The human mind forgets.
It’s a defense mechanism, a healing process, and a necessity to push oneself forward.
I’m not the type who forgets.
I have archives upon archives of files stored neatly in my brain with name tags and rotten memories.
But even I have fallen prey to the mind’s need to move on. Even I have started to blur the stench of my childhood hellhole in the ghetto and everything that transpired within its walls.
I lived the last twenty-five years of my life looking over my shoulder, counting calendar days, and later, getting drunk on a grave I thought was my daughter’s.
I lived twenty-five years waiting, surviving, and biding my time for this day.
The day when my monster of a father would be unleashed back into the world, twenty-five years older, wiser, and deadlier.
I have no misconceptions about who his first target will be once he gains his freedom. He told me so the day he was arrested.
“I’ll come back for you, my red dahlia. Whether you run or hide will have zero effect on the final result.”
That’s what he used to call me. A red dahlia, the worst color for that flower, holding the meaning of betrayal and deceit.
Something my father and I share in our DNA.
We also share the belief that hiding is useless. In the past, I used to think running was my best option. That’s why I made friends with his guard or, more accurately, bribed him so I’d know when my father was getting out.
In the meantime, I received news about all the people he killed while he was on the inside. Just because a monster is locked up doesn’t mean the danger he poses is gone.
I planned to run away as soon as he was out. I had nothing to hold me to the States and I mapped out my fresh start in another country. I would take my experience with me and crush different goals.
But that was before I found out my daughter isn’t in the fake grave I’ve been getting drunk on every year.
That was before I “met” her and was given another chance to make things right.
If I run, I might as well sign an abandonment contract and give that asshole Kingsley the satisfaction of saying “I told you so.”
Which isn’t an option.
Being accepted as Gwen’s mother is my new goal in life and might as well be my calling, meaning, and what gives me the power to wake up every day.
And to achieve that, I need to face the demon that’s custom-made with my blood type.
Bruno Locatelli is a made man, a hitman for an influential Italian crime family, and has an assassin’s cult that worships at his monstrous altar.
He’s been doing business as usual from prison without a hiccup. In fact, he’s been staying there under his bosses’ order, taking the fall for some of the higher-ups’ crimes like a made man should.
Now, he’ll be rewarded for his services and given the power he bloodied his hands for during all these years.
But before he asks for my head as a sacrifice, I need protection.
Which is why I’m at this charity ball.
After a round of excruciating small talk, I climb the stairs to where I saw my target heading.
I stop around the corner when I spot two buff men scrutinizing the area with eyes fully devout of humanity.
In my line of work, I see people like them all the time. Men who are so far gone that they deteriorate to the animal category.
And the worst part is, they’re fully comfortable that way.
Just like my father.
My target comes out of the restroom, looking refined in his handmade three-piece Italian suit and matching leather shoes.
He moves with the confidence of a man who’s well aware that the world is at his fingertips and people are mere vessels at his disposal.
The moment he rounds the corner, I pretend to stumble and spill my half-full champagne flute all over his expensive suit.
A flash of movement is all the warning I get before I’m slammed against the nearest wall, both my hands locked behind my back. The glass of champagne crashes to the floor and my face is smashed against the surface. While I was ready for such a reaction, I didn’t sign up to have my cheekbone broken.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to,” I say in a half-muffled voice, but my words aren’t directed at the guard who’s jamming my head into the wall.
They’re for the man who hasn’t even glanced at his wet clothes and is watching me with unnerving attention.
“I’ll pay for the dry cleaning,” I offer, my voice still calm, considering my situation.
I’ve been manhandled countless times, but not once have I cowered like a scared kitten. It still gets on my last nerve, though.
I catch my target waving off his guard and he releases me not so gently, leaving what I’m sure are bruises on my wrists.
Small sacrifices.
I turn around and come face to face with none other than Nicolo Luciano.
The underboss of the Luciano crime family.
The tenth generation of a line of underworld lords who’ve run New York City for almost a century.
He has a terrifying calmness to him, a beauty that’s shrouded by the stench of blood and the decadence of rotten money.
He’s a shock of darkness—black hair, dark eyes, and a grim expression that could be used as a lethal weapon.
“I’m truly sorry.” I guard my light tone, wincing at the sight of his soaked jacket.
