Frankie.
Frankie.
Frankie.
They say everything changes in a New York minute. In London, all it takes is a glance and a promise.
“I’ll be here, Ada… Next Thursday, I’ll be here.”
He seemed real enough, with his wavy dark hair falling into his black eyes.
He smelled real enough, like worn leather, strength, and determination.
Climbing off the sparse, single bed, I pad across the floorboards to the window. The moon is full. She’s flooding my face with silver, just like she did the first night I was brought here; when my head was spinning with the last thing my mother ever said to me:
“Be brave, Ada. They don’t deserve a single one of your tears.”
I’ve held true to those words ever since. Despite the broken bones. Despite the abuse. Each time I've felt like crying, I’ve held it inside me like a bad secret until I’m back inside these four walls. That’s when I dance, like my mother and I used to do, and all my pain and loneliness becomes a blur of movement and memory.
“Whatever happens, keep dancing for me. You hear?”
How did he know?
Was my soul a window for him? Is that how he managed to see inside the deepest parts of me?
There are footsteps in the corridor outside. The lock turns. I flatten myself against the window as the door flies open, and O’Sullivan appears in the doorway.
It’s worse than I feared. His face has all the tell-tale red stains of alcohol, and his eyes are glittering with unserved punishments. The Irishman is a nasty bastard most of the time, but he’s an utter monster when he’s drunk.
“Downstairs. Now.”
Every muscle in my body tenses as I go to slip past him, holding my breath so I don’t have to smell his disgusting cologne.
I’m two steps into the hallway when I feel his fist close around the ends of my ponytail. Yanking me backwards, he flings me against the doorframe like a rag doll, my forehead crashing into the grooved wood and exploding into stars. Staggering to the side, I press my hand to my head, and it comes away wet and red.
“That’s for not leaving quickly enough from that fucking library. Seamus told me you gave him mouth about it. These outings are a privilege, Ada. One I can easily take away.”
You mean my one and only respite from this hellhole each week?
The rationale for his cruelty is laughable.
He comes at me again, giving me just enough time to whip my head to the right as he wraps his palm around my throat and pins me to the wall—his fingers matching up perfectly with Kirill’s bruises.
I don’t want to see the same lust in his eyes that I see in the Russian’s. I don’t want to be reminded that every day I’m alive in this house is a hazard to what innocence I have left. He wants me, but he can’t have me. His twisted kingdom relies on Kirill’s army too much, and these days it’s making him bitter, hard, and hungry.
“Prick tease,” he slurs, pressing his erection against my thigh, his Irish accent always more pronounced when he’s turned on. “Such a pretty little prick tease.”
I shut my eyes in disgust as his tongue licks a slow path from my chin to my temple. He’s fighting a losing battle with his self-control. I can almost hear the metal chains breaking, and then he’s pushing me away with a curse.
“Fix your face,” he orders, his breathing ragged. “And do it quick. We have guests waiting.”
Obediently, I dart back into my bedroom, knowing better than to ask him who his guests are. From the pissed up, agitated state of him, they’re not the kind who received a fancy invitation.
Keeping my head low, I trail him downstairs and into the dining room, where he points to the only empty chair at the huge oval table.
“Sit.”
I do as I’m told as he takes his place at the head.
Voices start talking over me—a disharmony of different accents—but I only focus on one.
British.
Sneaking a peak through my lashes, I see a man in his late fifties sitting opposite me. Clean shaven, slicked-back salt and pepper hair… He’s wearing a black suit and tie, his ice-white cuffs resting on the table, either side of his placemat. Next to him, sits a much younger version, in an almost identical stance, but their composure doesn’t fool me. Not in this house. Not at this table. There’s something contained and savage about them, like their smart suits are concealing an arsenal of destruction.
Even the air is thick with it.
“To what do I owe this pleasure, Razor?” O’Sullivan snarls. “This meeting was arranged for tomorrow, not today.”
Charlie Razor. He’s Charlie Razor… The head of the new Firm.
My stomach lurches unpleasantly.
O’Sullivan hates the British. He and Kirill have been plotting for months to loosen their stranglehold over the East. Every night, I’m forced to sit here like a mute, listening to them scheme and plan the organisation’s downfall.
With a jolt, I notice Razor’s son is openly staring at me. I drop my eyes, but not before Kirill sees. He hisses out a threat to the Brit in Russian, and the teenager just smirks at him.
“I got your message.” Razor’s East End swagger silences the table, and then he pauses to straighten his knife and fork, deliberately taking his time. “You wanted to talk? Well, here I am.”
“I don’t remember my house being the chosen location—”
Razor cuts him off with a dark chuckle. “When the Irish tell you they’ve set up a meet at some fucking warehouse in the arse-end of London, you know it’s not going to end up all unicorns and rainbows. Lorenzo Lastra’s corpse taught me that. We talk right here, right now, or not at all.”
There’s a low rumble of laughter at this. Too tepid for joy. Too edgy for pleasure.
Kirill’s men are lined up on one side of the Razors. O’Sullivan’s on the other. Two steps behind the British are a wall of black suits and menace.
And then there’s me.
I’m the only woman in the room. Orla’s vanished and Roisin hasn’t shown up to drink herself into a mess tonight.
“Lastra’s fall from grace was necessary.” O’Sullivan lifts his glass to his mouth and drains the rest of his whiskey. “He was an Italian sacrificial lamb for the good of this city.”
“I doubt he saw it that way. Doubt his fucking family did either,” Razor muses. “Found his missing kid yet? I hear your kind of mass slaughter leaves unwanted survivors.”
I hold my breath and wait for the explosion, wishing I could sink down into my chair and never resurface.
“Lastra’s son is right where we want him to be,” growls a voice from the corner, as a giant of a man emerges from the shadows. “He will prove useful to Zaccaria when the time presents itself.”
“That lad should be dead.” O’Sullivan knocks back another drink with a scowl. “Blood doesn’t forgive betrayal. As long as he’s alive, I’m walking around with a goddamn target on my back.”
“He was Zaccaria’s one condition for our agreement, Cian,” the giant reminds him. “The longer you spare the boy, the longer you get to control Lastra’s old territories without any retribution from La Cosa Nostra.” His expression hardens. “Don’t forget what happened the last time you tried to undercut him. We forgave you then, but our forgiveness has limits. As such, there will be no more talk about Francesco Lastra, no more looking for Francesco Lastra, until The Family says so.”