Series: Penny Dee
Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 97669 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97669 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Tears begin rolling down his cheek. Fuck me, the Nero crew are in dire need if their men are already sobbing messes. Then again, it’s nice to be reminded that my reputation precedes me.
I rip out his gag, and he chokes. “I don’t know anything about Pietro Vescari’s death. Please, you have to believe me.”
My gaze narrows. So he does know something.
“Who told you that he’s dead?”
He seems to realize he’s given himself away, and he grows a shade paler. “The crew is talking about it. You’ve already plucked off three of our men. Come on,” he pleads. “You’re going to start a war if you keep agitating Apollo like this.” My gaze narrows. I don’t care about Apollo Nero. He’s getting old, and his methods are outdated. He’s practically ostracized himself and rarely gets involved in matters personally anymore. He’s become weak. But is he behind my uncle’s death and taking the body back?
The moment I consider all of this, the man seizes the opportunity as if my silence were an admission of what he says. “Just let me go. I’m sure your mercy—”
Mercy. I slam the blade into his leg, relishing in the scream that bounces across the room, then I twist it for extra measure.
“Mercy?” I grit out very slowly as I lean into him and yank the blade out. He whimpers and sobs over the sharp edge as I bring the bloodstained blade to his throat. “Who killed Pietro?” I demand.
“I don’t know!” he cries.
I click my tongue. “Wrong answer.” I drag the blade down his shirt, slicing it open. Sometimes the best way to leave a message is to do exactly that.
“For each wrong answer you give me, I’m going to carve a letter into your chest. Do you understand?”
His chest heaves up and down. “Pl-please, I don’t know anything.”
“Let’s start with this. Where was Apollo and his three sons on the sixth of this month?”
“I’m just a ground worker. I don’t have direct access to—” He begins screaming, and it’s music to my ears. Not because he’s giving me the answers that I need. But because I need somewhere for this volatile beast of mine to feel in control of the situation again.
My sister’s sobs echo in my mind every time I carve out a new letter. I will give my family peace and remind all the other crews why they’re not to fuck with the Vescaris.
By the time I’m done with him, my work is simple, but he died on the fourth letter.
Soon.
7
LEONORE
I’m woken by Larissa jumping on the end of the bed.
“Larissa, we are sleeping. You know I worked late,” Nessa grumbles into her pillow beside me.
“But Leo is here,” she squeals, still jumping, her cute little red locks bouncing with each jump. She is five and a ball of energy.
“I’m awake. How about we go get breakfast and let Mom sleep?” I say to her, sitting up and rubbing my eyes.
“You don’t have to do that,” Nessa says but can hardly open her eyes. Pushing the blanket off me, I stand and open my arms for Larissa to jump into. She does it right away.
“It’s fine. We are due to catch up anyway.” I look down at Nessa. “Go to sleep. I’ll bring you back a coffee.”
“Lifesaver,” she whispers, pulls the blanket up higher, and instantly goes back to sleep. I walk out with Larissa on my hip, who is touching my hair and playing with it.
“I want hair like yours.”
I turn to her and smile.
“I want yours. Have you seen yours? It’s so stunning. You should be on TV,” I gush as I put her down. “Come on, get your shoes on and let me buy you breakfast.” I walk into the bathroom and find my toothbrush that I leave here and quickly brush my teeth and wash my face.
She doesn’t take long to dress herself. Today’s outfit is a sparkly purple tutu over zebra-stripe tights and a hot-pink leotard. My heart bursts with love for my goddaughter. She’s quirky and cute with her own crazy sense of style. When I see her, I see my five-year-old self. Before life kicked her in the teeth and all the unicorns ran away. Before I learned that freedom was a privilege and not always a given, depending on what family you’re born into.
Larissa slides on her shoes—a pair of holographic high tops—and opens the front door, looking back at me expectantly.
I reach for my purse that I left at the counter near the door, and we walk out to my car, her little hand holding mine as she skips happily.
I struggle with affection, showing it, giving it. You name it, I struggle with it. But when it comes to Larissa, it feels natural. Even from the moment she was born, I always felt comfortable holding her. I feel guilty that I don’t come and visit them enough, but I do try to help out when I can.