Relief is all I feel as I stare at my mother’s grave. It’s supposed to feel different, burying a parent. I should miss her, cry for her, mourn her. But I don’t. Her absence provides some respite from years of carrying the kind of responsibility a child should never have. For the first time in six years, I no longer have to take care of her. She’s the devil’s problem now. She’s been his problem since she took her last breath a few weeks ago. And instead of visiting her grave so I could feel close to her, I come here to remind myself that she’s really gone. I want to make sure her death isn’t some dream or illusion I conjured up out of desperation to be rid of her.
Not missing her is my curse. It’s God’s way of punishing a daughter who couldn’t do the right thing. So now, instead of wondering why she was taken from me, I’m left wondering why I feel nothing. Why I’m incapable of crying for her. Maybe if I cried, mourned, grieved, I’ll be able to forget her. Perhaps then I won’t wake up every morning thinking of her and what she made me do. Maybe then I’ll be able to wash away the guilt she piled onto my soul every goddamn day.
It’s your fault.
He’s gone because of you.
You took him from me.
It’s all your fucking fault.
I close my eyes, willing her voice out of my head. She might be gone, but her ghost still haunts me. It always will.
The sun starts to rise, and I clutch my coat tighter against the early morning chill. My black pumps force the dirt deeper into the ground as I walk down the path. A woman and a boy stand by a headstone that reads, ‘Loving husband and father.’ With one hand on the boy’s shoulder, she wipes a tear from her face with the other. I envy her ability to cry, giving her grief a face. Some people wish they could feel nothing when they lose a loved one, but feeling nothing is worse than feeling something—even if it’s pain.
The walk to work is the same as every other morning. My feet walk faster, and I’m aware of my surroundings without making eye contact with anyone. The lewd remarks and whistling from a group of men on the other side of the road disgust me, but I pretend not to hear a thing, praying they’ll leave me be. The last thing a woman wants on this side of town is to be noticed. While other girls crave attention and pray to be pretty, I spend my day trying to be invisible. My shirts are always a size too big, my jeans baggy, and dinner dresses below the knee. I made the mistake of glamming up once, wearing a tight-fitted dress I had bought myself with my first paycheck from a secondhand shop. My dark curls flowed over my shoulder, and my lips shimmered with a seductive pink, only to be stained with my blood an hour later. Dark purple bruises were all I had left of that dress after that night. It was a stark reminder that women were treated as objects on these streets instead of equals. If I hadn’t known how to defend myself, that the human ear is easily torn off, I would have walked away with more than just a ruined dress that night. After that day, I realized that the price of beauty is just too high on these streets.
Bells chime above the door as I walk inside, the smell of coffee and bacon making me forget what a shithole Uptown Diner really is. Uptown, my ass.
“Leandra,” Paul calls. “You’re late.”
“Sorry.” I offer no explanation as I walk to the back of the counter, shoving my bag and coat into the bottom shelf and grabbing an apron.
Wendy comes up behind me and helps me fasten it. “Paul is in an extra bad mood today.”
“Why?” I turn to face her as I pull the black scrunchy from around my wrist and tie my hair. “Did something happen?”
“I don’t know.” She narrows her green eyes while staring at our boss. “But I think he slept here last night.”
“Again? That’s the second time this week.”
“Yup. My guess is he’s pissing his wife off more than usual.”
The bells chime as two men stroll in, their dirty clothes and ratty beards reminding me why I hate this job. “Wendy, you’re up. First customers are yours.”
“They ain’t the first customers.”
I look at her, and she purses her lips, moving her gaze to a man sitting in the farthest corner, sipping his coffee. The black jacket and clean white shirt he’s wearing are all the confirmation I need that he’s not from around here. Men like him don’t come to an old, crumbling diner with faded and peeling walls, a cracked ceiling, and windows shut with steel bars.
“Who’s he?” I ask, watching him place his cup back down.
“Don’t know. But I want to serve him more than just his coffee.” Wendy bites her thumbnail, her wedding ring glinting under the yellow ceiling light.
I reach out and tug at her blonde ponytail. “Stop perving over the customers.”
