His Wicked Spell (31 Days of Trick or Treat: Biker & Mobster #30)

Chapter One

Dante

It’s barely past five when I storm through the door of the Hart Family Pharmacy, bringing with me the cool bite of early fall.

Today, I’m thrumming with a savage energy, an urge to destroy someone or something in my path.

What little patience I started with this morning is now dangling by a fragile thread since learning information that’s questioning the Hart family’s loyalty to my organization.

I’m so wound up; lord help the fucker who snaps the thread barely holding me together because I’m not in the mood for bullshit or deceit. I’m in the mood to see heads roll.

There’s a reason my name sends fear rippling through the North Side of Chicago, because I’m a violent son of a bitch with a vicious, vindictive temper.

Luca follows close behind me. The bell over the pharmacy door jingles, oddly jarring and cheery in the hush of the late afternoon, heralding our arrival.

Coming to an abrupt halt, I pause, nostrils flaring at the overwhelming scents of lemon cleaner and disinfectant.

It’s very clinical and clean-smelling in the little shop.

As if someone here takes pride in the cleanliness of the old place.

Even the tile floors gleam under the fluorescent lights, not a speck of dust anywhere despite their age.

There’s also a hint of lavender beneath the chemical smell. It could be described as a hospital meets day spa. Fucking bizarre, and most would say nauseating. Oddly, the combination of scents is calming, almost tranquil.

Right now, however, it does little to soothe the beast within me because I’m on a mission.

The Hart Pharmacy is almost a century old, with red brick walls, tin ceilings, and arched windows.

The inside looks like some sort of museum, likely because they gave up or ran out of money to modernize it a few decades ago.

Today, the front aisles are decorated with oranges and jack-o’-lanterns for Halloween.

There are several shelves displaying large glass jars with labels in script indicating various scents, rows of stopper bottles of essential oils, and what looks like custom perfumes in apothecary-style packaging.

Along the back of the store runs a long, polished wood counter that’s seen generations of use.

It's also decked out for Halloween with hand-carved pumpkins of various sizes sporting their evil grins lined up along its surface.

It's obvious that somebody working here really enjoys the creepy holiday.

Little do they know, a far more sinister presence has invaded their precious shop.

But it’s what’s behind that counter, in the back of the establishment that matters to me, where they compound and package their products. That’s where they crossed me. And that’s where they fucked up.

The place is empty of customers except for an old man poking through the first-aid section.

Surprisingly, he doesn’t seem to notice us striding down the main aisle to the back counter.

Both Luca and I are large men, so we tend to command attention.

At six foot four, I’m the taller and more muscular of the two of us.

Years of fighting for survival on the streets and defending our territory have honed both our physiques and our senses.

Luca, my underboss, has a slimmer, leaner build, but he also radiates the same lethal energy. Together, we own our part of the Chicago criminal underworld and have a reputation for not suffering fools lightly.

The young pharmacy tech at the counter sees both of us headed towards her, and she instantly scurries away without making eye contact, bolting through the swinging doors leading to the back.

Good. Saves me the trouble of conversation. Conversation isn’t my strong suit. I fucking hate it. Hate to hear my own voice, which makes me a man of few words. Usually, I don’t have to say much to others, so if you are unlucky enough to see me, I’m not there for small talk.

We walk straight past the prescription counter and head for the back behind the same swinging doors the tech used.

Luca peels off at the last second to stand by the doors, hand reaching into his pocket for his switchblade he plays with when he’s full of nervous energy, which is all the fucking time.

Right now, he’s smirking because he loves this shit.

The possibility of potential violence. The violence itself.

The confrontation. This is his favorite part of the job.

The Hart Family Pharmacy’s compounding room is behind glass, visible from the front, but accessible only through the back room.

Inside, a tiny woman moves under the laminar flow hood used to protect the sterile environment.

She’s gloved and masked, working what looks like a mortar and pestle with a repetitive rhythm.

Instantly, I’m mesmerized by what she’s doing, how she’s doing it. Her body language, the efficiency of her movements. This must be Evangeline Hart, the young owner of Hart Family Pharmacy, which she inherited after her father’s death.

