Chapter: 000
Dylan
“Watch where you’re going, bitch!” A cabbie yells over to me with a thick New York accent. I repay his warm gesture with a more than enthusiastic gesture of my own. A stiff middle finger his way earns me several honks and a Starbucks cup thrown at my head.
Fucking Asshole.
I cross the street with the phone still between my shoulder and my ear, while I fumble with a button my my shirt.
“—and I need you to pick up your dress at the store. Dylan? Dylan... Dylan! Are you even listening to me?!”
I winced, releasing my blouse to clutch at the cell. “I swear, I’m listening.”
“Oh really? Then what did I say just now?”
Ah, shit.
“Um... something about the... the wedding?”
I hear her sigh and then mumble something that sounded almost like a prayer. “Dylan, listen up. I am getting married in three weeks, and in those three weeks, my life has become a clusterfuck of ‘fuck my life.’ The flower girl just came down with the chickenpox, the venue double-booked us with a retirement party, so now there’s going to be a jazz band playing solo saxophone during my vows. And on top of that, Maggie, in all her infinite wisdom, ordered turnips instead of white roses, and now my bouquet looks like it came from a farmer’s market. So if you even think about messing up this dress situation, I will personally hunt you down and make you regret every life choice that led you to this moment. Do I make myself clear?”
I damn near jaywalked straight into some poor guy wrestling with a cane in surprise. If it wasn’t for my quick reflexes, I would’ve sent the poor thing falling into the five o’clock traffic. I mumble a quick apology, then press the phone back against my cheek.
“Okay, Fine. I’m sorry. From now on, you’ve got all my attention.”
“Thank you. Now please, the store closes at five and I’ve asked them to hold onto the dress but they won’t for long. So get your ass there pronto.”
“Aye, aye,” I say, saluting the air. A few passersby shoot me weird looks, so I flash them my best ‘I definitely have bodies in my basement' smile. And it works like a charm— they scamper away, refusing to look at me. “And don’t stress, sis. Good things have a way of working themselves out. Before you know it, you’re married and after two months you have a bouncing baby boy on your hip.”
“Children take nine months to cook, dumbass.”
“Considering you and Marco fuck like hormonal rabbits, all that child would need is a month and some Gatorade, and he’d be sporting a six-pack and a beard.”
Marianna burst out laughing, and somewhere in the background, I hear her fiance, Marco, grunt in amusement.
“Oh, shit, Dyl. I almost forgot,” she interjected. “I gotta go. Marco and I have a dance class we can’t be late for. I’ll talk to you later, okay? Don’t forget the dress. Love you, sis.”
“Love you,” I say and hang up, pocketing my phone.
I stop at a crosswalk and wait patiently for the light to turn red. I was right outside my apartment complex. A tall building with ten stories of wonderful Boston neighbours who would swear at a dog if he tilted his head the wrong way.
The complex didn’t only have lovely neighbours but it was within walking distance from campus—a major win for a tragically broke college student without a license, such as myself, who absolutely did not need more expenses dragging me further into financial ruin on top of the bills that my measly bartending job could barely cover. Because, you know, living is apparently expensive, and society expects me to still function while broke and suffering.
The traffic light was taking its sweet time changing— so I found myself absently humming along to a song I couldn’t even name while scanning the street. My gaze stalled when I spotted a line of black Escalades parked just outside my building. One... two... three... four of them.
Expensive cars weren’t exactly rare in this part of town. This street was home to some of the biggest corporate names in the state, so seeing luxury vehicles breeze through wasn’t anything unusual. But seeing them parked outside my building? Now, that was odd.
My neighbors weren’t exactly the Escalade-driving type. Just last week, I had to shoo a couple of kids off my stairwell who were trying to sell me weed in a ziplock bag—at prices so outrageously marked up, I almost admired the hustle. Greedy little pricks.
Just then, the lights finally change, and I cross the road successively, managing to avoid getting trampled by the animal kingdom that is Boston pedestrians.
I reach my building and take the stairs two at a time, completely ignoring the elevator like it personally offended me. I’ve had an irrational (but also completely justified) fear of elevators since I was three. No clue what triggered it, but after twenty-two years of sweating and panting up endless staircases, I still refuse to even look at the death trap.
Near my apartment, I start digging through my purse for my keys.
Shit. Don’t tell me I lost them again—
Aha!
