SERAPHINE
To save my grandmother, I must murder a stranger.
Loud techno music pounds through my ears as I walk toward the Phoenix, a nightclub on the edge of Beaumont, New Alderney. Partygoers pass on my left in various states of drunkenness and traffic rumbles by on my right, everyone blissfully living their lives, unaware that I have been a captive for months.
I wonder if anyone even noticed I didn’t turn up at school.
Flashing blue lights catch my eye from across the road. A police car pulls into the Tropicana Bar, and a tall officer and his partner steps out.
My heart skips. I should shout, raise a hand, let them know that I’m being held hostage and being forced to commit a murder. As I turn toward the cops, the chip embedded behind my ear emits a snap of electricity.
Shit. This is worse than the old collar.
I glance over my shoulder, only to lock eyes with the handler, who raises his remote. My captors have left nothing to chance.
With one last deep breath, I focus on my instructions. I am to skip the line, tell the doorman that I’m joining Mario at his VIP table, enter the club, and not talk to anyone but my target. When my target has isolated me, I am to inject him with the syringe, and then escape through the fire exit.
Once my mission is complete, they’ll set Nanna free.
My throat tightens.
I must do this.
Moments later, I’m blinking away bright strobe lights and navigating through the club using the map they made me memorize. Before I even reach the VIP room, a pair of large hands grab my shoulders, and I’m crushed against a broad chest.
Nausea grips my throat, even though nothing he’s doing causes me any pain. I can’t stand to be touched—especially by men. This new captor’s eyes are already bloodshot and glassy. At about six-two, he eclipses me by a foot and looks even more imposing with his lanky frame. He stares down at me with a lazy grin.
“Wanna dance, blondie?” he slurs, the scent of stale alcohol heavy on his breath.
My jaw tightens. If he knew about the proverbial noose around my neck, he’d choose someone else to harass. I pull my arms out of his grip, but his fingers tighten around my arms.
“Let go,” I hiss at him through clenched teeth.
His grin widens. Of course, it does. This man sees me as nothing but sport. Even if he knew I’d been captured, tortured, violated, and corrupted, he wouldn’t give a shit. All he sees is a toy.
I reach for a hairpin at the back of my head, but his grip around my shoulders slackens. When I glance up at the man, he’s stumbling backward, his eyes now half-lidded. He falls, only to reveal a familiar and unwelcome set of eyes.
The handler shoves the man into a group of women hovering by the dance floor. His sharp nod is the only sign he gives for me to proceed.
With a gulp, I continue toward the VIP room and my target.
The guard at the door sweeps his gaze down my form, his eyes lingering on my bare legs. I’m wearing a pastel pink summer dress, a variation of something I would have worn when I was twelve, when I was still Daddy’s little princess.
To my shock, the guard lets me into the VIP room. I can’t tell if it’s because nightclubs don’t give a shit about underage girls, or because he’s working with the handler.
The temperature immediately drops as I step inside, and goosebumps break out across my arms. I tell myself it’s from the cold, but a weight settles in my gut when the door slams behind me and the sound of the club on the other side disappears; the muffled thump of the bass matching the manic beating of my heart.
It’s really happening.
I’m really going to murder a man in cold blood.
After tonight, Nanna will be free.
Each table in the VIP room glows with a dim blue light that casts scant illumination over the men and women gathered around on sofas. Remembering my instructions, I force myself not to glance around for my target and make my way to the bar.
Like the tables in this exclusive space, the bar casts a gentle hue. I perch on a stool and make eye contact with the bartender, order a glass of water, and wait.
Over the next several minutes, different men approach me. Some offering drinks, others dances, one asks if my parents know I’m at a club but I ignore them all. The handler made me memorize both my target and his guards in case he sends a lackey to do his dirty work.
My hands should be trembling. I should be sweating with nerves, but nothing that happens tonight could ever be worse than my so-called training. I’ve been beaten, broken, and torn down. Everyone I love who isn’t already dead is now their hostage. The only way to set them free is with these murders.
As I take another tiny sip of water, one side of my vision fills with a large figure. I ignore him until he grabs my arm and ignites my veins with an explosion of fury.
“Come with me,” the man says.
My lips tighten. I glance from the hand encircling my bicep and lock gazes with one of the faces I was ordered to remember. He’s an employee of my target, although I don’t know his name. The handler said it wasn’t necessary.
