Pragma (Mafia Babes #2)

Prologue

RIVER

I’m waiting impatiently for the slowest sliding doors in history to open and let me out of this damn hospital.

Each step I take makes the sensitive skin on my leg and side burn like hell as it brushes against the rough fabric of my pants and T-shirt.

The rational thing to do would be to slow down or stop completely.

Instead, I grit my teeth and hurry on the crosswalk, sweat rolling down my back.

People’s curious gazes feel heavy on me, on my worn-out clothes and visible bandages. I ignore them all. A few more seconds, and I’ll reach the smoking area. It’s surrounded by frosted glass walls which will hide me perfectly from the nagging social worker and the rest of this fucking world.

Minors shouldn’t be smoking, especially after what your body went through; so irresponsible, moronic and…blah, blah, fucking blah.

The annoying high-pitched voice of the social worker rings into my ears.

She doesn’t give a fuck about me; her mouse-like face turns disgruntled every time she lays her beady eyes on me.

Her caring and worried persona was always present in front of the doctors and nurses, but as soon as we walked into the hospital lobby, she let her true self out.

I’ll be discharged tomorrow, and she’ll drop me like a hot potato in some asshole-infested, happiness-killing place again.

Because I am one of the troubled kids—whatever the fuck that means. Irredeemable.

I sniff derisively, tapping on the bottom of my menthol Marlboro pack until a cig slides out.

I quickly light it up and fill my lungs with the so-very-needed smoke.

I know it’s bad. It started when I became part of Apollo’s gang five months ago.

He called it a rite of passage. Like giving someone a cancerous habit can be called a rite, that motherfucking bastard.

I only joined his gang because living on the streets was tough.

Still, it was better than staying in a group home where I was told when to talk, walk, and even piss.

I take another drag in. My late father smoked like a chimney. Growing up, I hated that permanent ashtray smell permeating the air, my clothes, my nostrils. And now? I actually buy this shit. The fucking irony. Eh, who cares anymore.

I look at the gray, heavy clouds peppering the sky, welcoming them, as I take another pull.

The movement makes my cheek flex, and with it the bandage covering the side of my face and my ear.

My burns turn hot, and fuck, it hurts. Red anger boils inside my chest as I’m reminded how I got these wounds.

I need to think up a vicious way to give it all back to those motherfuckers in the Apollo Gang and then disappear.

Just as the avenging bloody thought forms inside my head, my phone starts vibrating. I slide it from my pocket. Ah, the bastard king himself.

“Apollo,” I growl. The silence on the line stokes the flames inside me. “Surprised to hear my voice?”

“I am,” the fucker utters. He calls himself the king of the gang, but he’s just a punk ordering a group of underaged thugs around.

I was one of them, but I never respected nor followed his orders unquestioningly—I joined the gang out of necessity.

And that’s why he sent three guys to kill me, to set an example for the others. Spineless asshole.

“Reg told you how grandly he failed? I’m surprised he found his balls.” He’ll be the first to fucking die, since he tried to burn me alive.

“I have my ways.” Which means he tortured Reg until he talked. Apollo is a nasty piece of shit.

“Guess your plan didn’t go as expected. Next time, I suggest you try offing me yourself,” I hiss, balling my wounded hand. The burning pain enrages me even more.

“You can count on it, River. Running is useless.” He sounds so damn cocky, but I can clearly imagine his face turning red, fists clenching, narrowed eyes filled with hate. “I welcomed you, took you off the street, gave you a job, fed you, and all I asked in return was to follow my orders.”

Orders? More his every sick whim. “I don’t hurt kids or mutilate animals for the joy of it!” I spit out through gritted teeth.

He lets out one of his angry growls. “I don’t give a fuck! You’ve been an absolute pain in the ass from day one.”

“And it’s going to get worse, Apollo.”

He chuckles, that Joker-crazy laughter that irritates me to no end. “You are dead already.”

“Watch your back asshole!” I end the call, and with trembling hands, I shove the phone back into my pants pocket. I talk a big game, but the truth is that I’m alone, and Apollo has a whole gang behind him.

As the first drop of rain hits my nose, a boy appears at the entrance of the smoking area.

He’s lanky, wearing a loose T-shirt that puts on display his skinny left shoulder, and tight black jeans.

He screams money and entitlement with his confident stride, upturned nose, and steel-toed leather boots.

