Present Day.

"You heartless fucking piece of shit!"

The man next to me in first class crunches on his airline-provided bag of pretzels as he listens unabashedly to the woman screaming at me through the phone pressed to my ear.

"Mrs. Hernandez—"

"My name is Alexandra. Don't 'Mrs. Hernandez' me, Massimo Romano," she hisses my name with an impressive amount of hatred. "You're not getting out of this. I'm a person, I-I was a mother. And now I'm not. My daughter," she dissolves into wet sobs, "my poor daughter. You killed her. You fucking killed her!"

The man next to me chokes on a pretzel.

I stand, striding quickly past the cluster of passengers in the middle of boarding. A flight attendant approaches me, no doubt to direct me back to my seat, but thinks better of it at the last second, veering off to help someone else. Smart woman.

I slip into the tiny bathroom, sliding the door shut. I'm immediately assaulted with the stench of un-flushed fecal matter.

If I were typically amused by things, I'd find it humorous how abysmal this day has been.

First, the jet I chartered endured an unexplainable engine issue, forcing me to catch a commercial flight. Then, since commercial flying insinuated things like waiting in long lines to be groped by TSA, there was what some may call an incident. The TSA agent I made cry, and the ensuing drama, nearly made me late for my flight. I hadn't attempted to elicit that reaction from her, but if she thought it acceptable to be touchier than what a security checkpoint called for, it was within my bounds to retaliate accordingly.

I hadn't expressly asked for her to be fired, but that was what her supervisor had thought appropriate.

As if that were not enough, I had an intrusive seatmate who loudly ate all his flight snacks preflight. And now this abomination of a bathroom and the woman crying in my ear.

"Mrs. Hernandez," I cut in, interrupting another emotional tirade. "I have already given you everything that my family can give you. While I empathize with you for your loss—"

"You don't empathize with shit," she snaps, and though she's right, her grief is making her too reckless for my taste. People typically know not to speak to me this way. "You're a monster. I don't care about money or any other bribe you think makes up for the fact that my daughter, my baby girl, is dead."

"Unless you would like your husband to be next, I strongly advise you not interrupt me again. Speak only when I ask you a question."

Her whining cuts off abruptly, and I loosen my hold on the edge of the sink. "I've been patient with you, have I not? All I can offer you is money and certain compensation to make your life—and your grief—a little easier. Do you want what I'm offering you, Mrs. Hernandez?"

"I—I don't... No, no I don't want your money."

"Then don't take it," I suggest softly. "My brothers and I have been kind in extending you and your husband grace over the way you've conducted yourselves these past weeks." They had shown up at my home, threatening my guards and causing a ruckus at the gate. "But it's time for you to take your grief off my doorstep, my phone, and preferably out of my life."

Matters like this are just one more inconvenience to add to my stockpile of reasons for leaving Chicago. Alone.

Mrs. Hernandez—depressed, understandably grieving mother she may be—is no longer my concern. If she were to blame the person who deserves it, she'd be crying to her husband. He got them involved in this business in the first place; he's the one who became indebted to the wrong man. The fact I couldn't save them from their own mistakes is no strike against me.

I am quite forthcoming in admitting when I'm the villain in a situation. And often, I am.

This is why Alexandra and Alberto Hernandez are still breathing, the only thing that keeps me from committing mindless violence. Because they have become a blight on my existence, and I have no real reason to let them live, aside from having to acknowledge the person I am.

Nine times out of ten, I am the man to blame. It's a matter of principle, not mercy. If I were to give the order now, I'd be acting on emotion. Nothing good ever came from that.

Someone knocks on the door, and I'm jerked from my thoughts. The small space is beginning to make me hot beneath my suit, with the added disturbance of the audible bustling from outside. So many people. I even my breaths, the extended silence almost making me forget I'm on the phone.

"You may speak now," I say through a clenched jaw, and her breath audibly releases.

"Laura," she cries softly, "her name was Laura. And she was eleven."

Annoyance pulses at my temples. Annoyance at this woman's emotion, at my brother for making a promise to save her daughter that we couldn't keep, and at this damned airplane with all these damned people.

Santo should've known better than to promise a civilian they'd be spared from what goes on in our world.

"If you or your husband show up at my home again, my guards will not hesitate to take you out, Mrs. Hernandez. Pleasure doing business with you."

I hang up the phone and wash my hands just as another knock sounds from the door. An irritated middle-aged woman with too many wrinkles for her age is waiting on the other side of the door. Her glare melts into contrition as I step out, carefully sliding past her.

