Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 62569 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 313(@200wpm)___ 250(@250wpm)___ 209(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62569 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 313(@200wpm)___ 250(@250wpm)___ 209(@300wpm)
I stared at the running water, wishing I could disappear beneath it. Let it drown me, swallow me whole, let it take what I have left. Eventually I turned it off, watching the last few drips hit the porcelain sink. With shaking hands, I tucked my hair behind my ears, and with a calm I didn’t feel at all, I calmly, at least from the outside, opened the bathroom door and walked out, head held high the way I was taught.
Could he see me as I walked into that sanctuary? Was it stupid to even think he could? I hoped he watched, though. I hoped, which was so dangerous in and of itself. I was bred not to think of that word during dark times because it never made the burden lighter.
And yet I gave into temptation.
In that moment, I uttered it out loud again and again while staring into the mirror.
And then I believed it.
Desired it.
I hoped he smiled with tears in his eyes when I kept my chin lifted as I took the four stairs up to the pulpit, like he was proud of me for being brave.
I hoped he knew I didn’t break in that moment when every part of me wanted to, craved to actually.
Seven stairs led to the pulpit, each felt like I was climbing a mountain, and each step represented the finality of the moment. Each felt like the briefest of memories.
I'll never forget him. Ever. Things may have started slow between us, almost awkward. He became my friend before everything else. Before it was more.
The bosses of the five families sat like statues in the front row. My cousins, my friends, my family, each of them too young to see so much death.
Then again, so was I.
I was in college.
But the mafia doesn't care how old you are, how young, how good, how evil. It just…is.
It runs through my veins like the very blood that I know will always be spilled in the name of power, greed, control.
I cleared my throat. “We’re here to mourn the tragic passing of my—“ I caught myself. "My faithful bodyguard, Louis Santorini.”
The man who promised he’d always save me, in more ways than one.
The man who loved me.
The man who was never supposed to touch me.
The church doors creaked open.
Nobody turned.
But I saw him. I locked eyes with him.
I saw him clear as day.
Ace De Lange.
He didn’t flinch, didn’t as much as look away.
I hated the way my pulse picked up, it was nothing more than rage at his carelessness, because how dare he show up and just stare at me at my worst.
The fact that he was even standing there was an insult to Louis’ memory.
He could never be replaced. Never will be.
Focus on the man who truly cared for you—loved you.
The one who kept you alive when you needed it most.
Not the one who walked in like he actually belonged.
Not the one whose family was more likely than anyones to have killed Louis.
Ace had sworn to protect the Alfero family at all costs—mainly my dad.
Well, it cost something, didn’t it? It always did.
A long time ago he promised to stay by my side after I was kidnapped only to leave the minute the De Langes needed him in Italy.
And now he was back as if the trauma of him leaving didn’t matter. He’d been a pivotal part of my teen years, we’d welcomed him and his trauma with open arms. And then he was just gone as if the blood, sweat, and tears meant absolutely nothing.
As if I had meant nothing.
I hoped he liked the destruction he left in his wake. Louis helped put the pieces Ace trampled all over back together again. It was my fault for having a one sided crush—never again. Maybe he’d still be alive if he wasn’t so focused on me that day.
In the end, I didn’t blame myself.
No, in the end…
I blamed my new unfeeling emotionally incapable bodyguard, the only person I’d gladly shove in front of a moving train just to see him react, or at the very least flinch. Ace “the matchstick” De Lange.
2
ACE
The one where dreams go and Lie.
The doors creaked open. I didn’t give a shit. Maybe I should, but there were more important things going on than a death.
Everyone looked like they were mourning—but I knew the truth, someone in one of those seats was behind this and I needed to find out who.
Most murderers attended the funerals of their victims.
The average person walked by a serial killer at least thirty-six times in their short life—the number grew if you were in the mafia—the number grew even more exponentially when you were part of the five families—and even more so, when you were a De Lange.
I checked my watch.
I was late on purpose, by ten minutes. I wanted to see the last person walk in. Anxious people tend to pay attention to the other guests more than normal, but nobody turned around when the doors closed loudly behind me.