Chapter 5

5

Zara

“ H urry your fat ass up!”

“Ah, honey. We’ve got to work on your pickup lines, or you’re never going to get laid,” I coolly inform the rude ass boy standing behind me. The one pressing the muzzle of his gun to the center of my spine through my sweaty tee.

“Shut up and load the bags faster before I put you out of your misery.”

“The insults and gun pokes really are unnecessary, Eugene,” I tell the masked kid as I continue loading last year’s Christmas totes bursting with groceries into the trunk of the car.

“Don’t say my name!” he hisses.

“Right. Sorry.” I wince, since I really didn’t mean to let his name slip. “You know, if you want to speed things along, you could help me load these.”

Most people would probably be terrified of being held at gunpoint, but after enduring the whims of mobsters and working as a cashier at a corner discount store in New York City for the past three years, not much scares me anymore.

I actually prefer being robbed to being visited by sleezy mafiosos and sent on bullshit errands that end in bloodshed.

Two men are dead.

Not just any men, but the younger brother and club manager of the notorious mafia don, Creed Ferraro. Every time I close my eyes, I see that poor man bleeding out on the floor while Creed begged for help that never came.

If I’d known what Izaiah was planning when he sent me with his “warning,” I never would’ve agreed to do it.

Okay, I probably would’ve eventually agreed, since Izaiah no doubt would’ve threatened to never let me see Oriana again if I refused. But only then would I have caved.

Finally done with loading the bags of expired groceries and hoping it’s enough to get three kids through the week, I slam the trunk closed and give it a pat with my flattened palm. “You’re all set. See you next Thursday?”

“If you tell anyone who I am, you’ll fucking regret it.”

“Yeah, yeah, tough guy. My lips are sealed, just as long as you don’t shoot anyone, and you return this POS to whoever you stole it from before the sun comes up. I would hate for you to go down for grand theft auto.”

“Fine,” he mutters as he shoves his gun into the back of his tattered jeans and hurries around to the driver’s side.

“Have a good night. Drive safe. Oh, and keep that gun away from your sisters!” I shout at him before I walk back into the storeroom through the loading dock and lock up.

About three months ago, Eugene came in and tried to rob me while I was working the front register. I explained to him that there wasn’t much cash on hand. After all, most items on the shelves are less than five dollars, and everyone uses debit or credit cards nowadays. That’s when I explained to him he’d probably be better off stealing bags of groceries.

He finally admitted in defeat that he was a high school dropout just trying to feed his two little sisters.

So, I made Eugene a deal.

Every Thursday, I discreetly round up all the expired products, the loaves of bread going bad, any produce or fruit that’s seen better days, frozen goods close to expiring, and “accidentally” opened toiletry items. I toss it all into seasonal bags in the storeroom and then hand them over when he pulls up to “rob” me somewhere between nine and ten at night while his sisters are sound asleep. The gun is simply to keep me from losing my job if my manager finds out what I’ve been doing. There aren’t any working cameras in the store or alley, but I can’t risk my paycheck.

Actually, I think it’s sweet that Eugene loves his siblings enough to rob shitty little groceries stores for them. He’s never mentioned his mom or dad, and I’ve never asked about them because I know all about having wretched parents.

Sometimes, during the week when Eugene is really desperate, he comes in as a regular customer and walks out with more than he paid for in his pockets to hold him over until Thursday.

Do I feel guilty for giving the kid, who isn’t old enough to vote, the store’s expired goods or letting him shoplift? Hell no. I do the job of two people, working ten or twelve-hour shifts, seven days a week, as an assistant manager, and I can still barely feed myself after paying rent.

Just like Eugene said, killing me would put me out of my misery. Because that’s all this life is.

I’m sick of trying to do the “right” thing and be a good person when all that’s gotten me is sore feet, an empty bank account, and a life that consists solely of working and sleeping. Oh, and eating obviously. I tend to eat to ease the pain of having such a pathetic existence .

I wish I could say that I made bad decisions that led to my demise. The truth is, I’ve always been at the mercy of other people’s demands, constantly manipulated. Just like when Izaiah made me go to that damn club and set up a don for a morning at the zoo with my daughter.

While the Rovinas like to pretend that I have a choice, I never do. And unfortunately, their constant manipulation is not going to stop anytime soon.

This is the shitty hand life has dealt me, so I have no choice but to play it.

It’s close to midnight by the time I walk home and get to take a cool shower to wash away the day’s dirt and sweat. I comb my fingers through my long, sodden curls and pile the wet strands on top of my head in a messy bun, then wrap an old, nearly see-through beach towel around my still damp body, tucking it into the front of my chest. It’s way too muggy to put on clothes just yet, and I’m not yet tired enough to sleep after my twelve-hour shift.