Each footfall sends an echoing pulse thundering through my body the closer I get to my row. It's been longer than I care to admit since I've been in an enclosed area with quite this many people. The only thing that keeps me from imploding is the sight of the empty seat next to mine. My seatmate has blessedly relieved me of his presence.

I feel peoples' eyes on me as I settle into my seat, felt them tracking me on the way back from the bathroom. While it typically doesn't bother me, right now I can almost feel the physical weight of their stares, sense it pressing in on me tighter and closer.

I quickly message my head guard back at the house, informing him of his new orders. There are a couple dozen other messages that make me wish more than anything I could throw this device out the window and never look at it again.

Unfortunately, I won't be afforded such a luxury. And since I'm a glutton for punishment, I scan over the messages for my brothers' names.

Tommaso: How could you fucking do this

Tommaso: You can't just leave us. We need you

Tommaso: Come back. Or at least answer your phone. Please

Tommaso: You're running away like a coward. Do you really think Nico wouldn't be fucking ashamed of this?? 

Santo: I know you said no contact but ignore whatever the fuck Tommo is saying. He's hurting.

Santo: Just come back soon, brother.

I stop reading, that feeling in my chest tightening until the best way to describe what's happening to my airways is active suffocation. From there, my only option is to close my eyes and breathe until it no longer feels impossible. Each inhalation is its own battle but as always, it gets easier with time.

It didn't used to be this way. I progressed. I moved past it. I got over this when I was a child—why has it started happening again?

I power off my phone and stare out the small window as the ground gets smaller beneath us, wondering when all this responsibility started feeling like dead weight.

♛

My first evening in my new hometown of Rhinebeck, New York finds me sitting at a bar, thinking about my father.

Antonio Romano died when I was eight, but if I'm honest with myself, I never fully believed he was gone. If my father is anything, he's a perfectionist. And there had always been something a little too imperfect about him dying and leaving the rest of his broken family behind—allowing us to emerge from the ashes, more powerful than before.

It used to keep me up at night thinking about how our success, the famed Romano name, would make him so angry. Now it keeps me up at night thinking about how all that time, he was really alive. Plotting. Waiting for the perfect moment to crash back into our lives and finish what he should have long ago.

The beginning of the end started a while ago. It's a long story—starting with my brother Santo accidentally kidnapping a woman whose father we've had a longstanding rivalry with. Nina's irrelevant to the story, aside from the fact that she and Santo ended up falling in love. Her father, Luciano Genovese, started bringing his illicit trafficking business out of Vegas and to my front door in a blatant act of rebellion.

And it turned out the Genovese boss had committed many sins, not the least of which was helping our father fake his death and reemerge into our lives at a moment carefully curated to ruin us.

It all came to a breaking point a few months ago, in an abandoned warehouse in Chicago. Luciano lured us in. Set the trap. My father had emerged from the fire and smoke, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. And not only had many innocent lives been taken—including Alexandra Hernandez's daughter—but my family had suffered a permanent blow.

That moment. The moment I saw him. Being in his presence made memories I'd long disposed of come rushing back. Suddenly, nothing else mattered—not Luciano or the fact that he had egregiously disrespected my authority. Not that I was expected to retaliate, put an end to him and his business. Not even my brothers and the fact that they were finding out, in that moment, that their father was alive.

I had already known. I'd kept it from them for a very long time, and there was a reason for that.

When I was seventeen, on the night of the biggest storm the city had seen in years, I discovered that Antonio Romano faked his death in order to escape from the world of the criminal underground. I could have told my brothers on that blisteringly cold, wet night when we were kids. When we were dying and all we could do was stumble into that diner for shelter. I could have told them in the months and years afterwards, when they were settling and healing and forming their own family, the four of us, without either of our parents.

But that wasn't my responsibility. I was just supposed to handle it. Eliminate the problem.

And yet, killing my father proved difficult. He was elusive and prepared. A man who goes to the trouble of faking his death knows he must do it exceptionally well—and my father always knew how to conduct business. But I had done one thing better: I'd obtained knowledge of his ruse quietly. For the first time in my life, I had the upper hand over my father. And so much time to retaliate, to rip him from this earth and remove his shadow from my life.

I'd spent endless resources and time tracking him and gaining intel. It had taken years of searching, strategizing, planning. Over a decade.

And still, I hadn't killed him.

Santo had been kidnapped from that dirty warehouse because of it. Nearly killed. It was in rescuing him that Nico had died. His blood spilled by Antonio himself.

