Angel : the most dangerous mafia

MY FIRST MEMORY IS OF A CLOUDLESS blue sky and a silver gun, hot in my hand.

Sometimes I wake up tasting the acrid grey of smoke. I hear music fade into the sound of screaming. I feel the press of metal against my palm, burning.

I know the memory can’t be real. My mother and I have always lived in Los Angeles, where cobwebs of thick smog cover the colour of the sky. I’ve never touched a gun before, let alone fired one.

But it’s hard to believe that―especially now, as I hold Angel’s Beretta.

Pointing it. Aiming it.

The man in front of me freezes.

It can only be muscle memory. I feel the cold steel of the trigger, throbbing beneath my fingertip. Begging to be pulled.

My breathing turns uneven. I close my eyes.

Bang.

Music―cheerful, thrumming music. The kind you hear at weddings, at parties. The kind that inspires dancing. Music snapping into silence, and then―

Bang.

Screaming.

I remember this.

My eyes open, and the memory of blood and song disappears.

« How could you. » I don’t recognize my voice. Utter cold, utter ice.

Dante raises his hands, trembling. « I had to. Please, Cade. I needed the money. »

Behind me, I hear Angel tense.

From the corner of my eye, the painting shifts. Someone else is pulling out a gun―either Vittoria or Dominic. We’re running out of time.

« Don’t do this, » Dante pleads. « I know you, Cade. I know you won’t shoot. You won’t hurt me, I know you won’t. »

If I don’t, he’ll tell the Genovese family how to find Angel.

They’ll come back for her. They’ll tear her apart, skin her alive. They’ve been waiting for the chance, and this it.

Everything she has, everything she is―they’ll take it from her.

I can’t let that happen.

Choose now, Cade.

The police will have us surrounded in minutes. The museum alarm is still blaring. If we’re going to escape, it happens now.

« You don’t know me, » I hiss.

His eyes widen, and I pull the trigger.

Bang.

THREE WEEKS AGO

I WAKE UP WITH THE kind of headache that can only accurately be described by Bosch’s paintings of Hell.

What happened last night ?

Vittoria. Lipstick. Wine. Just one more shot . . .

Hot fire bursts against my temple.

Okay. I clap my hand against my forehead―slick with sweat and tangled hair. Thinking isn’t a good idea.

Which is when I notice my nightstand.

Except . . . it’s not mine.

Water bottle. Gun. Cash―euros spilling carelessly onto the floor.

But it’s the glasses that make me realize―this is not my apartment.

And if it’s not my apartment, this isn’t my bed.

Slowly, slowly I look to the side. At the mound of white bed sheets, rising and falling ever so slightly.

I fight to keep my breathing steady. Who is under there ? What will I find ?

A half-naked man who took advantage of me ?

A gang member who brewed a cocktail of drugs to get me into his bed ?

A dangerous Mafia boss who will shoot me when he wakes up ?

The pile of blankets stir, and I flinch.

Shit. What if he wakes up ?

I slip out of the white sheets. Warm sunlight soaks my back, spilling in from the window. For a moment, I stumble on my feet.

Bare legs. Bare stomach. Bare arms.

But I’m not naked.

I’m undressed down to my bra and panties.

So . . . I slept with him. But only in the literal way.

Next, clothes. I search the floor for last night’s dress and heels. There. Folded on the back of a velvet chair. Folded ?

No time to think about it.

I tug frantically into my dress. What day it it today ?

A grandfather clock, black marble with veins of gold, starts to chime from the corner of the room. My eyes dart to the time. A quarter to nine.

A quarter to nine ? Shit.

My first class of the semester starts in fifteen minutes.

And I’m still wearing last night’s party clothes.

Talk about a walk of shame.

The heap of blankets begins to moan.

Quick, Cade ! Weapon !

I leap for the gun I saw on the nightstand. I wrap two trembling hands around it. I don’t know how to use a gun. I’ve never touched a gun before. Have I ?

The pile of blankets twitches, twitches, the person inside struggling to throw them off. With a surprising―and what must be painful―thud, they roll right off the bed.

A string of violent Italian curse words follow.

Except the voice doesn’t belong to a man.

« Why are you pointing that thing at me ? » groans the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.

For a moment, I can only stand shaking, my fingers locked on the trigger. Warm sunlight drenches the woman as she wriggles free of the blankets. The shine of her thick black hair cascades over her shoulders, a river of ink. Her eyes glow like molten honey, basking in the sun’s glow.

I tighten my grip on the gun.

So what if she’s a woman ? I blacked out yesterday, in a way that has only ever happened before in Los Angeles, when Nathan―

Don’t think about that.

She must have drugged me. She must have taken me here.

And ? And what, Cade ? What did she do ? She folded your clothes ! Does that sound like a murderer to you ?

The woman sighs. « Are you going to shoot or . . . ? »

I can’t answer. My eyes dart around the room, catching on a large life-scaled portrait of a woman. It’s a painting―I recognize it instantly. One of my favourites.

The Desperate Dancer. Hung in the Santa Cecilia Gallery across town.

« 1765. Painted by Corinthe Alexandria when she was twenty-six years old. Valued at half a million dollars. » I can’t help but say the words aloud. What is it doing here ?

The woman’s eyes flicker to the painting. Then back at me.

« Don’t you remember ? » she asks.

I shake my head wordlessly.

The woman lets out a colourful curse in Italian. And says, « We stole it last night. »

MY MOUTH OPENS. CLOSES.

« We did . . . we did what ? »

In a matter of moments, the woman has closed the gap between us. In the next ten seconds, the gun is in her hands and a smirk is on her face.

« Next time you point a gun, » she says with a wink, tossing the gun carelessly onto the bed, « make sure you turn the safety off. »

I step back, frantic. I back into the nightstand, and objects scatter and collide onto the floor. Weapon―I need something, anything.

My fingers close around a water bottle.

« Don’t come any closer ! » I warn, brandishing it like a knife.

The woman steps closer. « If I wanted to hurt you by now, I would have. » She grins wolfishly. « And besides . . . don’t you want to know what happened last night ? »

Yes. « No. I don’t believe you. I would have never stolen something from the Museum. »

« Well . . . I was quite persuasive. »

I shake my head. « I don’t remember anything. It . . . it never happened. I don’t want to know. »

Something like disappointment flits through her eyes. So quick I almost miss it, but―

« Oh, that’s not what you were saying last night, » she says, her smile sharp enough to slice.

What the hell was I saying last night ?

« I don’t remember anything ! » I snap. My eyes flick to the grandfather clock. Shit. Seven minutes to get to class. « I was drunk, okay ? I didn’t know what I was doing. »