Chapter 15
“HAYLOFT” BY MOTHER MOTHER
Itapped my fingers impatiently on the table, my eyes dashing around the patio of the Italian joint in search of my father.
He wanted to meet me in Coven. An odd choice.
Another was the increasingly public place he chose for us to eat dinner.
I assumed it was to avoid me making an error in front of people I saw nearly every day.
He called me after I dropped Estelle off at preschool. Someone was either watching me or he heard from my mother that Estelle and I were running late that morning.
I hated that they didn’t treat this separation like a real divorce.
I knew they’d never actually finalize anything, and now that my mom had all the money, everyone wanted her to keep quiet to stay happy, like it didn’t matter what was said about my father’s business if my mother could live her comfy life.
It was as expected. She was the daughter of a mobster straight out of Chicago.
My grandfather was becoming the new boss after killing the last—his own father-in-law.
It had been in talks for a while now. There was no escaping this whirlwind of despair.
Mom abided by the rules set by the men above us and waded in the world she delusionally dreamed up in her head.
If turning a blind eye was in the dictionary, it would have a picture of my mother at the shops in town. One could only pretend to be happily divorced from her abuser for so long.
My fingers dampened with condensation in this second summer heat while I sipped my sweet tea in large gulps, holding the frosted glass securely.
I only planned on waiting thirty minutes past our agreed meeting time.
After that, I was gone. I had a shift scheduled in Murdafest this evening.
If I missed it, it would be another negative word to my parole officer.
I enjoyed not having that ankle monitor, but it came with a few perks, like avoiding meetings like this.
As the ice in my drink began to melt, I sighed. Where the hell was he? My attention drifted to the other tables, then to the few people walking around the square. Some had shopping bags, and a few people had ice cream cones. Nothing abnormal.
It wasn’t until I turned and looked down the street where the extra parking was located that I really paid attention to anything.
Parked almost neurotically straight in the faded lines was Quinntessa’s convertible. It wouldn’t have mattered much to me if I hadn’t seen a familiar, dark-colored Doberman laying down beside her back tire.
“Mishka!” I gasped.
I launched up so fast from the table, my drink rumbled with the nice dishware and bread they brought me while I waited. Before I could escape the hold of my chair’s arm, a hand clapped down on my shoulder and shoved me roughly back down.
“Good. You ordered me a drink.” My father hummed and took his seat across from me. He glanced up at my wide eyes and chuckled. “Oh, did you truly think I’d let you fuck up my plans, Eleanor? We’re attending dinner and a show.”
My heart raced as I glanced from my father’s smirk to the eager dog in the parking lot. “I didn’t?—”
“Right. You didn’t place the damn tracker, and you haven’t killed her.” He ripped a packet of Splenda from the small dish in the middle of the table and poured it into his coffee. Not bothering to mix it, he took a sip and scoffed. “Cold.”
“You’re late for—” I shook my head, not caring how late he was now. “What are they doing with Mishka? In broad daylight! Anyone could see her!”
Quinntessa wouldn’t have a chance to react when that dog charged her for getting too close. Mishka was all teeth, no release command.
“Settle now, Eleanor.” He laid his hands on the table. I skimmed the number of gold rings on his fingers before returning my eyes to the Mustang in the far parking lot. “Victor is doing what you couldn’t.”
“I did it,” I lied. “Sebastian must have moved it.”
Papa raised his brows and sipped his coffee again. He hummed and tore from the bread in the middle of the table.
“Ahh, I expect more from you, Eleanor.” He took a bite before picking up the knife and buttering the rest of his piece. “This was a big job. Dominik was on track for this, and now you have pushed back our timeline even further. I thought you had this handled?”
“I do have this handled.” I dug my nails into my thighs. “It’s been sort of tricky when no one mentioned there was a police dog on the property.”
“A police dog?” He laughed. “Hm. You are not your uncle.”
I rolled my eyes.
“I’m doing this my way,” I declared with faux confidence. “I’m getting it done.”
“And what exactly are you getting done?” He laced his fingers together and leaned into the table.
I tried not to let our eyes meet, too worried he might find the anxiety I was feeling in my chest as a threat to his entire plan.
“You need to get your priorities straight. I asked you to do this in August. It’s October first! ”
“I know, but?—”
“Sleeping with her is only fine if there is bloodshed in the end, do you understand me?”
