[Killer 01.0] Killer for Hire Read online

  As the mirror begins to fog up, I shed my nightgown and slippers and slip under the hot stream of water. A pleasurable shiver runs down my spine while steam gathers around me. It’s a bad habit, I know, taking such hot showers. “One of these days you’re going to boil yourself alive in there,” my mom has told me on numerous occasions. But I can’t help it. I love the feeling of scrubbing all my worries away, feeling the hot water cleanse my skin and make me feel brand new again. Shower time is one of the few moments I get to purely be myself and give into my own needs throughout the day. There was a time, long ago before things got so hectic and crazy, when I used to sink into a hot bubble bath and stay there for hours reading or just daydreaming about the future. About pretty things and handsome boys and faraway places I would someday visit.

  Nowadays, I’ve had to settle for a steamy shower in the morning.

  Still, I can’t help but wonder if my love for a good scrub is part of what fuels me to keep plugging away at the struggling family business. I manage a luxury bath goods shop called Bathing Beauty, and even though it’s been a long, long time since I was last blessed with the opportunity to partake in any of my sweet-smelling bath bombs or shower gels, I still feel pretty passionate about going into work every day. Sure, it’s a lot of effort for not a lot of pay-off, but it’s close to my heart just the same. And it’s lucky that I feel that way, because my passion almost makes up for the fact that I don’t have much hands-on business experience. Nor do I have the kind of financial backing most people need to keep such a frivolous business afloat. But I can’t give up. I refuse to.

  As I shampoo my hair, I run through the list of things to do today. First of all, I need to remind mom to drop off the power bill. Of course, it would make my life much easier to have all the bills set up to pay automatically online each month. But my mother is old-fashioned, and she likes the ritual of writing a check and handing it to a living, breathing associate. And she’s held onto this almost vintage-level quirk for years, even though it’s no longer her name on the check anymore. It’s mine.

  If it were up to her, she would still be signing off on everything. God knows how difficult it is for a woman of her bearing to give up control and lose face like that. I’ve tried a million times to convince her that it’s no big deal, that I don’t mind being the breadwinner. But even though these days she’s finally given in and allowed me to take control of the finances— purely because the alternative was much worse— she’s still quite bitter about the whole thing.

  You see, my mother comes from serious money. She’s a born-and-raised mafia princess, and she’s had the best of everything since the day she was born. So, naturally, our fall from power and money in recent years has hit her pretty hard. Sometimes I find her just poring over old photographs, her finger tracing over the fancy fur-lined coats, Prada handbags, and Hermes scarves she used to wear all the time. She’s had to sell a lot of her old wardrobe classics, which to me doesn’t seem like a huge loss, since I’ve never been quite as much of a clotheshorse as my mom, but to her I think it really does feel like she’s lost a chunk of her identity.

  Someday, though, I’m gonna put her back into the pearls and perfumes she’s used to. I know good things are coming. I can feel it. After all, I’ve often heard that bad luck can only go on for so long until there’s a bounce in the opposite direction. As far as I’m concerned, we hit rock bottom years ago, and everything has been on the up-and-up ever since.

  But God, is it a long, slow ride back up to the top. And I’ve had to put aside my own pain to help my mom through hers. Losing my dad… well, it ruined her entire life. It just almost ruined mine.

  I turn off the water and start towel-drying my hair, then move on to applying the kind of low-key makeup I tend to live in these days. When I was a teenager, I used to wear the raciest red lipstick and the most outlandishly vivid colors imaginable. Back then, I was never afraid of standing out from the crowd. It wasn’t that I was starved for attention, either. Daddy spoiled the hell out of me, and like my mom, I walked around with the kind of self-assured cheekiness you get when you come from money. But I wanted to make a statement. I wanted everything. I wanted to wring every last drop of excitement out of life that I could manage.

  Nowadays, I settle for some lightly tinted chapstick, a splash of mascara, and a ponytail. Just enough to make me look professional, yet approachable. God, I wanted to be approachable. Anything to draw a customer into my shop. I was a hard worker, and I had passion out the wazoo, but none of that could matter if I didn’t make a sale.