“Alright.” I slip off the bar stool and let the man march me through the VIP room to an empty table at the far end.
My target likes his girls innocent and sweet. The younger the better, according to the handler, which is why he forbade me to wear makeup, save for a coat of clear mascara to make my eyes look larger. Based on the number of men who tried to buy me drinks, my target isn’t the only one here with a taste for underage girls.
The man who brought me to the table orders me champagne. There’s no chance to refuse. He looms over me and watches me sip. Wine tasting wasn’t part of my training, but this drink is more bitter than anything my parents ever let me try.
Pain surges across my chest the way it does every time I think of Mom, but I tuck that memory into the back of my mind. I can’t think about her. The memory of how they killed her is seared into my soul. The only thing I can do for her now is save everyone they’ve left alive. Sucking in a sharp breath, I continue drinking, wishing the alcohol would numb the agony. It doesn’t. The handler made me drink a concoction of chalky liquid earlier to dampen any effects of alcohol, drugs, or whatever else might have put in my drink.
I’m already tipsy by the end of the first glass since I made the mistake of inhaling the bubbles. The buzz isn’t enough to affect my reflexes, but it takes the edge off my hurt.
My head lowers, and I rest my chin on my chest, pretending to be drugged. Any more of that champagne and no amount of antidote will keep me alert.
“Hey.” The guard nudges my arm.
Rocking to the side, I let a curtain of blonde hair fall across my face. The citrus scent of the lemon the handler made me use to make my tresses youthful and bright washes over me and clogs in my sinuses.
I try not to shudder as the man hauls me to my feet and walks me through a different door guarded by two other faces I memorized from the intel. My heart is beating so hard and fast that every inch of my skin throbs with both anticipation and terror.
This will be my first kill—the price for Nanna’s freedom. After that, I have a second target to murder so I can rescue Gabriel, and then a third to free myself.
Since my head is bowed and I’m pretending to be semi-conscious, I don’t see the faces of the armed men who pass us as we walk down the hallway. I stumble into the wall, so I can compare the layout with the map I learned, but the man scoops me off my feet and carries me through another doorway.
Strangely, I don’t feel the usual surge of disgust. Maybe that’s because someone’s about to die.
“Is she prepared?” asks a deep voice from within the second room.
“I watched her drink the whole glass,” the man carrying me replies.
The room is dark, decorated in shades of black and crimson with low lighting and rich, opulent fabrics. I peer through my lashes, catching a glimpse of a gray-haired man standing beside a bed adorned with oversized cushions.
My breath catches.
It’s him.
The man I’m going to kill.
I glance at a set of small curtains on the far-left wall in the room that will become my escape route. If the handler is correct, there should be a serving hatch that leads straight to the kitchen.
“Put her on the bed,” says the target.
A heartbeat later, I sink into the softest surface I’ve lain upon since the night Dad turned on us. Closing my eyes, I hold my breath and pray to Mom’s spirit that they don’t use any restraints.
The handler warned me that this was a possibility, since the target likes his girls docile. If that happens, I have to hold still until he frees my arms. Dread swirls in my gut, followed by the bitterness of disdain. They’re all sick, including the handler. They all deserve to die.
“Leave us,” the target says.
I exhale, but it’s too early for relief. Even without the bodyguard, the target is still more than I can handle alone. I didn’t learn his name or what he does. He’ll be dead soon, anyway. He’s a looming presence with eyes so dark they meld into the shadows. In the dim light, he barely looks human. My heart pounds so hard and fast that I’m sure he’s feeding on my helplessness and terror. He’s just like Dad, a man who surrounds himself with armed guards. If I’m right, then he’s dangerous.
Which is why I need to wait until he’s distracted.
My breathing shallows when a huge, warm hand begins a slow path up my inner thigh. Revulsion roils across my skin and gathers in my shrinking stomach. I can’t let another man touch me like this. Not again. Not while I’m awake and able to fight.
But I will.
I clench my jaw, resolving to endure this for Nanna.
“Sweet girl,” he croons. “Are you a virgin?”
Not anymore. I’m tainted because of men like him. Men like him I want to punish. Men like him I want to erase from this earth.
