2. Lucie
TWO
lucie
My lungs burn as I run, clutching a shoe in each hand.
Terror tears through me as I dart from one shadowy pool to another in this cemetery of roller doors and brick.
The streetlights do nothing but illuminate my path while giving a clear view to the slow-moving party limo that remains silent yet keeps pace behind me.
I hear a soft footfall on the pavement behind me, and if I let myself think about it, the terror will swell and swallow me whole.
I know I’ve gone the wrong way—I should have turned left a block back instead of right, which would have led me to a street with some life.
But no, my instincts and god-awful sense of direction have taken me into a freaking warehouse graveyard.
Off in the distance, opposite where I am, the dull thump of music, sirens, and even a train can be heard.
Yet here I am, without any people around—aside from the maniacs I somehow managed to flee.
“Come on, stop running,” a voice shouts from the party limo as it rumbles behind me.
I only have the crazies I’ve run from for company.
How fabulous for me.
I bite down on a shriek as the limo guns its motor.
It suddenly screeches to a halt, tires crunching on the road.
Seizing the moment of possible freedom, I dart across the road and down another street, squinting to catch sight of a street sign.
Fuck Queens and its weird street sign system.
I need to get out of here, to the edge of Long Island City, and then to the next nightclub where I’m supposed to meet my sister.
I spot an alley and race past it—wasn’t there some rule about not hiding in the first alley you see when you’re trying to escape some psychopath?
Jesus, I don’t know, and I don’t care.
My father might be steeped in crime, but I’m not.
I don’t even dabble—unless you count by association, but I can’t help the family I was born into.
Ugh, focus!
There’s another alley, but I pass it, then turn, running down a street.
I duck into a space between two warehouses.
I guess it’s another alley—a dead end full of crates and God knows what else.
I spot a dumpster and wedge myself behind it, pressing as close as I can.
Holy crap, the stench makes my stomach roil and I hold my breath until it feels like my eyes are about to pop out of my skull.
Calm down and think, I tell myself, squeezing into a smaller space, trying not to notice the furry thing that brushes past me.
Not a rat, not a rat, not a rat.
Please, not a rat!
The party limo starts up again, this time blasting music as it reaches the end of the street I was on before driving off.
I cling to my hiding spot.
Dad’s going to murder me if these people don’t—so I try comforting myself with the thought of him taking out all of them, though it brings little peace .
I wrap my arms tightly around my legs, shoes still hanging from my fingers.
“What the fuck just happened?” I silently mouth, then almost choke on the pungent stink of rotting trash.
I’m not the oldest daughter, but as a child of a mafia crime lord, I’m still supposed to be protected.
So what really happened?
From the ill-advised meetup to being slapped around with a gun to my face, getting spattered with blood, then getting manhandled and nearly kidnapped by a psycho killer—the whole night blends into fucking insanity soup.
A chill slithers down my back.
What if the crazy murderous guy doesn’t stop looking for me?
Panic flares in my chest, but I force myself to ignore it as I fish my phone from the inner pocket of my jacket.
I’d set it to silent, ignoring texts and missed calls from my older sister Viviana, then pull up the map.
I type in the address of the club and check my current location.
Should be a ten-minute walk.
Every part of me screams to run, but I force myself to wait, the light of my phone catching on a slight bruise on my wrist from that sicko man’s grip.
There’s one on my cheek from the bitch slap, too.
The throbbing is real as I move my jaw.
Sitting there, huddled up, the aches and scrapes all pulse in unison.
Who the hell was that guy?
I didn’t look closely—I tried not to—but I caught a glimpse of longish dark hair and dark eyes when he abruptly ended my street fight with John.
That was supposedly his name.
He was a friend of Headley Stymes, the guy Viv’s been seeing.
I agreed to meet him to pick up something for my sister, but that was obviously just some bullshit excuse to get me alone and away from my normal protection detail.
My heart damn near stopped when he pulled that gun on me and claimed I was needed to make a point, to rein “him” in .