  I dress in a simple pair of dark jeans and a summery pink floral blouse, paired with a navy blue blazer and some kitten heels, and then I’m on my way. As I pass my mother’s bedroom, I knock gently on the door and say, “Hey, Mom, don’t forget to take that power bill downtown, okay? It’s in an envelope on the table.”

  There’s the faint sound of the bed creaking and then I hear her footsteps trudging across the room. The door opens just a crack to reveal my mother’s face, older and sadder but still beautiful. There is a regal air about her, still, no matter how drastically our circumstances have changed over time. She gives me a nod and runs her hand back over her raven-black hair.

  “Of course, dear. I’ll see to it this afternoon. Will you be home for dinner?” she asks, stifling a yawn.

  I bite my lip.

  “Um, maybe. Not sure yet. I have a lot of inventory to do today, and I would hate to keep you waiting on me,” I reply, giving her an apologetic half-smile.

  “Right, yes. Well, do let me know. I can always call for some pizza or something if you’re going to be late. I can wait up for you,” she says, and it’s hard not to giggle at the way she says pizza, as though it’s some bizarre exotic food. I suppose when you’ve spent most of your life eating caviar, a pepperoni pie delivery might feel a little pedestrian.

  “Okay, Mom. Sounds good. I’ll text you later,” I tell her, blowing her a kiss as I hurry off down the stairs. I hear her door click closed as I rush out the front entry and into my car. I took a little too long in the shower this morning, and I don’t want to be late for opening hours at the shop. After all, I am the only employee. If I’m not there to open the store, and a customer just so happens to wander up at 7:30 to find it closed, I’ll probably lose that customer for life. One thing I have learned both in studying business and by running one myself, is that every single tiny human interaction counts. If I make one miniscule mistake, I might lose a potential patron. And every one I lose is another sale I lose. Or more.

  I really hate math, but even I know that it all adds up quickly.

  I make the long drive from our house in Riverdale down to Morris Park, thinking over the work I have to do today. Once I’m inside the shop, I turn on the little radio I keep behind the counter (I can’t yet afford to install a real speaker system for background music) and get started. I turn on the coffee maker and start going through my inventory checklist, wiping down counters and making note of what labels need reprinting as I go. That’s the cruel beauty of being the one and only employee: you learn how to multitask. Sometimes I think that I’ve gotten so used to being three people at once, I can hardly remember how to just be myself.

  As I sip my coffee, I hear the telltale jingle of the front door being opened. My heart immediately skips a beat and I glance up eagerly, expecting to see a customer. And so early in the day, too! However, my excitement dims slightly when I notice that my customer is just a rough-looking guy, rather than the typical girly-girl the shop usually attracts. For a moment I wonder if maybe he might be lost, having wandered into the wrong business by accident.

  Still, I have a role to play. With a big smile, I greet him, “Good morning! Welcome to Bathing Beauty, how can I help you?”

  The man looks at me with two cold eyes that make my heart freeze momentarily.

  Something about him feels... off. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but something about him makes me incredibly uneasy. He’s dressed in jean
s and a beat-up leather jacket, and it’s obvious that he hasn’t shaved in several days, judging by the scruff along his jaw. He gives me a wry smirk and strolls up to the counter. Even as I feel myself bristling with nervousness, I don’t let the smile fade from my face. Maybe he’s here to buy his sister a birthday gift, I tell myself, trying to calm my nerves.

  “Is there anything in particular you’re looking for today?” I ask, trying to keep my tone even and chipper as he stands in front of me, squinting as though he’s sizing me up. He chuckles, then gives me an exaggerated once-over. I instantly feel stripped and exposed — a feeling that I despise. My mind immediately flashes back to another time when I felt degraded, and how I felt just like this before getting into that car.

  But I force myself to stay strong. I can’t think about the past right now. It’s just paranoia, getting the better of me. My natural instincts trying to keep me safe, but they’re being too over-protective. That’s all. That’s all.

