2. Gone

TWO

How to kill one of the most powerful, infamous, dangerous men in the city?

That's the question that kept me up at nights while I was in prison.

Well, no. I had plenty of other reasons to be awake well after lights out—the whispers, the worry, the quiet, all while praying my cellmate would fall asleep first…—but I distracted myself from my nightmares by plotting Damien's downfall.

Damien… you'd think that I'd want to distance myself from the head of the Libellula Family by calling him by his last name. In the beginning, I did. Making him the target for my rage was inevitable since all I really want to do is take down the gang that cost Georgia her life. I'd go for Libellula himself, and like a house of fucking cards, his Family would topple down.

I'd cut the head off that snake. It doesn't matter that he didn't personally target me. Oh, no. He gave the orders, he runs the counterfeiting operation that gives his syndicate all the power, and he was the one I would use to get my revenge.

Would it be easy? No. But I need it. I craved vengeance more than my freedom, and while Georgia was no killer, Savannah would be.

Once out, I got to work—and almost immediately realized I underestimated how hard it would be. While the head Dragonfly himself isn't a bogeyman like the Devil of Springfield, spoken of in whispers without having a visible presence around the city, just because I could see Libellula, that didn't mean I could get close to him.

He has bodyguards. Plenty of ‘soldiers' that seemed to flock to him wherever he goes. Cronies. Occasionally a woman, too, and since it's always the same young blonde, I figure it has to be his trophy wife.

Figure because, for all of my research on the man, he's as much a ghost as I am now.

Any and all information beyond his name and age is wiped. Unless you're a Dragonfly yourself, involved with his tight-knit crime family, there's nothing to learn about the man through simple online research.

Nope. If I wanted to get to know him enough to take him down, I had to do a little reconnaissance myself.

That was, at least, a little easier. Once the last of my assets were released to me, I used every last penny to get the ball rolling on my new identity. I might hate Portia for turning our cellie arrangement into something that benefitted her and her sense of entitlement, but she did pass along some of her contacts to me on the outside as a thank you for four years of being her bitch.

With the new identity and the last six hundred bucks I had, I bought the shittiest beater that still ran that I could before I managed to upgrade last month. The rideshare company wouldn't hire an ex-con—even if it was only a misdemeanor on my record—but Savannah has a clean slate. No convictions. No traffic violations. I got the job, and have spent every free moment I have either driving customers around Springfield for a paycheck—or obsessively stalking Damien Libellula.

That's when I started to call him Damien. From the shadows, from across the street, from the coffee shop opposite one of the gang-owned restaurants on the East End of Springfield, I watched him. I learned everything I could. I studied this man, and I began to think I knew him.

But I couldn't get close enough. Instead, I had to satisfy my lust for his blood by promising myself soon.

Soon, I would take the gun I bought at the local pawn shop and aim it dead at him.

Soon, I would look him in his pale blue eyes and tell him that he deserves this for what he did to me.

Soon, I would make him realize that his fancy suits and his annoyingly distinguished features and handsome face won't do a single fucking thing to sway me from my plan.

From my revenge.

Soon, I would kill him—and then, maybe, I can finally move on.

I have to. When it seemed so much easier to just eat a bullet myself, I pushed past the darkness and went to the Springfield Animal Shelter. It might not seem fair to put the weight of my shattered mental health on the back of a three-year-old rescue cat named Orion, but I need something to live for that isn't just vengeance on a man who has no idea I ever existed.

Who still has no clue after four months of stalking him…

I refuse to hide in the shadows when I pull my trigger. I want him to know why I decided he was the one who needed to sacrifice his life for ruining mine. That's easier said than done, though, especially since he's always protected when he's moving around the city.

And when he isn't? Mr. Dragonfly is locked-up tight in a large three-floor manor that sits in the middle of a street full of overcrowded apartment buildings that stretch high to the sky. A white building that stands out against the brick and the grime, I know it's on purpose, too. In the years I was in prison, he got even more powerful. Damien is untouchable, and the fact that he knocked down a complex that housed at least fifty families to build a manor for his own proves that.