I must look like the trash I am next to him. No news to me. I come from the scum of the earth. It’s in my genes. Gotta embrace it.

He doesn’t take out a smoke, but just stands next to me, typing on his shiny iPhone.

I can see a bandage covering his back, it peeks from under his shirt.

He’s a patient like me, but I bet he’s never stepped foot in one of the four-bed rooms I’m sharing right now.

There must be a VIP area or some shit like that.

The raindrops keep slowly falling, but neither of us move. It’s fucking hot, a bit of rain might help freshen the air. Or maybe it’s just that I like the wet feel, rich smell, and cleansing sight of it. It takes me back to slightly less shitty times.

“Is this your first rodeo?” a voice slides into my thoughts.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the boy, his almond-shaped eyes still staring down at his phone.

There’s no one here except us, so his question must be aimed at me.

I don’t feel like answering, though. I came here to find some fucking peace.

I flick the butt of my cig toward the ashtray; it hits the metal edge and then lands on the ground.

“Quiet type, eh?” he states, putting his phone away to unwrap a piece of chewing gum. “You weren’t a few minutes ago on the phone when you threatened Apollo to death. That’s the lamest name ever, by the way. I hate that fucker.”

I instantly tense. He said he hates him, but what if Apollo sent him? Brainwashed underaged guys are his thing. “Habit of yours to eavesdrop?”

“You were so loud, my cousin could have heard you from Japan.”

I give him an annoyed grunt. Still alert, I grab the cigs again and light another one. Since I won’t be able to smoke again until tonight when I plan to run away, better get my fix full now.

I look at him as I take a long puff. Deep brown eyes, high cheekbones, and thick black hair, green at the tips.

“Did Apollo do that? Turn you into an extra from a zombie movie?” He raises an eyebrow at me as he slides a long piece of red gum inside his mouth. Cinnamon from the strong smell of it. His eyes flicker all over my face, lingering on my burned, deformed ear and the visible red skin.

I glare at him. People have been staring or avoiding my face for the last two weeks, especially when the bandages are off. I know I look like a fucking monster, but nobody has so blatantly and rudely said it to my face.

He smirks smugly at me as I feel all the muscles in my body stiffening.

“Fuck off!” My insult seems to excite him. Of all the people I could meet, it had to be this crazy motherfucker. I’m itching to turn his smiling face into a gelatinous mess, even though the burns on my left arm and hand are still aching.

Fuck it! I take a step toward him, but halt when he utters, “I wouldn’t do it, if I were you.”

“Why?” I hiss, wanting even more to punch him right in his arrogant mug.

“It wouldn’t be a fair fight…for you.”

I snort. He’s a little shorter and smaller than me. Does he think I’d lose because of my burns? I’ve had worse. Much worse.

I raise my fists, ready to show him how wrong he is, when two guys wearing black suits fill the smoking area entrance.

They look at me then at the boy. One of them says something in a foreign language.

It sounds Japanese. It reminds me of the owner of the small tobacco shop near the shithole I used to live in.

When I went to buy cigarettes for my father, the old man was always sitting behind the counter watching a Samurai movie on his small TV.

The boy answers back. His tone is harsh and stern, like he’s the one in command.

The two men bow and leave, moving a few feet away on the sidewalk.

I can see the bulges on the side of their jackets; they are wearing guns.

Growing up among thugs makes me easily spot things a fifteen-year-old shouldn’t be aware of.

Who the fuck is this guy?

“Still want to hit me?” he asks, chewing loudly on that gum.

“More than before,” I admit. My life is already shit, a little more won’t hurt that much.

He chuckles, the picture of carelessness. It makes sense even though nothing else does. He has two tooled-up men waiting to fuck me up, why would he be scared of a half-wounded freak like me?

“What’s your name?” When I don’t reply, he adds, “I saw you with that chick at the hospital entrance.” The social worker? “She was talking about your accident and future plans.” He emphasizes the word.

What did he hear? I try to remember what that bitch told me. I narrow my eyes suspiciously at him. “Did you follow me here?”

“Please. I just felt like second-hand smoking.”

So he did follow me here.

“Then you started promising blood and pain on the phone, and it got more interesting.” He pauses, his eyes moving between mine. “How about I give you a helping hand?”

I snort incredulously. Who the fuck is this guy? “A helping hand?”

“In taking out that fucker.”

“Apollo?” Is he joking? Fuck, he’s nuts. “Why?”