2. CiCi

“Ishould strangle you, ya know?” I snap as I slam down the black tray against the bar top.

Sandy, the bartender, looks over at the sudden racket. “Hey, Miranda, get your orientee to chill!”

As I turn to Miranda, I see her giggling.

“I’m glad you thought that was comical.”

Grabbing more drinks than I should carry, I stack them onto the serving tray.

“I should never have let you talk me into working here. I have a degree, ya know!”

Miranda and I became friends thirteen years ago at the age of fifteen, when one tragic night brought us together at the hospital. I lost both of my parents that night, and Miranda lost her sister and brother. Her parents haven’t been the same since, so it’s been her and me against the world. Straight out of high school, we moved to Boston with what little money we had and somehow I obtained a computer engineering degree, which she loves to remind me I waste every single day. While she dropped out of college, walked down her mother’s path, and made her money as a waitress.

The only reason we came back to Edinburgh was for answers. We had heard of someone called the Dragon that seemed to target criminals in Edinburgh, the same types of criminals that were responsible for the deaths of my parents and her siblings, among so many others. We’re on a mission to find him.

Looking across the smokey, dimly lit bar, my eyes are greeted with menacing stares from dangerous men, the women they claim, and nervous serving staff tip-toeing around them, meticulously serving their drinks and praying for decent tips.

As dangerous as it is to work in this part of town, Raven’s is the only place where Edinburgh’s richest and most powerful criminals congregate.

Out on the streets, it’s war. But here in this trashy, smoky gentleman’s club, with tits in their faces and booze flowing, they all seem to get along.

Typical men.

As if they have come to a mutual understanding that the bar is common ground. Inside Raven’s, they are far from friends, but despite that, the notorious criminals respect each other, and some discuss the happenings on the streets.

Miranda had been working here since we returned to Boston. She came home one night determined that I join her here. As hesitant as I was, her winning argument was that this was the only place where we could find answers that may point us to The Dragon without putting us in a compromising situation.

“You don’t have to remind the peasant.” She rolls her eyes. “For being so proud of that degree, you sure don’t use it,” she says, as she pops a cherry from the fruit tray into her mouth.

“I have used it.”

“Okay, correction. You refuse to stay at one job for longer than a few months. What gives, CiCi?”

Shrugging my shoulders, I look at her. “I’m bored.”

“No shit. That’s the most animated I’ve seen you in years.” She grins as she points over to Dark and Pissy. “You have to admit, Mr. Gumpy Ass is fucking hot.”

I shove her hand down to her side. “Mare, hot or not…” I pause, looking at him sulking in the dark corner booth across the bar. “Look at him. He thinks he owns this place. Just like the rest of these smug ass bastards that walk in here.”

“Don’t lie. Your panties were incinerated by the time you walked over there.”

Slapping her arm, I attempt to stifle a laugh. “Seriously?”

Interrupting our conversation, Sandy walks over, “If you broads were smart, you wouldn’t be dangling yourselves in front of a man like him.”

She nods in the direction of the storm cloud in the corner booth.

“Oh, he’s harmless.” Miranda waves her off. “We’re just having a little fun.”

“Yeah, well, maybe do it tomorrow night.” She sighs. “As much as I hate these rich idiots, they pay my bills. And he’s just grieving the loss of his father. Tonight’s the thirteenth anniversary.”

Hearing the word ‘anniversary’ causes my breath to hitch in my throat. I always think of a positive event when I hear the word, not the night my world came crumbling down.

“He lost his parents that night too?”

“Just his father.” She looks at me. “Do you not know who that is?”

Shaking my head, I peer back over at him, studying him while Sandy drones on about the man in the booth. He is sitting with one leg out of the booth, his foot resting on the ground. He’s hunched over his drink. The fabric of his black Armani suit is fighting to stretch across his broad shoulders. His cigar burns to ash in the small round tray, as he sits with his head in his hands.

As if he can feel my gaze burning a hole through him even from across the bar, our eyes lock and I see something more than anger and agitation.

Something that raises questions in my mind, despite how big of an asshole he appears to be.

I see a man filled with sadness and torment.