“No, you’re not.” He speaks with a hint of a refined Italian accent, like aristocracy. “You did that to get my attention, and you got it at the expense of my clothes that are worth more than selling you on the black market for body parts. So how about you spare us both the nonsense and tell me why you’re interested in my attention? Think carefully, for your livelihood and next shipping address depends on the answer.”
I swallow, realizing that I might have bitten off more than I can chew. But I don’t consider backing down. My chances of being a mother worthy of Gwen depend on it.
“My name is Aspen Leblanc, and you want me on your legal team.”
He raises a brow. “And what makes you think I’m hiring?”
“Nothing, but you should be.”
“Elaborate, and make it both quick and convincing. Your zip code is changing as we speak.”
I raise my chin, adopting my legal voice. “I noticed you only have criminal attorneys by your side and while those are good for getting an underling out of jail or in case of murder, they’re absolutely useless when it comes to earning profit. You need a civil attorney, one specializing in corporate law, to end legal quarrels, strikes, and get you state compensation. I’m also able to find tax loopholes for you.”
“I can get those my way.”
“That’s true, but it’s more profitable and less of a hassle if you let an experienced attorney take charge. Since you’re legitimizing some of your business, it will look good on paper if an appropriate legal counsel is in charge.”
“I see you’ve done your research.”
“I’ve done more than that and I’d be able to end the week-long workers’ strike at your metal factory downtown effective tomorrow if you hire me.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“The catch, Ms. Leblanc. What is it?”
“Four times my hourly rate for every shady operation I do for you.”
He pauses. “I thought you would use legal methods.”
“I might have to use illegal methods to get there, and I want to be fully compensated for it.”
“Double.”
“Triple.”
“Double and permission to stay alive as long as you’re useful.”
“Double and protection while I’m in your world.”
He pauses at that. “Got a target on your back?”
“From your hitman, yes.”
He raises a brow. “Elaborate, and don’t leave any details out, because one of my men is background checking you as we speak.”
“Bruno Locatelli is my father, and he’ll be after my neck as soon as he’s released.”
Nicolo’s lips twitch. “You’re the red dahlia he’s been keeping an eye on.”
My throat closes and it takes all my goodwill not to freak out. I thought I’d escaped their world the day I left Aunt Sharon and Uncle Bob’s house.
But Nicolo just said that I’ve been on his radar all this time. I shouldn’t be surprised, but my brain must’ve deleted the detail of how dangerous my father actually is. It must’ve tried to self-comfort by thinking our lives have been separate up until now.
“See, Bruno has been loyal and lucrative to the family business for decades. Long before you were born. You have to offer way more than he does for me to even consider twisting his arm in his private family matters.”
“Give me a chance and you won’t be disappointed.”
“I better not be or I’ll personally sign your death certificate.”
“Does that mean you’ll give me a chance?”
“I will, after you end that strike by morning.”
“Thank you.” I approach him to shake hands, but once again, the breath is knocked out of my lungs.
His buff guard plasters me to the wall, spitting, “You have not earned permission to breathe that close to Boss.”
Ugh. This jerk really needs to train his dogs better.
“Got it…” I mumble to get out of his hold.
I expect Nicolo to call him off, but the guard’s weight disappears from my back in a sudden whoosh of air.
Thwack.
Thud!
I whirl around to find the guard on the floor, clutching his bleeding nose. Over him stands the resident devil of my custom-made hell in his signature black suit, hand-made Italian loafers, and an expression that matches a vampire hungry for blood.
I wonder if this is how he looked under that Anonymous mask twenty-one years ago.
A dark lord with a thirst for violence.
The irony of him punching someone in my presence again doesn’t escape me. Unlike the Joker from back then, the guard stands, raising his fist. The other guard cocks a gun and puts it to the back of Kingsley’s head.
Either this man has no regard whatsoever for his life or he’s much crazier than I thought, because he simply smiles at Nicolo with the air of a rebellious underworld boss.
“Now, I’m not chauvinistic myself and I won’t honor the dated thing with any form of defense, but shouldn’t the use of violence against a defenseless woman be frowned upon in your proud culture?”
That’s it.
This man is batshit crazy with suicidal tendencies.
“Shaw,” Nicolo greets with a nod to his guards.
“Luciano.”
The men swiftly retreat to their boss’s side, and a breath rushes out of my lungs. I thought I was seconds away from witnessing Kingsley’s head being blown to pieces, but it turns out, they’re acquaintances.