“Okay, okay.” She smiles. “A girl can look.”
“Not a married one.” I grab a pencil and notepad, but I can feel Wendy’s eyes on me. “What?” I give her a sideways glance.
Her expression softens. “You’re too good for this town.”
“Believe me,” I flatten my apron, “I’m not.”
There’s a sharp pang in my chest as I walk across the checkered floors. No one knows the real Leandra Dinali—a stray who wandered in here six years ago looking for a means to survive. I was a desperate fourteen-year-old girl left with no choice but to grow up really fucking fast. At night, I would tell myself that I’d never come back to this place once I was rid of my mother.
Alas, I came back. I still do.
I follow the two men who just walked in and hand them the menus as they take a seat. “Can I get you guys some coffee?”
One glances to the other side of the diner at the man in the corner and nods to the guy he walked in with. “Is that who I think it is?”
“Jesus,” his friend curses. “What the fuck is Maximo doing here? What did you do?”
“Nothing. My God. Who says he’s here for us?”
“Why the fuck else would he be here? Alexius Del Rossa’s guys don’t hang out in dives like this.”
I drop my pen. The sound of it hitting the floor echoes like a gunshot right next to me.
Alexius Del Rossa.
A chill ripples down my spine. I’ve never seen him, but I’ve heard the whispers. Alexius isn’t a name you often hear in this part of town, but you know trouble is headed in this direction when you do. Everyone knows him. His family. How they own half of Chicago. Stories of the Dark Sovereign mob are told to children when you want them to stay off the streets at night. They are like the boogeyman you never see, yet always think about when you round a dark corner.
There’s a warning that trickles along the back of my neck as I crouch and pick up my pen. This is going to be a long-ass day.
I straighten and glance at my customers. “Can I take your order?”
Their eyes are wide, and it’s hard not to notice the fear on their faces. It’s like they were staring at the Grim Reaper, knowing their souls were about to be taken to hell.
“How long has that guy been here?” one of them asks, still not taking his eyes off the man whose name I now know as Maximo.
“Not sure. He was already here when I started my shift. Can I get you guys some coffee?” I’m desperate to get their order so I can go to the back and tell Wendy who that guy is. She has no idea he’s one of Alexius’ men, or she wouldn’t be so eager to flirt.
“You know what?” He grabs his jacket and stands. “We’ll get our breakfast somewhere else.”
Both of them walk so fast one would think the floor’s on fucking fire the way they hustle out the diner—all because of one man sitting in the corner, drinking coffee and reading a newspaper. If I ever wanted to know the full extent of the Del Rossa’s power, I just witnessed all I needed to.
Wendy slips in next to me. “Why did they leave?”
“Because of your customer over there.” I slip my pen and notepad back into my apron pocket. “His name is Maximo.”
“Maximo,” Wendy purrs, biting the end of her pen. “That’s a strong name.”
“Yeah, especially since he’s one of Alexius Del Rossa’s men.”
There’s a fast shift in the air as Wendy stiffens next to me. “Dark Sovereign?” she whispers.
“According to my customers who just hauled their asses out of here at top speed, yes.”
“Jesus.” Wendy turns to face me. “What is one of his men doing here?”
“I don’t know. But whatever it is, it can’t be good.”
“No shit. Come on.” She grabs my wrist and makes me follow her to the back, where she drops my hand the second the swivel door closes. “Should we tell Paul?”
Even though my every instinct screams at me to tell Paul, quit my job, and get as far away from this diner as possible, the last thing I want to do is panic and do something stupid. “Let’s wait and see what happens. He’s probably going to finish his coffee and leave.”
“If he doesn’t?” Wendy bites her thumbnail again, but there’s nothing sexy or flirty about it this time.
I brush my fingers through my ponytail and place a hand on my hip. “If he doesn’t leave in the next half hour, we tell Paul. Besides,” I peek through the circle window in the door, “Paul probably already knows who he is. Might explain his bad mood other than problems at home.”
“Okay,” Wendy agrees, but anyone can see she’s nervous as hell.
I place my hands on her shoulders and force her to look me in the eye. “Get your shit together. You don’t want to be acting nervous around him.”