She doesn’t look up, and I’m thankful because I’m able to watch her without bringing attention to myself.

Feeling like a predator stalking my prey, I take in every move, every detail as she works.

She’s precise, and her hands are steady as she begins to weigh out a blue powder on the digital scale.

Her lab coat appears too big for her, swallowing her petite form.

The sleeves are rolled and pinned, and the bottom hem lands past her knees.

The badge clipped to her pocket reads “E. HART, PharmD.” Official credentials showing her qualifications and long education.

So much school, so much responsibility for such a young girl.

The fluorescent lights of the lab bring out the highlights in her honeyed hair.

Hair resembling the color of spun gold, which I can only compare to the European paintings hanging in my home.

She’s got it up in a careless knot with a pen shoved in the center, soft tendrils escaping to frame her face.

For some unknown reason, I have a crazy compulsion to yank the pen out and run my fingers through it, wanting to know if it’s as soft and silky as it looks.

Immediately, one can tell she’s a woman not obsessed with appearances or looks, but on simply doing her job.

Realizing I’ve been holding my breath as I watch the tiny angel work behind the window, I snap out of my dream state, remembering my purpose for being here.

Raising my hand, I sharply rap once on the glass with two knuckles.

She startles, juggling and dropping the small container of powder she’s been working with and almost knocking over the scale. When she looks up, I know she’s unhappy despite the face mask covering her nose and mouth because her eyes are narrow and there’s a crease between her brows.

“Ummm...no one is supposed to be in here,” she says. Her voice has a slight snap to it I can hear through the mask and the glass separating us. This almost makes me smile. She’s cute.

Expressionless, I simply gaze at her, not acknowledging her statement because I can be anywhere I damn well please; she just didn’t get the memo.

Sensing I’m not leaving, she hesitates, then comes out from behind the hood.

Peeling off her gloves, she pulls down her mask and stands on the other side of the glass with her arms folded.

There’s a faint dusting of powder on her cheekbones, hiding a few of her freckles.

It’s disappointing the glass separates us, because now, I have an urge to reach up and wipe at her cheek.

It’s obvious Evangeline wears little to no makeup, making her naturally pretty.

Fuck that. She is not just simply pretty; she’s stunning. And I’m fucked.

For some unknown reason, I want... no, I need to see all of this woman and more than just what’s beneath the mask and oversized lab coat.

She isn’t what I expected to find when I stormed through the doors today.

Truthfully, I wasn’t really sure what to expect.

Maybe someone more worldly, with a calculating gleam in their eyes.

Someone who might be capable of orchestrating the operation I only recently learned was happening at Hart Pharmacy.

But just based on the few minutes of watching her work, she seems too professional. Appears too innocent at first glance. And somehow, my gut tells me that might prove to be the most dangerous thing about her.

“Can I help you, sir?” She asks, voice faint through the glass but assertive, not scared. Not yet.

“Are you lost?”

I don’t respond, which I can see pisses her off, as was my intention.

She studies me the way you’d study an insect on the bottom of your shoe, and I quickly realize I don’t like the look of disapproval in her eyes when she looks at me. Not at all.

Normally, I don’t give a shit what people think. Matter of fact, I get off on the disapproval and fear. But for whatever reason, I want this angel to like what she sees. I want her to see who I am beneath the facade I’ve always shown to the rest of the world.

Her eyes hover over my neck. They don’t stay there for long. She’s far too polite for that, but I can see it. The way her gaze lingers for a second, the way her throat works when she swallows.

I’m used to people staring at me, not just because of my size or deadly reputation, but because of the deep scar running below my Adam’s apple, raised and pale against the olive skin of my neck.

I study her as well. She’s petite, maybe five feet tall on a good day, and so small she could fit in my lap.

I like that idea, and in my mind, I’d make her stay there until I’m done with her.

Done doing all the depraved things that would steal the innocence from her pretty cornflower blue eyes, fluster her adorable professional demeanor, and make her moan my name.