There was a very particular weakness that entered me that day in that warehouse. It's just from being in his presence. Remembering everything I've done my best to forget. It eclipses me. I feel it tickling at the corners of my brain, numbing things that shouldn't be numb. I feel it spreading, along with a very particular illness, and I wonder if this new town will be my grave.

Rhinebeck is a relatively small and compact place, nestled in a valley between mountains and rivers. It mimics living in a snow globe, surrounded on all sides by picturesque scenery. But that's where the fantasy ends. Rhinebeck's tree-lined streets are much too crowded, bustling with people even on a weeknight. Everyone seems to know practically everyone else, and they all smile at strangers.

It's not what I prefer or am used to—which is precisely why I'm here. If anyone were to decide to look for me, they wouldn't start here.

To make it feel a little like Chicago, I've already become a member of Pulse, a club on the east side of town. It's an exclusive members-only society for the rich and powerful. The inside is bathed in dark and decadent silk, sensuously dim lighting, and a large bar in the center of the main level. The bartenders, all women squeezed into revealing dresses that shimmer in the low light, rush back and forth to serve those of us who populate the bar.

"Can I get you another one?"

For the third time tonight, the eager bartender with the name tag that says 'Tori' is baring her cleavage over my empty glass. She looks like my saying yes would bring her to orgasm. Her bouncy blonde curls are bathed in the dim red lighting of the bar.

For my first thirty minutes here, I watched her friend working this side of the bar send me uneasy looks. Eventually, she pulled Tori aside and asked her to serve me. I tend to make people uncomfortable, and this came as no surprise. But I was caught off guard at how eager Tori was to keep coming over to speak to me.

And I'm not surprised easily. She either has a death wish or her brains are as shallow as her looks.

"Alright, hun. You just let me know if you need anything!" She winks, swaying her hips as she moves away to another customer.

I stand to leave. My Patek Philippe tells me it's half past midnight. Not late enough for my body to succumb to sleep, but my constantly buzzing phone has me on edge and I'm tired of having to wipe the bar of Tori's drool.

A cacophony of squeals has me turning reflexively back to the bar.

Tori and the other bartender are embracing another woman, and the three of them seem to be incredibly excited.

The newcomer's back is to me, so all I can see is the inky fountain of hair that falls almost down to the hem of the backless dress resting right above the curve of her ass. But I can see Tori and her bright smile as she looks in my direction, pointing me out to her friend.

The newcomer turns. Surprise pricks my chest, so potent that I unconsciously rub the area with my palm.

Because she's glaring at me. A disturbingly poisonous glare, something I'm hardly ever on the receiving end of.

Even from halfway across the room, I can see how much she means it. She stands a head taller than her blonde friend, and one look down the length of her tells me the reason for that: long, silky legs that look strong and soft at the same time. Her dress is white, a sparkling scrap of fabric that clings to her body and emphasizes the melted caramel tone of her skin.

Eyes stay glued to her wherever she moves. She knows it, and she moves. Each flick of her hand or sweep of her arm exudes a kind of confident dignity, both loud and graceful, even as she shoots me a glare sharp enough to cut diamonds. She's all woman, tall and unforgiving and brave enough to look at me like she wants to kill me.

She's ugly.

All that beauty, that perfectly curated and maintained outward appearance, is only there to mask what's on the inside. The ugliness. Beauty that blatant doesn't exist for itself; it exists to distract. I've seen the devil in the most angelic faces. The ugliness beneath is always revealed.

As I watch, she turns her back on me with an attitude-filled flick of that sleek hair, pinning another customer with an award-winning smile. The man practically falls at her feet.

"Don't mind Viv."

I turn to see Tori making her way towards me. She's carrying a bag and wearing a coat, clearly heading out for the night. "Walk me out?"

For some reason, I look back at the bar. The newcomer—Viv—is looking at me again. Her gaze is disapproving as it darts between me and her friend. Then another regular diverts her attention. The second she's not looking at me, her smile stretches across her face. She chats effortlessly as she makes him a drink. And I'm left watching her as yet again, she captures the attention of everyone around her.

"She's pissed because you're the reason she had to come in for a shift tonight. You came in here all threatening, demanding that you get your membership immediately. Every other member has to wait a month for theirs to be approved and take effect. We have a very strict selection process, you know. But none of the rules apply to you. Who are you?"

I blink back the headache at the barrage of information spewing out of this small woman's mouth. But miraculously, she's not done.

