toward the back of the funeral parlor.

Bitch.

Many of the women clinging to the arms of the bosses look to be my age or younger. One girl wears diamond studs in her ears that are fifteen carats or more, another with a designer emerald choker around her pale throat that costs no less than fifty-thousand dollars. I press my lips together as Vera throws her head back and laughs at something one of the other mistresses says. So much for grief.

My gaze flickers around the room. The christening the Father Ricci is presiding over must have run long, considering he’s nowhere to be found. Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, I swipe my Dior clutch and slip out of the parlor.

A blast of cold air seeps into the thin tights beneath my dress the moment I step outside. For the end of March, it’s fucking freezing. Better make this quick. A tube of lipgloss, a stick of gum, and a vile of my favorite Marc Jacobs perfume tumble to the ground as I rummage around my clutch. Ten seconds later, my fingers close around a small, square box. Bingo.

The smell of fresh tobacco greets me when I open the pack of Marlboro Red’s and shove a cigarette between my lips. I usually only smoke when I’ve had one too many glasses of champagne, but my nerves are shot and nicotine is better than heroin, so here we are.

I close my eyes and savor the headrush as I inhale one, then two lungfuls of smoke.

“Haven’t you heard those things will kill you?”

Mother. Fucker. My head meets the brick wall behind me as I take another long, slow drag. Of all the insufferable people that showed up today, I shouldn’t be surprised that Satan himself decided to make an appearance.

I peel my eyes open to find the same frigid gaze I remember already on me. “Go to hell.”

“Considering you’re standing in front of me, I’m already there, Poison.”

A predatory smile complete with perfect white teeth spreads across his face when I refuse to drop his gaze. August Calvo may have been my childhood bully, but that was fifteen years ago. I won’t bow to him, even if he’s grown into his lanky frame and is now a foot taller than me with a jawline that looks like it was sculpted out of marble.

“Why are you here?” I try to keep my voice even, but the words are strained slipping between my clenched teeth. Even if he’s taken the role of boss, the Chicago family operates as its own entity. He has no reason to be here.

“Haven’t you heard?” Amusement dances alongside the hatred burning in his ocean blue eyes. “Let’s just say you aren’t the only one your father wrote into his will.”

“You’re lying.”

My hair blows around my face in a burst of arctic wind. August takes another long stride forward, snatching a honey colored strand and rolling it between his fingers. He smells like“Afraid not, Poison..”

One thing about August is, he doesn’t lie. Not to me. Which means my father has done the unthinkable and left something to the man who is the sole reason I almost crashed my car into a river and haven’t been on a serious date in my adult life.

My cigarette has nearly burnt down the filter, but I take another long, slow inhale anyway. August looks down his sharp nose at me in clear disapproval. His gaze drops to my mouth as my lips form an O shape and I shrug, blowing out rings of smoke. It’s childish and absolutely not the proper manners that have been drilled into me since I was a little girl, but I don’t care. A muscle feathers in his jaw. Good. August’s greatest talent has always been pinpointing someone’s weakness. I somehow doubt he hasn’t sharpened that skill since becoming boss of the Calvo family.

I toss the cigarette on the ground and stamp on the butt with my heel, ignoring the way my pulse picks up when he takes another step, erasing the little remaining space between us. His thumb and index finger are suddenly digging into either side of my jaw and tilting my chin upward with more force than necessary. “You can give everyone else the shitty, ‘I don’t give a fuck’ attitude, but you forget one thing.”

I cross my arms over my chest and glance around as if I’m pondering his words even though all my instincts tell me to run for the hills. “What’s that?”

Sweet peppermint floats to my nose as he leans forward so close our breaths mingle with one another. “I was in your head long before I was between your legs.”

Surprise flashes in his eyes when my hand meets the rough skin of his jaw. Two can play this game. I drag my fingers along his jawline, caress the top of his high cheekbone, all the while ignoring the warmth that seeps into my palm when I stretch to the tips of my toes.

“Good thing that you were as forgettable as the rest of them.”

He grunts as I knee him in the balls. Snatching my clutch off the ground, I shoulder open the door to the funeral parlor, feeling August’s glacial stare in my bones long after warmth has kissed my cheeks.