“I know. But I can’t help it. I know these men, Lee. They are vicious and cruel.”
“How do you know them?”
Wendy’s gaze drifts to her feet, and she shifts from one leg to the other. My stomach coils tight as I anticipate what she’s about to tell me.
“My cousin Sam managed to gather a fuckton of debt at one of their casinos.” Her eyes find mine. “Let’s just say he’s still paying his debt behind bars in a prison where the Dark Sovereign control him. He can’t even take a piss without them knowing.”
“My God. How did he end up in prison?”
Wendy glances around to make sure no one is close enough to hear. “He supposedly killed someone on their orders and got caught.”
“Supposedly?”
“Let’s just say we don’t think it’s a coincidence that Sam got caught with a gun in his hand standing over a dead body.”
I frown. “So, they framed him?”
“I don’t know. Sam never really told us what happened. We were all just left to make our own assumptions. But Sam is no longer considered a family member since everyone is too shit scared to be associated with him in any way.” Wendy’s eyes shoot open wide, her cheeks instantly pale as she stiffens. “Jesus, Lee. What if they’re here for me? What if Sam fucked up, and now they’re here to make me pay for it?”
“How can he possibly fuck up when he’s in prison?”
Wendy’s brows slant inward as she stares at me with the glint of disbelief. “Have you not watched a single episode of Inside the World’s Toughest Prisons?”
“I can’t say that I have.”
“These mobs get more done behind bars than they do behind a fucking desk. Prison doesn’t stop them from hurting or killing others.” She clutches her middle like a child with a tummy ache. “I’m telling you, Sam did something, and now they’re here for me.”
Ice shatters inside my veins, the frozen shards piercing my stomach. The skin behind my ear burns as I sink my nail into the flesh. It’s a nervous habit—something I’ve been doing since I was five. The night after my father left, I scratched that one spot until blood gathered beneath my nails. And I continued to do it for weeks, picking the scabs and opening the wounds. My mother had a field day telling me what a psychotic bitch I was and that the scars behind my ears were proof of that.
I willfully stop scratching and rub my fingers along my chin. “If that were true, they would target you in some dark alley somewhere. Not at your work in broad fucking daylight for everyone to see.”
“The Dark Sovereign doesn’t give a fuck who sees. They know no one would dare say a word against them. These fuckers are untouchable, Lee. And they are not discreet. I can tell you that.”
“Okay.” I step back and start to pace. “Maybe we should call the police.”
“Are you kidding?” Wendy places her hand on her forehead. “They own the motherfucking police, Leandra. They are not street thugs who go in and out of jail. There’s a reason they call themselves the Dark Sovereign.” She inches closer. “They are the fucking royalty of Chicago with ninety-nine-point-nine percent of law enforcement on their payroll.” She’s practically spitting out the words, her cheeks red and irises flames of fear.
“Okay, let’s just take a breath.” I hold up my arms and try to disarm Wendy’s borderline panic attack. “For all we know, this man is just drinking his fucking coffee without the intention of killing or hurting anyone.”
“For all we know, he’s sitting there thinking of twenty different ways to kill me.”
“Wendy!” I blurt. “Calm the fuck down, would you?”
“Easy for you to say. You don’t have a felon in your fucking family.”
Her words cut deep into a reality I’ve spent years trying to forget, but my mother never allowed me that luxury. And even now, with her gone, the sins of my bloodline still haunt me.
I’m scratching behind my ear again as I lean with my back against the wall, trying to focus on my breathing so I won’t freak the fuck out. “Like I said. Let’s give this guy half an hour. If he’s not done by then, we tell Paul, and we get our asses out of here. Okay?”
The air-conditioning starts up with a loud thump, and both of us yelp, snapping our gazes up at the machine. The noise is fucking awful, like a damn car engine that won’t start. It shakes and rattles while spitting out cold air, and I make a mental note to break that damn thing in half when no one is around.
“How that fucking thing is still working is beyond me,” Wendy mutters, cursing under her breath while shooting flaming daggers at the air-conditioning machine that just scared the bejesus out of us.