He never said who “him” was, and I have to believe it was my dad.
But hurting me would be a death sentence.
Even slapping me around like that would be cause for the most brutal torture.
The same man who took me also shot John.
Dead. And Mr. Mitchum—I only know him from the papers.
But why? What the heck did I walk into?
I know enough about this part of town—mostly warehouses but also places with strip joints and maybe illegal gambling—to know I shouldn’t have come at all, much less alone.
I just… I don’t understand anything about tonight.
A stone skitters across the ground.
My breath freezes in my lungs—but nothing else happens.
Maybe it was just a big rat, scrambling for scraps of abandoned pizza.
My heart lurches as I hear a crunch—something underfoot or one of those definitely not a rat creatures?
I listen intently but hear nothing.
The party limo is gone, and I hear no one else.
When something nearby squeaks, I know I have to move before that limo reappears.
So I slowly creep out of the alley, biting back a shriek as the furry—definitely not a rat—creature scurries over my bare foot.
I want to jab it with one of my shoes, but I don’t.
New York street creatures are smart, aggressive, and probably organized, so I just glance around, shove my feet back into my shoes, and take off.
I pause at the corner to check if I’m heading in the right direction, my ears straining for any sign of the maniac who grabbed me.
Or maybe I should think about him as the guy who saved my life and then kidnapped me.
I’m not really sure of anything at this point.
But if that guy thinks I’m going to the cops, I have no way to let him know I won’t.
I can’t stop him from looking.
I’m no idiot. I know how these things work.
He might have backed off, but he’ll be watching—and depending on what he knows or who he knows, he might just work out who I am.
That would be bad. For both of us.
I think I hear footsteps behind me again, but when I turn, there’s no one.
“You’re losing your mind,” I whisper, walking briskly down the street.
Each new street—each turn guided by the map on my phone—relaxes me a little more because there are cars, pedestrians, bustling businesses, and bars.
Thank God. Signs of life.
I can blend and finally feel somewhat secure.
Eventually, I catch the pulse of techno house music from the masquerade party where Viv is waiting for me, and I almost want to drop to the ground and kiss the pavement—a disgusting thought but somehow welcome.
I’ve never been so happy to see a crowd in my life.
I check my phone and dial her number.
Seconds later, she bursts out the front door.
“There you are!” Viv cries out, enveloping me in a flutter of feathers and sequins, her auburn hair spilling over her shoulders.
Her lips are painted red, and her mask is crisp white with cute little ears.
My sister is taller, thinner, prettier, has bigger boobs, and is outrageously unobservant.
She never once says a thing about my mess of a costume.
She links her arm through mine.
“Love your spy look. The blood spatter is extra, and I’m here for it. Where were you? I was getting worried that Mikey got lost.”
Mikey’s our driver—but I rarely use him because I can’t stand the thought of my father knowing everywhere I go.
“I had some errands to run first.”
The longer I stay out here, the more I feel like I’m being watched.
“Viv, you know, I think we should go. Let’s just head home?—”
She shakes her head, her lips curling up into a smile.
“Sweetie, we are not going anywhere. The party is just getting good. You just need to relax. Here.”
Viv shoves a pill into my mouth, one that I quickly slide under my tongue as soon as her gaze fixes on the door.
No way am I getting fucked up tonight.
Sure, I might have a drink or two, but MDMA?
Not a chance in hell.
“Headley can’t come,” Viv pouts as we push past the line of people and the indifferent bouncer.
“But you’re here. And I’m so glad. I thought Headley was gonna propose, but…”
“This is not exactly prime proposal space, V,” I say.
She smiles, giving bouncer guy a flirty side-eye before turning back to me.
“True. Come and dance!”
“Viviana, we really need to get home, now.”
“No way—it’s party time. You never get out. Please, I promise we won’t stay late. Dance with me…” she pleads.
Shit, shit. I risk a look around.
The crowd is thick and everyone’s in a mask.
If I try to drag her away, I’d be putting her in danger.