Strolling out into my slightly cooler seven-hundred square foot apartment, I debate killing the air conditioner to open the window and save a little on my electric bill when my bare feet come to an abrupt halt.

“Oh, shit.”

A massive, manspreading mobster sits in the middle of my ratty sofa with my broken-hinged laptop on his lap. There’s a big-ass gun with a silencer on the muzzle, lying a fingertip away from his thigh on the cushion next to him. He’s staring at me over the top of the crooked screen with a clenched, unshaven jaw.

“Hello, Zara .”

His deep, rumbling voice and clipped words make it clear he is not messing around .

Tall, dark, and dangerously handsome in his flawless black suit, he stares back at me with nothing but violence brimming in his eyes. With his wavy, shoulder-length jet-black hair and aura of wrath, he looks exactly how I imagine death would look if it was masquerading as a human.

Accabadore.

Beautiful but deadly, he’s the Italian mafia’s angel of death.

I didn’t see the danger in him last week in the dim light of the nightclub, but tonight, there’s no escaping it.

Dammit! I knew Izaiah was going to drag me into deep shit. Not only does Creed Ferraro know my name, but he also knows where I live, and is going to shoot me in the middle of my shitty Queens apartment.

Grasping my towel tighter to my chest, I glance over my damp shoulder at the locked and chained door.

“Wh-how did you get in here?”

Yes, that’s the most important question to ask the man who has obviously come to kill you. Like the logistics will help me out of this disaster.

“The window.” His voice is tight, his angular face stern. “Do you know why I’m here, Zara?”

I immediately nod as my gaping mouth completely dries up. The way he keeps saying my name, he makes it sound like a swear-word or an accusation. Maybe both.

Of course, I know why he’s here. His brother is dead, and he rightfully blames me. I blame Izaiah, but I doubt he’d believe that son of a bitch made me do it. Still, I want to try to explain.

Wetting my lips enough so I can try to speak, I tell him, “I swear I didn’t know what was going to happen. I-I thought —”

“Bullshit!” he roars. Flipping my laptop onto the sofa next to him, he surges to his feet. When he begins stalking toward me, I retreat until my back hits the closed and locked door.

I have two choices here. I could try to unlock the bolt and chain and outrun the man who is nearly a foot taller than me at five-eight, or I can try to reason with the don.

“I’m sorry,” I blurt out, unable to think of anything else to say to a man who just lost his brother.

“You’re sorry?” he repeats quietly. I think I prefer him yelling in anger. Just like I knew it was coming, his fist slams into the door right next to my head making me jump. I swear my heart is going to race its way right out of my chest. “No, you’re not sorry. Not yet. But you’re going to be. And you’re not the only one.”

He stares down at me, his eyes a fierce ocean blue, as if waiting for me to name names. When I don’t, he says, “I borrowed your phone while you were washing up. While I was watching you shower.”

Oh god. He was in my apartment this whole time — with the bathroom door wide open. It never occurred to me that a don would sneak through my freaking window!

“I read your text messages back and forth with someone you listed in your contacts as Piece of Shit.”

Uh-oh.

He presses his large palm on the other side of my face, caging me in with his much larger body. “I think my favorite message was when you told him I was standing at the bar just moments before the raid. Right where my dead brother stood when those cops came in and shot him!”

“I didn’t have a choice! He asked me…”

“How much did he pay you to get my family’s blood all over your hands?”

“Nothing. And I tried to warn you and your friends to leave!”

“You should’ve tried harder!”

“I-I couldn’t,” I confess. “Someone might’ve seen me if I had just walked right up to you and started blabbing. What I did, calling you over to warn you, he will kill me if he finds out…”

“ He being Izaiah Rovina? ”

I nod, since I have no reason to protect that jackass. In fact, it would be a relief if he was permanently removed from my life.

“It was stupid of him to use his actual phone number to text you,” Ferraro remarks.

“He’s an idiot,” I agree. “He-he did tell me to delete the thread afterwards…”

“Why didn’t you delete it?”

His voice sounds slightly calmer, his eyes a little less hostile, as if he’s genuinely curious, and we’re just two people having a normal conversation without a guillotine hanging over my head.

And while I know I should fear him, the man people in the city refer to as the angel of death, it’s hard to fear someone so damn attractive. The “angel” part of his nickname is well deserved. Creed Ferraro is one beautiful bastard. I thought so the other night, and that opinion is reinforced by his close proximity tonight.