It was his way of taunting any law enforcement in the city that might still be on the straight and narrow. A true ‘you can't fucking get me' gesture, and everything I'd discovered since I've been out only shows that, while he's cocky, he's also right.

And I hate that almost as much as I hate him.

I always knowwhen I'm picking up a Dragonfly for a passenger.

It's not the fact that they're almost always these brash, blowhards who think they can treat me like shit because I'm a woman, and because I'm their driver. That helps—as does the visible dragonfly tattoo that every single member of the Libellula Family has on their forearms—but so does the vibe they give off.

Plus, you know, the fact that I've started to catalogue the ones I see having business with Damien… I've got a folder in my phone with names, pictures, every sort of intel that might help me get closer to the mafia leader.

I've seen this one around a lot, usually a few steps behind Damien. He's big and beefy and tall, so tall that I can feel his knees dig into the back of my seat after he maneuvers his muscular body into my car. His hair is cut short to his scalp in a buzzcut that makes him seem ever more intimidating, though he has a deceptively gentle voice as he murmurs a greeting to me as he closes the door behind him.

I'm pretty sure his name is Vincent or Vinnie or something like that. I've overheard Damien calling him ‘Vin', and if I had to guess, he's one of Damien's bodyguards.

Peering in my rearview mirror, I can catch a glimpse of the weapon on his hip as he adjusts his position, spreading his legs so that he's not kneeing me any longer.

I smile at him—because while my gun might be stowed in my purse, a smile is just as much a weapon for a woman like me—and confirm that the address that came through the app is correct.

It's not too far. Because I need to kill two birds with one stone by taking passengers and making money the same time as I search the streets of Springfield for some sign of Damien—either walking around like he owns the city, or driving around in this flashy red car of his—I keep my app set to rides on the East End. For the right price, I'll go anywhere, but when he nods that I got the right destination, I'm not surprised he's heading to an office building in the heart of Dragonfly territory.

Maybe I'll get lucky and he'll be going to meet Damien. I've already done twelve local rides this morning, and I was getting ready to break for some fast food when I decided to pick up this guy. I consider it a waste of a day if I don't see Damien at least once so that would make it worth it.

There's got to be a pattern. A method to his afternoons, a way to plot where he might be in the evening. Odds are I'll never find a way to get to him inside of his protected manor, and I don't want to risk gunning for him when he's out in the open. That would be a suicide mission, and no matter what, I'm going to be the one who survives our confrontation.

I have to. I've got a cat who needs me.

It's been days since I last set eyes on the sophisticated mobster. Saturday night, I watched him walk out of an upscale Italian restaurant, that petite blonde hanging off his arm. The man in my back seat was with them, a silent shadow who followed them all the way to the parked car. He started it first, making sure it was safe, then climbed out and stepped aside to let the other two in.

I was in my car, idling in a small parking lot next to the bakery. When Damien and his date pulled out, I slipped into traffic behind them, cursing when he brought her to his house.

I haven't seen him since. For all I know, they're still in there—and that doesn't help me at all, does it?

When I'm driving, I keep the radio tuned to a popular top 40 station in Springfield. The volume's low so that I don't annoy my customers, but it's still enough background noise to drown out the thoughts bouncing around my brain.

Because it is low, though, I notice when one of my passengers is taking a call. Usually, I tune it out because it's not my business, but when it's a Dragonfly talking? I'm all fucking ears.

His voice is still way softer than I would expect as he talks into his phone.

"Hey, Lou. It's me. Yeah. I'm on my way. Yeah, I had to order a ride because the boss was busy." He pauses, and from the moment he said ‘boss', I'm already way more invested than I should be. "My truck? Nah. I let Kieran borrow it a couple of days ago."

Kieran? Why does that name sound familiar? He must be one of the gangsters that I've seen meeting with Damien.

The person on the other end of the phone must say something because it's about a minute or so before my passenger speaks up again.

"I don't fucking know what's going through that kid's head. I heard a rumor his ex is back in town and he's trying to make it work with her… right. Yeah. I remember how he got five leaves the summer she left him… yup. Five. I've told Damien he's too rabid to be let loose, but you know how the boss is. He likes his enforcers feral."