Best to stick around five minutes and then leave on my own.
I take a deep breath.
“In a minute. I need a drink.”
“Not too much,” she shouts over the music, “the drugs are strong.”
Viv grabs one of her friends and disappears into the dancing crowd and I slide the pill out of my mouth and flick it onto the floor.
There are two levels here—the main floor with a dance area and overcrowded bar, and a darker, louder mezzanine that’s less packed.
I head to the mezzanine bar, order a double Jack and Coke, and settle into a corner by the wall while checking the news feeds and neighborhood apps on my phone for any details about what…
and who… the hell I just escaped.
There’s a brief mention of a shootout that makes my heart squeeze hard, though details are scarce—just enough to let me know I might be sitting on some potential evidence, some information.
I’d never act on it, though.
I’m not about to risk my life, and going to the cops would betray my father.
One day, I promise myself, I’m going to get out of this city and away from my family and their legacy.
I adore them more than anything but I can’t live this life.
I need my freedom to live without the noose of my last name choking the life out of me.
I try to center myself in this small corner of the bar when in my periphery, I see someone else is there—someone with a drink, completely still, his gaze fixed on me.
He smells of leather and honey with a hint of cigarette smoke, an erotic scent that shouldn’t affect me but does all the same.
Even in this crowded space, I can catch his scent—and if I can, he’s uncomfortably close.
Slowly, I lift my eyes.
A man with unruly black curls in need of a trim, a strong jaw flecked with scruff, full lips, and an intense stare behind a black mask similar to mine sits right there, within touching distance.
He’s tall and lean, dressed entirely in black, and drop-dead gorgeous from what I can tell.
There’s something familiar about him that I can’t quite place, and my thoughts flicker back to the man who shot and killed John—the man who grabbed and terrorized me.
He wasn’t dressed like this, though.
His clothes were casual, nondescript, whereas this man…
is anything but.
Still…
I never looked too closely at his face.
It felt less threatening if I couldn’t truly identify him.
All I cared about was getting free—not my father or the power he wields, but si mple survival.
And yet this man sends a shiver down my spine.
The guy gets up and walks over to me.
“Can I buy you a drink?”
I furrow my brow.
There’s a trace of something in his accent, it’s like a musical lilt that curls around me like a low note from a violin.
I force myself to breathe.
“No, thanks,” I reply.
He doesn’t move.
“Jack and Coke?” he offers, his words framed almost as a question, though clearly they’re not.
My insides wobble. His dark, masked eyes glint with something that’s not playful—no hint of sexy humor, just cold ruthlessness.
I shiver. “I’m good.” Ignoring me, he holds out his free hand across the bar.
A bartender promptly pushes a glass into his hand, and he places it in front of me.
I grip my own drink tightly.
Why is he still here?
Every instinct screams for me to run.
“What’s your name?” he asks.
“Why? Did I give you the impression that I care about yours ?” I say, my voice calm and even despite my pulse damn near choking me.
“Because, news flash. I don’t.”
“I don’t believe that,” he says, making no move to touch me—though somehow it feels as if his hand might slide between my thighs.
“Tell me, do you like being hunted?”
A cold shiver and a streak of heat flare in me, making my body respond despite the apprehension.
“N-no.”
“Or maybe you don’t know?” he presses, his tone void of a smile.
This isn’t some pickup line.
It feels like an intrusion, raw and unyielding.
“Name?” he repeats.
“Joy.” I push the word out .
Still without a smile, he tilts his head, studying me before reaching out to touch my cheek—the contact light, almost tentative, as if testing boundaries.
His touch sends sparks racing through me—an odd mix of gentleness, power, and a hard, savage undercurrent that both terrifies and excites me.
I’m the daughter of a mafia Don, so I know too well the touch of violence cloaked in softness.
And his touch… it scares me, turns me on, terrifies me down to my very bones.
Then he says, “Nice to meet you again, Joy. I'm Frank. Guess you didn’t recognize me with the mask and new clothes, huh?”