Shoving all those thoughts out the window, I shrug my shoulders. “In case you climbed through my window one night, and I needed to try to shift all the blame to that stupid piece of shit?”

His eyes narrow. “Cute.”

I’m actually not lying. After the raid, I even considered taking the messages straight to Ferraro as an apology, but I was afraid he’d kill me on sight before I could say a word. Hoping Creed Ferraro would kill Izaiah was a longshot, one I couldn’t risk if it didn’t work out. Rumors say the Rovina and Ferraro families are supposedly tight allies.

The two of us stare at each other. I’m trying to figure out his next move, and if I had to guess, he’s trying to decide if he’s going to kill me right where I stand, smushed against the wall, wearing nothing but a towel.

Not that Ferraro seems the least bit tempted by what’s underneath the cloth, which is unfortunate. I’m used to using my body as a distraction for assholes, but this mobster only has murder on his mind .

A sudden booming thud echoes through my skull hard enough to rattle my entire body. It takes me a moment to realize that it’s someone knocking on the other side of my door. Ferraro’s men come to help him kill me and dispose of my body?

Leaning closer, so close his open suit jacket brushes against my towel, and I get a whiff of his rich, clean scent, the mob boss whispers in my ear, “Guess who that is.”

I gasp in understanding, just before his annoying voice shouts, “Open the fucking door, Zara! What’s so damn important it couldn’t wait?”

Ferraro must have texted Izaiah from my phone and invited him over. How ironic that he’s using the brazen asshole’s own tactic against him.

Lowering his voice even more, Ferraro says, “I’m going to wait in the bathroom while you get him to confess to everything.”

“Could I at least put some clothes on first?” I implore him in a rush.

He glances down at the towel I’m clutching, as if seeing it for the first time. “No.”

With that, he steps away from me.

I suck in a rush of air as I watch him retrieve his gun from the sofa before slipping into the bathroom. He leaves the door open but flips the light off.

Knowing he’s in there, waiting to pounce on Izaiah, makes me ecstatic. Creed Ferraro is most likely going to kill Izaiah Rovina, something I’ve dreamed of doing myself for years, even if his death wouldn’t really solve any of my problems.

And for once, being manipulated by a mafioso doesn’t feel like a bad thing.

Ferraro is trusting me not to give him away, which makes me feel like I actually have some power for the first time in my life. He must have realized that I hate Izaiah enough or know him well enough to realize Izaiah is no match for Accabadore. After all, I saved the texts from Izaiah, proving his guilt and was quick to throw him under the bus. Would I do that if I gave a shit about the man?

It just sucks that once Ferraro kills Izaiah, I probably won’t get to live long enough to spit on his grave.

Behind me, the asshole pounds on the door again loud enough to shake it, no doubt waking up all my neighbors.

Closing my eyes, I take a slow deep breath and then spin around to unlock the bolt and chain with a slightly shaky hand.

God, I don’t even know what the text Ferraro sent says, so I’ll just have to wing this conversation.

As soon as I turn the doorknob, Izaiah pushes past me and into my apartment. He’s dressed down in jeans and a tee, as if he’s given up trying to look the part of his filthy rich mafia father’s heir.

“What’s so important you couldn’t say it over the phone?” he asks while I shut and lock the door. “And why the hell did you tell me to park half a mile down the road?”

Ferraro is staying one step ahead if he told him not to park in the apartment lot.

Trying to think just as fast, I tell him, “I think someone has been following me.”

“What? Who? What do they look like?” he demands.

“I-I couldn’t see them. They were in an SUV with dark tinted windows.” I decide to keep the description vague. And it works.

“What kind of SUV? Was it a silver Maserati?”

“Maybe. I don’t know all the car brands and logos.”

“It’s car models! Do you know fucking colors?”

“Yes, I know colors,” I huff indignantly. “It was…grayish. I think. It was dark and hard to see when I was leaving work.”

“Jesus, Zara! What the hell did you do? Did someone in the club see you talking to Jasper?”

“I-I don’t know. I don’t think so. I gave him the message, word for word like you told me, ‘Ferraro has a bullseye on his head, and there’s a sniper coming for him who won’t miss,’ then I left his office and went down to wait for Ferraro to show like you instructed me to do. Was the raid what you were trying to warn him about?”

“Fuck no. I wasn’t warning him about the raid, you stupid cunt! The whole thing was a trap.”

Yes, idiot, keep spilling all your secrets while insulting me. Maybe Ferraro will let me live if he hears proof it was Izaiah who set up the raid that got his brother killed.

“A trap?” I play dumb.

“You weren’t there when the bullets started flying?” Izaiah asks. “Now that I think about it, I didn’t see your name on the witness report.”