“I’m not going to sleep with her.” I crossed my arms and stared off at Quinntessa’s car. I could see Victor dressed in a mechanic’s outfits making work on the back lock of the Mustang. “I’m making friends with her. She’s going to tell me about her dad once I get closer. She’s the type.”
“Is she now?” Papa asked.
“Yup,” I forced myself to sound more confidence than I felt.
“And how will this help me? Are you going to kill her after?” he asked.
I raised my head to see Papa’s stern gaze settled on me. I’d been so distracted, I’d barely noticed his frustration rising. He really was upset about the tracker—as he should, considering I lied to his face last I saw him—and now, he was taking things into his own hands with Victor.
Victor wasn’t a man to half ass a job. He didn’t care if it was done well or done shitty, just as long as it got done. To his credit, he never seemed the type to go against my father. He wasn’t the best at not leaving a trail, but Papa had people to deal with that.
“Levi told me you took care of the Smith boy’s body,” he spoke without hesitation.
I glanced around quickly and shot him a look. “Seriously? In the middle of the restaurant?”
“Don’t start with me.” He pulled a folded newspaper from his suit’s inner pocket and dropped it on the table. “I take it you’ve been ignoring the Chronicles on purpose. Why is that? To focus on your assignment?”
“Yes,” I hissed through gritted teeth. “I can’t make progress on getting to know her?—”
“To kill her,” Papa finished.
I paused and stared at him; my hand flat on the newest issue of the Coven Chronicles between us.
“I want to hear you say it for now on,” he added.
Slowly, I slid the paper to my side of the table and flicked to the back advertisement section, where I knew the mob usually left messages for each other from Murdafest.
My father was a smart man. He glanced up a few times from his coffee, pouring another packet of Splenda inside when I didn’t respond. Taking my silence as permission to continue, as if he really needed it, he picked up his spoon and finally stirred his coffee with a smirk.
“It’s best this way,” Papa told me. I felt nothing but disgust for the man sitting across from me. “I want you to put in the work. Get inside her head. Get inside her pants if it makes you happy. I really don’t care, as long as you embed that necklace into her throat.”
I swallowed as images of Quinntessa’s red heart necklace laying over her collarbones filled my head.
I sucked air in through my nose and slowly pushed it past my parted lip.
My ears rang as I tried to imagine what she’d sound like underneath me, struggling to grab the string from her soft, lush tissue.
The yellow specks of gold in her eyes would crack.
Her pupils would blow and make her eyes shades darker.
She could whine all she wanted, but if I yanked hard from behind, she’d never see it coming.
Her neck was my best chance, damaging her trachea or cutting off her windpipe long enough to settle her.
She’d be brain-dead in seconds. A quick struggle.
A quick death. If I did it from behind, she’d never have to die knowing it was me.
She’d go with some dignity. I would wait until she had a good day and let her die with that memory. Would she turn as red as she did when I made her blush? Or would she turn as blue as her Mustang? Would she resemble Jamison?
“Maybe bring me her ear with one of those cute heart earrings she wears. Easier for you to transport than her hands when you take care of her,” Papa added.
“You want me to dismember her? Why?” My mouth went dry. “She’s seventeen. She’s got a whole life ahead?—”
“Are you going to kill her or not?” he interrupted me.
“I told you.” My jaw clenched. “I’ll do whatever I need to do to get Estelle.”
“I will take care of that. You know I’ll take care of you. You’re my daughter. My blood.” Papa reached across the table and pushed the paper closer to me. “You get me what I want, and I’ll give you full custody of the child. You have my word.”
I did my best to keep my face stern. He knew my weaknesses.
He knew everything about me besides what I wanted him to know.
I forced my eyes down to the paper and unfolded it thoughtfully, keeping an indifferent mask over my features.
The last thing I wanted him to think was that I’d considered not killing Quinntessa.
The thought was painful. Killing her? Fuck. I couldn’t kill her. I know I had to, but unless I made it quick and got high to lighten the screams in my head, this would be more difficult than watching Mr. Morley get held up by the Vincent brothers.
Steal her car? Sure! I could steal Quinntessa’s vehicle and have it back to the chop shop by the end of the day. Her necklace? Same thing. I could slip it from her neck without a problem. She wouldn’t even know I had done it.