"Anyway, Viv is literally the only person on staff smart enough to do that. Registering a new member, getting all your information in our database and stuff. She was not happy when Jason called her in. Jason is our boss, he—hey!"

The clacking of Tori's heels trails after me as I walk away. I push out the doors into the February chill, halfway to the street by the time her shrill voice starts calling after me.

"Hey! What the hell?"

I'm stuck waiting at the crosswalk, which gives her time to catch up. She's out of breath and wincing with each step, favoring her feet in those stilted heels. She grabs my arm to keep her balance, lifting up one foot to begin removing her shoes.

I step away from her touch, and she goes stumbling into the crosswalk sign.

"Ow, fuck! What the hell is wrong with you?" she cries, cupping both hands over her nose. When she pulls them back, blood is oozing down the bottom half of her face. "Shit! My nose! Look what you did!"

People are starting to look at us, so I force myself to approach her. "Are you okay?"

"No!" she snaps. "You're a fucking jackass, you know that?"

"Where's your car?"

"Oh, now you want to be a gentleman," she hisses, flouncing away from me. "I swear, you rich guys are the fucking worst. Thinking you're God's gift to humanity or something. Just because you have the fucking money to afford a place like Pulse doesn't mean...  okay, seriously?"

She stomps a foot on the cracked sidewalk when she sees I'm still at the crosswalk. "Are you walking me to my car or not?"

Now that she's yelling at me from ten feet away, people are definitely looking. It doesn't help that she's coated in blood. Swallowing my revulsion, I force my feet to move. Other than disposing of her, the fastest way to get rid of this woman is to escort her to her car and make it clear I'm not interested.

She's silent the whole way but I can feel her inquisitive stare on my face, like an unwanted rash. Once we arrive, she leans against the driver's side door with a small smile, dragging her gaze up my chest. Her hand reaches for the silk handkerchief poking out of my suit pocket. "Can I have that?"

"No."

She blinks in surprise, indignation bleeding quickly back into her face. "You have actual issues."

Something tells me that if I were to agree, that would upset her too.

She rolls her eyes, and I'm greeted with the sight of her half-exposed ass as she rips open the door and leans into her car, emerging with a handful of napkins.

I'm walking away again when she calls after me. Again.

"Hey, wait! Can you... help me?" Her voice sounds watery and thin. "It's a lot of blood."

Hitting my head into a cement pole would be much more desirable than spending another moment in her presence. This ten-minute interaction alone is enough to remind me why I don't get involved with women outside of the bedroom. But I dredge up every ounce of patience I don't have and turn back to her.

Based on how emotional she seems to be, I wouldn't put it past her to cry to anyone who listens about the new guy in town who assaulted her and left her on the street to bleed. And the whole point of moving to a place where nobody knows me is to keep it that way.

She shoves the napkins into my hands, tilting her face towards me so I can clean her up. I can smell the blood from this close. When I still don't do anything, she rolls her eyes again. "Well?"

My heart dips. The only way to describe the feeling is as if it's shifting, moving out of my chest, leaving behind a numbing chill. I push the napkins back into her hands. "Tori, this isn't going to be the kind of romantic moment you're looking for. Just go home."

A small smirk tickles her lips, and she shifts closer to me. "You know my name, hm? Do I get to know yours? I haven't seen you around, but you look important. Expensive. I love a man in a suit. Especially one with the whole emotionless, I-don't-give-a-fuck vibe you have going on."

Her gaze is hungry as it trails down my body and back up again. I don't have time to step back before I feel her palm on my arm once more. It slides up the smooth material of my Tom Ford suit jacket, blazing a trail of fire over my skin despite the multiple layers of fabric separating us.

Her gasp hits the side of my face and that's when I realize I have her pushed up against her car.

Her chest heaves and all previous interest on her face has been replaced with fear. All that dried blood looks especially sinister under the dim streetlights, churning my stomach. I look down at where my hands press into the rough sequins of her dress. They're trembling. I rip them away, but don't move my face from the vicinity of her terrified expression. My words emerge in a low threat, cloaked in the mist of the night.

"Go. Home."

I walk away from her car to the sound of her soft sobs echoing through the empty parking lot. My gut screams at me that I've already messed everything up. 

♛

WELCOME EVERYONE! 

Ready for this crazy fucking journey? Because I sure am. See you next Friday for the next chapter! Updates will be once a week for now; if I can find the time to write more, we'll move up to two updates a week.

Ily for reading.

- G