Ferraro and the other men were taken out in handcuffs. Then, his brother was taken out on a gurney, leaving behind a puddle of blood I still have nightmares about. That’s when I told an officer it was my time of the month, that I needed to use the restroom to change my tampon. I snuck out the bathroom window into an alley where not a single officer was stationed.

“I, um, I went to the bathroom and then I left the club, so I missed the raid. I did hear about it on the news. Two people died because of you.”

“The fuckers were supposed to kill Creed and his brother.”

“Oh.” Izaiah is so screwed, which makes me so damn happy. “Why?”

“Not that it’s any of your goddamn business,” he grumbles. “But they’re the only two Ferraros everyone trusts to keep shit running right. Once they’re out of the picture, my family will take their place at the head of the table.”

“And you’re not worried about any of those cops that killed Carmine Ferraro, you know, talking to anyone?”

“No, because only two of them knew the full plan, and now they’re both six feet under. ”

“Did you…did you kill them?”

“Suicides. Both left notes about how they were guilt-stricken because of their mistakes during the raid.”

“Wow. You thought of everything,” I lie right to his face. “Does your dad know about all this? It was his idea, wasn’t it?”

When Izaiah doesn’t respond but curses and suddenly begins to pace in front of me — his fists clenching, mumbling to himself — I realize why he’s suddenly so fidgety.

Izaiah wouldn’t have told me all this information if he was going to let me live.

Fucking A.

“I didn’t want to have to do this,” he mutters more to himself. “You should’ve been more careful. Gotta clean up the mess you made…”

“What are you talking about?”

“How to do it…how to do it? Here? Now? The clock is ticking…Gotta get the hell out of here.”

Oh yeah. He’s definitely plotting my death, trying to decide which way is the least messy way to take me out.

For once, I’m glad my apartment is so small. Two steps to the left and I’m standing in front of the drawer where I keep my spoons, forks, and really big, incredibly sharp knives.

Trying to play it off when I open the drawer, I say, “You know what? I just got home from work and I’m starving. Do you want a sandwich?”

Two seconds later, the drawer rattles when I open it. My fingers curl around the first knife I can reach as the drawer slams closed on my wrist. The ache causes me to cry out and drop the knife.

I don’t even have a chance to turn around before Izaiah grabs my hair and presses cold steel to my throat.

“It’s a shame I have to do this, but it’s your own fucking fault,” he says into my ear before he rips my towel off me and squeezes my bare breast. “God, I’m going to miss fucking your filthy mouth and cunt.”

My heart seizes up in a panic. What if this was Ferraro’s plan all along? Let Izaiah kill me, then he only has to kill Izaiah.

“Might as well have you one last time…”

The distinct sound of a gun being cocked interrupts his plans. I feel Izaiah’s entire body stiffen behind me, sending one hell of a thrill through my soul.

“Drop the knife, Rovina.”

If I thought Ferraro’s voice was scary earlier, it’s nothing compared to the amount of venom in it now.

Izaiah isn’t the smartest man, but he is a vicious don’s son and not going down without a fight. He pulls the knife from my neck.

Instinctively, I drop to my knees, getting as low as I can, and scurry away to watch the show.

Ferraro looks like an enraged god when he slams his fist into Izaiah’s face, then easily ducks Izaiah’s sloppily slashing knife over and over again. His clothes receive a few tears, but I don’t see any blood.

What is he waiting for? Izaiah to slice his throat, then mine?

“Shoot him already!” I shout impatiently.

Finally, Ferraro spins around and slips behind Izaiah. With his arm banded across Izaiah’s chest, pinning his arms to his sides, he lifts the gun and presses the silencer to Izaiah’s temple with the other.

But he doesn’t pull the trigger.

Both men are now facing me, and it feels like time is standing still.

Ferraro’s eyes meet mine with something like uncertainty in them, while Izaiah’s gaze holds nothing but murder and contempt. If I had to guess, Ferraro is either worried about me being a witness or whether Izaiah deserves to die.

“Look away, Zara. ”

I can’t look anywhere but at the final ending of one of my worst nightmares. And Ferraro hesitates a second too long.

There’s no time to even warn him before Izaiah slams his knife into the side of Ferraro’s thigh once, twice.

The don barely flinches. His gun goes off with one soft puff of air.

When Ferraro releases his hold on Izaiah, he drops. His knees hit the ground, followed by his upper body, leaving his lifeless form lying face down on my apartment floor.

It’s over.

It’s finally done.

Izaiah Rovina is dead.

If I’m about to meet my end, too, at least I won’t have to worry about him touching me or my daughter ever again.