The bells chime, signaling new customers, and I tighten my ponytail before wiping my palms down my apron. “You stay here and get your shit together. But if you run and leave me alone in this dump, I am emptying your tip jar.”
The swivel door creaks as I push my way through. Immediately, my gaze finds Maximo still sitting in his seat, but he’s no longer reading the newspaper. Instead, he’s looking right at me, and the eye contact strips me of the confidence I need to pretend like his presence isn’t scaring the crap out of us.
My feet come to a halt when he stands from his seat, sauntering toward the customers who just walked in. There’s a heaviness inside my chest as my heart thumps violently against my ribs, and it’s impossible to ignore the sense of foreboding that turned the air toxic.
Maximo is easily six-foot-five, his shoulders broad, and thick veins rope up the side of his muscled neck. The man is built like a fucking machine, and all I can do is remain frozen on the spot as he merely looks the new customers in the eye—a silent threat that makes them turn around and walk out.
I take a step back, the skin at the back of my neck cold yet clammy, thinking Wendy might have been right. Him being here is no coincidence, and stopping new customers from entering the diner just confirmed it.
Slowly backing away, I keep my eyes on Maximo while he holds the door open as a man walks in. Dressed in a black coat, white-collar shirt, and slate gray tie, it’s impossible for me to look away. The tension in the air tightens the moment he turns to face me. Recognition flashes in his eyes as he keeps my gaze, his expression stern and unreadable.
“Jesus Christ,” Wendy whispers. I didn’t even notice her slip in next to me. “That’s Alexius.”
I swallow hard, my throat dry and chest unable to expand while I struggle to breathe. The way his presence wraps around my throat proves the stories I’ve heard of him are true. It’s all there in the blue-blaze of his irises—the crashing chaos and wicked wrongdoings of a man who possesses too much power.
With every step he takes toward me, his stare burns into mine, and I struggle to breathe in deeply enough so my lungs can expand.
Midnight hair falls across his eyes, the strands as dark as the intentions that lurk behind the deceptive elegance he carries on his squared shoulders. Confidence radiates from him with every wide step he takes as he closes the distance between us. The man is as beautiful as he is intimidating.
“Fuck this, I’m out,” I hear Wendy mumble, but I’m unable to move, unable to break the lock his gaze has on mine like I’m a target.
With shaky legs, I inch back a step, but his tall frame already towers over me, and he reaches into his coat pocket. My lips part with a sharp uptick in my panicked heartbeat, and a soft whimper escapes me as I try to move to the side, desperate to get away. But he merely steps up in front of me, invading my personal space, and reaches out, placing his palm against the drywall and boxing me in. He smells of whiskey and spice, and subtle notes of sandalwood that coil around me, intoxicating my senses.
Something deep inside me stirs, and my breath catches in my throat.
“Leandra Dinali.” I hardly recognize my own name, shuddering at the orotund tone of his voice—a deep, rumble of power that makes me hold my breath.
Rooted to the spot, I’m paralyzed by his presence as he leans forward, pulling out a black envelope from his coat pocket.
Panicked tension threatens to snap my spine, and I lay my head back against the wall, turning my face away from his as he slips the envelope down the front of my dress, soft paper gliding against my flesh and sharp edges nicking my breasts.
Heat surges across the skin of my neck as he leans closer, gently dragging his nose up toward my ear, inhaling deep. “You have twenty-four hours.”
I pinch my eyes closed, my wildly beating heart thrumming like a drum inside my head. The bone-chilling terror renders me incapable of moving, but I open my eyes just in time to see him walk out the door.
A tear slips free, and I sink down the wall onto the floor, breathing rapidly and biting my lip so I won’t break down in sobs. I’m no stranger to fear. I’ve lived through it for years. But this is different. It wraps me up in chains and squeezes the air from my lungs, but at the same time, I am consumed by something other than fear. Something stronger.
After catching my breath, I pull out the envelope, my name neatly written in gold with elegant calligraphy. But it’s the letters on the back that has my heart crawling up my throat—a gold D with a silver S cutting through it. It’s their symbol.
The symbol of the Dark Sovereign.