Wait…
I stare between them. “You…know each other?”
“Our fathers were friends who had the habit of comparing us.” Kingsley smirks. “Nicolo here likes guns because he sucked with all other toys—women included.”
“And yet, your woman came to me for help.”
“I’m not his woman.”
“She’s not my woman,” he says at the same time and we glare at each other.
Head-on.
Damn this asshole and whatever voodoo he possesses to strip my energy.
Whenever I’m in his orbit, it takes everything in me to hold on to the control I’ve cultivated for decades.
He’s unnerving and destabilizing, and there’s no cure in sight.
Nicolo’s lips lift at the corners like a cat who’s found a mouse. “I’ll leave you to it, then. See you tomorrow, Ms. Leblanc.”
“You’ll see my assault charge tomorrow, motherfucker,” Kingsley informs him.
Nicolo merely smiles as he turns around and leaves with the company of his guards.
As soon as they disappear, I storm to Kingsley until I’m toe to toe with him. “What the hell was that all about?”
He stares down at me with an arched brow, channeling a gorgeous villain with black morals. “Is that your way of saying thank you for saving me, what can I do to show my gratitude?’”
“Gratitude, my ass. Who told you I was in trouble? I was doing just fine.”
“Clearly, judging by your earlier pained expression that resembled a whore faking an orgasm.”
“You’re one to know, considering all the whores who had to fake an orgasm to stroke your earth-sized ego.”
“I don’t fuck whores; they’re called escorts. And believe me, not one of them has had to fake an orgasm.”
“I’d be shocked if that were the case, seeing your selfish, narcissistic tendencies.”
“Are we going to pretend I didn’t give you more orgasms than you could’ve counted the night we conceived Gwen?”
My body heat turns up a notch despite myself, and I speak in a snotty way to camouflage my reaction. “The only thing I remember about that night is leaving. Guess your orgasm-giving abilities are that forgettable.”
“Liar.” His voice drops to a deeper tenor and I swear I can feel its vibration on my skin before it settles at the base of my stomach. “You can make everyone believe you’ve forgotten about it, but here’s the thing. I don’t belong on the effortlessly fooled list, sweetheart.”
“Don’t call me that. I am not your sweetheart.” And I hate that my heart is beating so loud, I can hear the thumps in my ear.
“You prefer being labeled a witch?”
“I prefer my given name.”
“It’s too bland for me to remember.”
“Has anyone told you that you’re a dick?”
“In the last hour? Twice. And before you ask, no. As much as I appreciate your special attention to my dick, I’m afraid it’s closed for business when it comes to you.”
“Funny. I recall it being so open for business that you slept with it inside me.”
He grins and I internally curse myself.
“I thought you didn’t remember.”
“I only remembered after I woke up. Not during.”
“Don’t be cute. It got you knocked up when you were jailbait.”
My stomach cramps in painful intervals with intense consistency. His words, the meaning behind them, the emotions associated with them are slowly but surely chipping away at my control. Kingsley, however, looks as vicious as a demon lord with a beef against everyone—hell included. I wish I could peel off his aloof mask and see what type of mess is exactly going on in his dysfunctional brain.
But since I can’t do that, and I don’t want to let the conversation steer down that old and minefield-like lane, I clear my throat. “How close are you with Nicolo? I didn’t think you’d be friends with a mafia boss.”
“Nicolo and I share the same amount of friendship between a scorpion and a frog.”
“But you just said your fathers were friends.”
“Doesn’t mean we’ve kept the legacy going. Marco Luciano worshipped the billion-dollar road Benjamin Shaw walked on and my father admired his boundless power. A connection Nicolo and I abhorred until it eventually broke apart. He stayed in his shadow-shrouded world and I kept my billions, blinding looks, and eternal Forbes status.”
“And arrogance, apparently.”
“Arrogance is flashing my status in front of the world until they gag on it. I’m not arrogant, sweetheart. I’m merely assertive about who I am and what I have.”
I pause, staring at him.
Like really stare at the man behind the Apollo-like appearance and fashion god style. And it hits me then.
Kingsley might be a loud mofo who likes throwing his weight around with the infuriating confidence of a deity, but he’s not a fan of the media.
Or attention.
Or press conferences.
In fact, he’s made it his mission to live his life as far away from their watchful eyes as possible. Never engaged in their petty questioning or given them the time of day.