  “I think I found exactly what I’m lookin’ for already,” he replies, giving me a wink. His voice is gruff, like he’s been smoking heavily for years. He does have an admittedly handsome face, and I might have found him attractive when I was a reckless teenager, but these days, guys like him just make me nervous.

  “Oh,” I answer awkwardly. He leans on the counter, peering toward me.

  “This is a pretty nice setup you’ve got here, ma’am,” he says, gesturing broadly.

  “Th-thank you,” I stutter, damning myself inwardly for being so weak.

  “You know,” he begins, rubbing his palms together, “I’m a discerning entrepreneur, and I really think you’ve got somethin’ good goin’ here. Is business good lately? How’s your profit margin?”

  “Uh, well, it’s… um,” I struggle, taken aback by this change in topic. Who the hell is this guy?

  Without letting me answer, he continues.

  “I’ve been watching this shop for a while now, and my people think it might be a good place to, uh, make our mark. It’s a good thing you’re doin’ here, bringin’ an upstanding business like this to Morris Park. I’ve got an interest in cleanin’ up the neighborhood, so to speak, and it’s nice to see a local girl like you set up shop.”

  “Oh. Well, thank you,” I reply, surprised again. This is definitely not the way I thought this conversation was headed a moment ago, but I guess it could be worse.

  “Yeah, yeah, so we’re thinkin’ you could benefit from our services. You know, as a part of the local community here and all,” he adds, locking eyes with me.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” I admit, frowning. If this guy is trying to sell me insurance or something, he’s certainly got a weird way of making his pitch.

  He takes a phone out of his jacket pocket and quickly sends a text before looking back up at me with a dangerous grin. Suddenly, my whole body is on high alert. Something is definitely wrong here. Never ignore your instincts, Serena, the back of my mind nags at me. It’s what’ll keep you safe. But what good is that? I can’t exactly dart out of the store like a maniac. My hand reaches out for my phone, but it’s too far away to do it discretely.

  “Me and my guys, we’re all about tackling risk management head-on. Just lookin’ out for the neighborhood to maintain the integrity of our little community. I’m sure you understand, right? You’re a business-minded girl, I can tell. So, listen up,” he says, just as the front door jingles again.

  Two hulking, musclebound men dressed in similar clothes have entered the shop. They each flank the first guy, walking around the store with menacing glares on their ugly faces.

  Shit. I may be fresh, but I’m not totally naive. This is a shakedown.

  As the two goons have a grand old time knocking expensive soaps and displays off the shelves, making me wince, the first guy introduces himself to me.

  “I’m Lorenzo. Nice to make your acquaintance, Miss De Laurentis.” As soon as he says my last name, I feel my knees buckle. This is bad. This is very bad.

  “Now, I like a nice, fragrant bath from time to time, but let’s be real here. I’m a lot less interested in the shit you sell here than I am in your profits. And your rent for this lovely space. I know exactly who the hell you are, and I know you’re not stupid,” he says, lowering his voice to a growl. He comes around to stand behind the counter, effectively boxing me in. My stomach churns and I feel sick.

  “Now, look here, I’m a generous man, and I would hate for our little partnership to start out on the wrong foot, so I’m gonna grant you a little more time. I’m not even gonna penalize you for your late payment, see? I’ve got a heart, you know,” Lorenzo says, grinning. The two goons laugh.

  “Please don’t hurt me,” I manage to murmur, the small of my back pressed hard against the countertop while Lorenzo towers over me.

  “Oh, I would never. Unless you make me. But I see no reason why we can’t have a feel-good agreement. I think you’d rather keep this civil, right?” he answers, narrowing his eyes at me.

  My breath is lodged in my throat, my words totally fallen silent. I give him a vigorous nod.

  “Atta girl,” Lorenzo sneers, patting me on the shoulder. I flinch slightly and he chuckles again before turning and gesturing for the two other guys to follow him out of the store. As he steps out the door, he glances back over his shoulder and says, “Nice doin’ business with you, sweetheart. We’ll be seein’ each other again real soon.”