My fingers close around the metal, and I shove the key into the lock once I’m at the door. But instead of the usual reassuring click, there’s... nothing.
I frown, and try the knob.
It turns effortlessly.
Natalie wouldn’t be home until late, and I was damn sure I locked this door before I left.
I pushed it open wider, peering down the white hallway into my apartment. Nothing seemed out of place. It was quiet. Lifeless.
Beside the door sat a tiny drawer. Slowly, I opened it, my fingers searching for the hidden compartment where I kept my pistol. Natalie had no idea I owned one. Hell, with the image I’d worked so hard to maintain, I doubt anyone thought I even knew what to do with a gun, let alone had one stashed away.
The weight of the pistol in my grip was surprisingly grounding. My shoulders loosened. My pulse steadied.
I moved inside, creeping through the apartment, gun raised. A quick sweep of the bathroom and the hall closet came up empty.
I stepped into the living room. Also empty. Actually... cleaner than usual. The ratty old couch against the wall was crumb-free. The floor was swept. No potato chip wrappers littered the carpet from last night’s binge. Everything was exactly how I’d left it this morning.
I exhaled, half-annoyed at myself for overreacting. About to call it quits and chalk this up to paranoia—
CRASH.
The sound came from the kitchen. My body went rigid, my heart slamming against my ribs.
I flicked the hammer on the gun and stormed in.
Nothing could have prepared me for what I walked into.
Four gun barrels pointed straight at my head.
Dread coiled tight in my chest. Five men were crammed into my tiny kitchen, but only one made my stomach plummet to my feet.
Enzo Corretti.
The King of New York.
No doubt about it—that was him, standing in my kitchen, casually sipping water from my overpriced crystal glass set like it wasn’t bought with blood, sweat, and existential dread.
His file said he was handsome. But Jesus Christ—they didn’t do him justice.
He was the type of man you’d see on the cover of magazines or a Most Wanted poster with lipstick stains under his picture. He was dressed in a dark suit that covered what I’m sure would be nothing less than immaculateness underneath. Dark curly hair, short on the sides and full at the top. A sharp jaw and green eyes reflected the danger, power and influence he exuded. He was everything my mother warned me to steer clear of, and here he was, in my kitchen with glass shards at his feet, filling up my already matchbox of a kitchen with all of him.
His green eyes travelled up my body until they stopped on my breasts and then finally on my face. Despite the guns aimed between my eyes, it took all my willpower not to run and hide like I was dying to. “If I’d known we were having guests, I would’ve brought out my nice silverware,” I snipped, pleased when my voice didn’t waver.
I knew they were coming— not the Famiglia specifically— but I knew someone was bound to pick up my trail and come find me.
I’m grateful Natalie isn’t here to get caught up in all of this, though.
I couldn’t live with myself if anything happened to her. She is the only family I have in New York and I just know she’s going to be in a complete wreck when she finds out I’d been taken... or worse, dead. The unfortunate truth of the matter is, I was either going to walk out of here with them or in a body bag. Because like the Angel of Death, once Enzo Corretti makes up his mind to come to find you, nothing and no one can stop him from collecting what he thinks is owed.
And I owe the Famiglia a shit ton.
“My apologies, cara mia,” Enzo’s voice was smooth, like silk just before it wraps around your neck and chokes the life out of you. “For coming unannounced. Under different circumstances, I can assure you, we Italians are much more respectable.”
I scoff. “Right, because nothing screams ‘respectable’ like four guns in my face and you making yourself at home in my kitchen. Should I be grateful you’re not raiding my fridge too?”
An eyebrow lifts at my retort. The danger glinting in his eyes is no less amused.
Slowly, the men lower their guns after his silent command, but I don’t follow suit.
I’m not stupid. I’m in the wolves’ den, and I’m the only one in wool.
He notices I have no intention of putting my gun down, and he sighs in exasperation.
The fucker have the balls to get annoyed when he broke into my house. The audacity of these Mob Bosses.
“Let me remind you, Ms. Alvarez—you’re outnumbered, outgunned, and running out of options. You can drop the gun and make this easy, or I can do things my way. And I assure you, my way doesn’t leave people breathing.”
That sent a chill up my spine.
I look around. He was right, I was surrounded, there were no exits. No way to run. But I was never one to take things siting down.
“Then I’m sorry too, Mr Corretti.” He tilted his head, curiously. “I’m sorry you think I’m actually going out without a fight.”
Then I pull the trigger.