In fact, he’s as private as me and Nate. Just not quiet, and he definitely lacks the rationality that would’ve kept him out of the spotlight if he’d practiced it.
But then again, he breathes for the antagonistic forces conflict brings him.
His attention remains firmly on me, and even though his stance is relaxed, it doesn’t fool me. Kingsley will always be a predator, ready to pounce.
“Now, are you going to tell me why you went to Nicolo for ‘help,’ as he so eloquently put it?”
“I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”
“It abso-fucking-lutely is if you’re a senior partner at, and I can’t stress this enough, my firm.”
“Your and Nate’s firm.”
“That’s fifty percent my business. It’ll be one hundred percent our business if I tell your dear bestie you’re asking the mafia for help.”
I grit my teeth. This asshole really knows how to get on my last nerve. “Nate has nothing to do with this.”
“I’ll be the one to decide whether or not to call him in the next five minutes, depending on your answer.”
“You’re not possibly thinking of disturbing him on his honeymoon, are you?”
“Not if you start talking in…” He looks at his watch. “The next four and a half minutes.”
“First of all, fuck you.”
“Your less than subtle advances are bordering on obsessive, but I digress. Second of all?”
“I just need Nicolo for something.”
“Such as?”
“You don’t have to know.”
“On the contrary, I most definitely do. The whole truth and nothing but the truth.”
“Since when are you a fan of the truth?”
“Since I learned that the strength of a man’s spirit is measured by how much ‘truth’ he can tolerate, or more precisely, to what extent he needs to have it diluted, disguised, sweetened, muted, or falsified.”
My mouth falls open. “Did you just quote Nietzsche?”
“Did you just prove you’re still a nerd?”
“And you still refuse to admit you’re a fan.”
“I’m not a fan. I’m an observer.” He steps toward me and the air automatically vanishes. The space is stilled, intensified, and has enough tension to slaughter someone. I’m so in the habit of bickering and fighting with this man that I tend to be taken off guard when he invades my space.
When I’m the only presence in his eyes that shares the lethality of a storm and the intensity of an earthquake. He should give his name to one of them.
And why the hell does he still smell like back then? The cedarwood and male musk submerges me with memories I thought I’d murdered with my naïve little heart.
What type of person doesn’t change his cologne for twenty-one years? Shouldn’t that be frowned upon in some manual?
I wish he wasn’t so close that all I can breathe is his presence. I wish he wasn’t so close that I can see the flecks of gray in the ocean of his eyes or see myself drowning in that bottomless ocean.
If I said he had no effect on me, it’d be the lie of the century, what people in the Middle Ages got flogged and stoned for.
“Now, what is it? The undiluted harsh, naked version of the truth?”
“What makes you think I’d offer you that?” I say in a voice lower than my speaking one.
“Then I’ll find out on my own.” His fingers reach for my hair and he grabs a strand, then brings it to his nose.
I’m shocked, spellbound, and all other synonyms that imply frozen in place.
My attention is stolen by the way the red contrasts against his tan, lean fingers. How it touches the veins on the back of his masculine hand.
The moment he inhales deeply, it’s like he’s sniffing my most intimate part.
“Don’t blame me for how I use such truth, sweetheart.”
I slap a palm on his chest and shove him away with a harshness that matches my breathing. “Why…the hell are you touching me?”
He never does that. Not even when he’s bringing the whole office down by telling me to disappear. Not even when we both found out that Gwen was my daughter.
We might have been enemies, rivals, and the villain in each other’s stories, but we kept the fight verbal, legal, and sometimes with petty moves.
But never with touching.
And the change is throwing me off more than it should.
Apparently, though, it pleases Kingsley, because he smirks, lifts a shoulder, and whispers, “And why shouldn’t I touch you?”
“Because there was an unspoken rule about that, asshole.”
“I’m removing it then. You’re like a painting of a battle, but whoever said war and art should be watched from afar didn’t have the audacity to come close, touch, breathe, and taste.”
My lips tremble, but I manage to say in a warning tone, “Stay the hell away from me, Kingsley.”
“Again, that depends on whether or not I get what I want.” He slips a strand of my hair behind my ear and his fingers leave a trail of burning acid on my skin as he steps back.
“And what is that?”
His eyes glimmer with sadism as he says, “The naked truth, sweetheart.”