  As soon as the door closes and the men disappear from sight, I collapse to the floor behind the counter, pulling my knees in close to my chest. My heartbeat slowly starts to calm again, and I close my eyes, forcing myself to take deep breaths. I should have known this day would come. They just couldn’t leave me well enough alone, could they?

  I know better than to try and fight them. It’s pointless. I’m just one girl against a whole bunch of guys. This isn’t my first rodeo. I know how quickly shit goes south when gangbangers are involved.

  Still, I find myself asking the question: if Bathing Beauty is barely breaking even right now, then how the hell am I gonna be able to pay protection fees to the mafia? And what’s the cost when I can’t pay up?

  Luca

  The orange afternoon sun is on my back when I bring my car to a stop about a block away from the well-to-do little store on the corner of the street. When I turn my ignition off, I lean back and just stare at it, letting out a deep breath.

  How long has it been?

  The light playing off the glass window panes make it impossible to see inside the shop, but the sign outside is clear as ever: Bathing Beauty. I feel a smile on my face. As many mixed memories as it stirs up in me, there’s something comforting about knowing it’s still there, unchanged as ever. Maybe even a little nicer.

  All thanks to her.

  I catch a glimpse of myself in the car mirror. I’ve changed so much over the years. It feels like a lifetime ago that I was just a teenager, freshly landed in America. I kept my hair cut short back then, and my face was clean-shaven. I run a hand through the long locks that hang nearly to my shoulders now. It’s grown out thick and wavy. Even I have to admit it’s unkempt, and the short, coarse black beard on my face matches.

  My voice sounds different, too. I think back to the thick accent I had in those years that I was still learning English, fresh from the old country. I’m so used to it now that English almost sounds as natural as my native Italian on my tongue. I might as well be a different person.

  Better that way, I think. When I look into that mirror, I’m not sure I even see myself anymore. What I do see is the face of a man who’s done terrible things. A “made man,” they call us in this country. Mafioso.

  What are you really doing here, Luca?

  My mind flashes back to her face, that gorgeous face that’s kept me going all this time. A bright candle in the darkness.

  That face doesn’t need to know fear ever again. It doesn’t need to know me.

  So why am I here, coming to risk dragging the
past back? I don’t dare turn the ignition and drive off. I’ve made my decision, and I’m a man of my word.

  After all, I remind myself, I’m not here just to see her, to remind myself that she’s alive and living happily, that what I did for her was all worth it. I’m here to make sure she’s safe.

  The Cleaners.

  Their name makes my lip curl. They are a gang that sprung up almost overnight, and they’ve gone from being a nuisance to a threat in just as little time.

  A few years ago, they were nobodies in East Harlem. But times changed, East Harlem started to get cleaned up, and that meant the gangs had to move around. Soon, the Bronx found itself with new faces hitting warehouses on the south side. And goddamn, they’re vicious.

  The Cleaners fight like men who have nothing to lose. I learned that the first week they hit our streets, and hit it hard.

  I hit back, harder.

  Those days left me with scars and them with worse ones, but the Cleaners have dug their heels in. They’ve been shaking down business left and right, and one of my boss’s associates gave us a tip that some of them might be skulking around here, Morris Park.

  This is a nicer part of the Bronx. Places like Bathing Beauty can do pretty well for themselves, if they play their cards right. It would be a gamble to go after businesses this deep into our territory.

  But if experience has taught me anything, it’s that the Cleaners are gambling men.

  I pop on a pair of aviators in case there could be any chance of her still recognizing me—well, that, and a good pair of aviators can do a man some favors—and I step out of the car and cross the street. It’s a walk I’ve thought about taking a long time, but I never wanted to make her see this face again.

  I’ve never wanted Serena to go through that pain again.

  But I won’t stand by and let a rival gang get to her, either. My associates know that this store in particular is off-limits.