Leaves? Enforcers? I can only guess what they're talking about, but since I don't know for sure, that's just another reminder that no matter how long I've been stalking Damien Libellula, there's still so much I'm missing about his job and his life.

"Anyway," continues the passenger, "until he gives me my truck back, I've got to find a way to get where I'm going… yeah. I know I'm running late, but I'm not that far out and—hey!" He raises his voice, and I just know he's talking to me before he snaps, "Watch it!"

Huh?

Fuck!

I slam on my brakes just in time to miss smashing into the back of the car in front of me.

That was my fault. So distracted by the Dragonfly's conversation, I didn't notice that the light had turned red. The SUV in front of me had already stopped, and if it wasn't for my passenger shouting to catch my attention, I would've hit it.

Luckily, I don't, though my car jerks as I stop short. He curses under his breath as he pushes against his seatbelt before falling back in his seat. My own belt cuts into my neck. I hear a thud and know that my purse tipped behind me, falling from the center console where I kept it and into the backseat, spilling half of its contents on the floor.

My heart fluttering in my chest, I turn my head in time to see that the big guy has bent over, already shoveling all my shit back into my purse.

"Oh my God. I'm so sorry."

"It's fine," he says gruffly. "No harm done."

Considering he's not my target, I'm glad. "Still. I should probably get my brakes checked. They didn't respond the first time until I had to jam down on them."

It's a likely excuse. My car is at least twenty years old. It runs well enough to be a rideshare car, but it's obviously seen better days.

"I noticed."

"You don't have to do that. I'll clean that up."

He pauses, glancing over at me. "You sure? I'm almost done."

Right, and if he keeps digging, odds are he might notice my gun sooner or later. "I'm sure. Thanks anyway. Besides, look. The light's green now and your destination is only two blocks away."

As I turn and start moving the car forward, he straightens up in his seat for a moment before I see him lean down again. Figuring he's the type of guy who can't leave well enough alone, he adjusts my purse so that it's not on its side anymore. Probably so nothing else falls out.

He never returns to his phone call. He must've disconnected it when I almost crashed, or maybe the other caller is just waiting for him to get back on the line. Either way, the rest of the car ride is silent until I pull up in front of his destination.

I'm not surprised when he climbs out of the car without even a ‘take care'. Honestly, so long as he pays for the ride, it doesn't matter. I'm annoyed with myself for the near-accident, and even more frustrated when the big guy goes inside of the building with no sign that Damien Libellula is near.

Just in case, I decide to take a spin around the block. There's a parking lot behind the large building. Damien's flashy red car—with the vanity plate DRGNFLY—is unmistakable. I'll feel better if I check to see if it's there.

And if it is…

Once I've turned the first corner, giving me a line into the lot, I pull over again. Reaching into the back, I gather up my purse. Part of me wants to go through it just to organize it after my passenger threw everything back in, while the other part won't feel at ease until I know I have my gun in case the opportunity to take out Damien reveals itself.

I now own an inky black Glock G43X. It's a subcompact gun, a real pocket pistol perfect for concealed carry. I don't have a permit for it, obviously, and I got it for two hundred bucks at a pawn shop that only cared if I had the cash for it. It weighs about a pound and a half loaded and usually sinks to the bottom of my purse.

That's why I'm not too worried when I don't see it right away. Beneath the mountain of receipts, scraps of paper with notes, my sunglasses, some tampons, my wallet, and the loose cough drops I keep in my bag, it could be buried all the way at the bottom. Only… it's not.

Panic wells up in me. Dumping every single thing out of my purse onto the passenger seat, I go through it all, searching for the gun.

Nothing.

Okay. Calm down. My shit spilled. I almost rear-ended that SUV. Maybe my gun went under the seat. I unfasten the seatbelt before diving into the back, frantically shoving my hands under the passenger seat.

When I don't find it, I grab my phone. Using the flashlight, I hope it'll wink off the dark enclosure.

Still nothing, and I have to admit what I knew from the moment I emptied my bag.

My gun is gone.