My teeth grind as he pushes my panties to the side and explores me with his fingers. I have to swallow back a scream when he invades me with two digits.
Every instinct in my body tells me to rear up and finish him before he goes any further, but I’m cautious. Even with my eyes closed, I feel his gaze sweeping my face.
I lie back, endure, and wait. I’ll only have one chance. The moment must be perfect. When the target pulls out his fingers, my stomach lurches because I know what will happen next. When he enters me with one thrust, a silent scream lodges in the back of my throat.
“So tight,” he grunts into the side of my face.
Blood roars through my ears, drowned out by his breaths that punctuate each thrust. As he picks up speed, I peek through my lashes to find his eyes squeezed shut, his craggy features contorted with a sick combination of pleasure and malice.
My hand curls into a fist.
Not yet.
When I’m absolutely certain he’s lost in his pleasure, I slide a hand up the mattress and extract the hairpin infused with poison. The handler made me practice using it from every possible angle and assured me it would work in seconds.
Just as I’m about to ram it into his jugular, the target’s hand clamps around my neck.
My eyes fly open, and I stare into his twisted grin.
Cold shock hits me in the gut. I gasp, but he grabs the hand holding my weapon and quickens his pace.
“Come for me,” he growls.
I twist the hairpin around in my fingers, stab its pointed end into his hand, and push down on the plunger.
The target rears back with a roar, raises his fist, and slams it into my face. “Bitch. I’ll—”
Pain explodes through my sinuses, but it’s nothing compared to what I had to endure during my training. The target collapses on top of me before he finishes his sentence. With my free hand, I check his pulse. It’s still beating. Freeing my wrist from the hand I injected, I find it’s wet with the poison.
Shit.
What if I failed to give him a lethal dose?
I thrash my arms and legs, trying to dislodge his dead weight. When I finally slide out from under him, he’s gasping for air. Sweat beads across his forehead and his lips part. He tries to speak, but the words that come out are garbled.
He’s still alive.
“No.”
I scramble off the mattress, my gaze darting to an armchair where I spot a gun holster. If I shoot him, his death will be quick, but the noise will alert the guards. Instead, I pick up a crimson cushion from the bed and press it over his face.
The target gasps and struggles, trying to buck me off, but I push down with all my weight. Minutes pass, and he stops moving. I continue holding the cushion until I’m certain he’s dead.
My heart thrashes within its cage, reminding me I have to leave before someone knocks. I check his pulse again. Finding no heartbeat, I throw down the cushion and rush to the serving hatch.
The escape goes as planned. At this time of night, the kitchen is closed, so I navigate the maze of stainless steel tables on trembling legs until I slip into a darkened hallway that leads to a fire exit.
Outside, cool air fills my lungs, and I step into the alleyway, where a black sedan awaits with dimmed headlights. I exhale a noisy breath of relief and rush into the car, only to find a computer tablet on the back seat.
“Where’s the handler?” I ask the driver, confused.
Without a reply, he activates the central locking, then pulls out of the alleyway and speeds down the road.
I pick up the tablet, press the power button, and find a message already waiting:
Congratulations on completing your first mission. The man you killed was Enzo Montesano, the leader of the syndicate that rules New Alderney.
From today, the Capello family will assign you further missions in exchange for protection from Montesano’s associates.
I regret to inform you that your grandmother died in captivity; however, your brother is still safe.
Good luck and stay alive.
A sob bursts from my throat. There’s no mention of our bargain. No mention of setting Gabriel free.
At the bottom of the handler’s note is a thumbnail, I tap it and a video of Gabriel appears. He’s sitting up in a hospital bed with electrodes taped to his chest and a tube in his nose. Every bone on his torso protrudes through skin as pale as death. It looks as though he’s lost a quarter of his body weight.
My heart shatters. “What have they done to him?”
The car speeds through the streets of Beaumont, back to where Dad’s legitimate sons are holding me hostage in their basement. They’re twin demons with hearts as black as souls. I play the clip of Gabriel over, transfixed by the rise and fall of his chest, taking small comfort in knowing he is still breathing.
How many more murders will I need to commit to earn our freedom? From what’s in the letter, it looks like they’ve changed the terms of our agreement.
My hands curl into a fist.
The only way I’ll ever get free is to kill my dad and his psycho sons.
