The Mafia's Queen (The Women of the Mafia #3)

Prologue

KILLIAN

The harsh scent of antiseptic makes my nose itch.

Why do hospitals smell like this? Clove and methanol, with the slightest tang of metal. It’s the chemical concoction of death, reminding patients of their limited time on this earth.

We could do with less of that.

The overhead fan cranks to life, the mechanical whirl churning overhead. My eyes follow the silver duct and narrow at the juncture. A place that should ease suffering, and the air conditioning unit needs to be changed? Classy.

Glancing back down, my ears catch the last of her rattling breath as it escapes free from her pale lips, and subconsciously, I exhale with her.

My spirit chases her through the cracks of a worn hospital, like a lost duck following its mother; it refuses to be without her.

It doesn’t want to be alone—not now, not in this cruel, cold world, where survival is never guaranteed.

Softly, I touch her cheek. It’s growing cold, and she offers me a small, sad smile.

It’s as bright as any sun, full of warmth and love.

What will it be like when she goes and takes that sun away?

I’ve always fared better in the dark, but she’s been my light in this world for so long.

Without her, I have no family. Without her, I'll succumb to evil. Without her, I’m a decaying piece of flesh left to the sands of time, a rot on this planet. Alone.

The monitor blares, her eyes grow dull, and that thready pulse I’ve been watching goes flat.

The room stands still, not a tremor of movement, but that monitor wails as if it’s lost the only person it’s ever loved. And Jesus fuck, it’s loud.

Swallowing, I bite the inside of my cheek and stare at the yellow hair fanning across the stark white pillow. Lying here—still—is unlike her. She’s always in motion, always smiling, and laughing. More so now than she ever did in that house.

Because staying still meant we weren’t safe. We’d be found and killed—maybe worse. There’s a nervous energy coiling in my gut from seeing her motionless body, because my young brain knows, being still is dangerous.

My throat closes in—my ratty clothes are too tight. My skin is too constricting. I want to claw it off, be free of this pressure, and run.

Is this grief? This crushing sensation that feels as if Hell has taken me back under the ground, forced me to eat rocks and gravel until I’m shaking, and tasting blood?

And that fucking monitor continues its shrill cry. How can anyone ignore it?

My fingers tremble, and I fight back the urge to bolt as I smooth the edges of her hair, memorizing the last bit of warmth and the faint floral perfume clinging to her.

We’ve spent months on the run, and still, it surrounds her.

I inhale, forcing myself to memorize the sweet peony, the sharp jasmine. I don’t know when I’ll smell it again.

Her eyes are open, staring at the ceiling. I close them, nail beds grimy, and mentally file away the color. They’re the brightest blue, a natural beauty that no artist will ever be able to recreate.

My eyes trace the sharp cheekbones, her bow-arched lips, to the light brows.

We share the same face—cut angles, upturned nose—but she has freckles on the bridge of hers.

I wish we shared those too—another piece I can keep, examining in the mirror late at night, when all I want to see is my mother’s face.

I’d rather look at her than see the sins that stain mine, but that’s not really a choice anymore.

Clearing my throat, I focus on the urge to flee. I know if he finds me, he’ll drag me back. Force me into that closet, force me back into that hole again. Without my mother to buffer him, I’ll be at his mercy.

I’m not going back.

But I can’t leave her. She’s alone in this room of impersonal niceties. Yet I know if I stay a moment longer, I risk everything.

Come on. Wake up.

But she doesn’t. Because life fucking sucks.

A heavy hand falls on my shoulder, and I tense, the monitor still screaming in my ears. My heart rate climbs higher with each turn of its siren. “Are you alright, son?”

“Fine.” I need to go.

But how do you abandon your mother?

“Is there someone else to call?” he asks. He’s trying to be kind, but all he’s doing is pissing me off. There is no one to call. No one cares. “Maybe your father?”

Father. I scoff, jerking away from him. He’ll find out soon enough. He has eyes everywhere. I don’t need to alert him and tie my own noose. I need to stay away from him.

“No.”

The doctor sighs deeply. It’s supposed to be in sympathy. Instead, it stokes the burning anger in my gut. Anger that this man tries to pretend to know what I’m feeling. The only person who gave a shit is dead, and the only family I ever had is gone.

That anger—the one I inherited from my father—grows until it’s a tarry black mess on my tongue, and my fists shake at my sides. My mother was always worried I’d be like him—maybe I am. Sins of the father and all that crap.

That incessant beeping doesn’t stop. Wincing, I dig my nails into my hands. “Turn it off.”

“What?”

“Turn it off!” I shout and grab the back of the metal chair. Something snaps—or maybe the fog breaks, and everything clears. Whatever happens, I can finally think through the grief.

Swinging at the screen, I hit it. Over and over again. My muscles strain, my chest heaves, but I don’t stop smashing the damn thing until the beep stops and the room is blessedly silent.

Panting, I look into the wide, terrified eyes of the doctor. Not a shred of guilt strikes me. Gone is the fog and the anxiety of what is coming for me. Strangely, everything is in focus and bright with contrast.

The doctor gulps and stares at me. It’s like he’s looking at a monster, and I grin.

“I need to go.”

He steps in front of me, a shred of bravery making him foolish. “Son, listen, you’ve experienced a significant loss. The death of a parent for someone at your age can be devastating?—”

“Move,” I command, eyes narrowed. My hand brushes the blade at my hip. It’s a rusted, old box cutter I found in the trash, but it works in a pinch.

He glances at the nurse at the side. She’s pale, mouth parted. Fear wafts off of her like the stink of the sewer. She’d never make it where I thrive.

“Call social services?—”

No.

Lashing out, I notch the blade into his elbow. Not the best spot, but he drops, crying out, and the nurse runs to him. It’s not deep—he’ll live—but it gives me the opening I need.

With one more fleeting look, I memorize my mother’s face—the laugh lines that grew after we escaped, the wrinkles in her forehead from age, and the gold chain around her neck. I don’t think—just grab, pull until it comes free, and shove it into my pocket.

I love you, Mom.

The nurse yells for security, and the doctor pleads with me as I step around them. I’m not stopping—he must see it. I can’t be here. I can’t let security take me back to that house. Pushing through the door, I hastily walk through the crowded halls, head down, blending in like I do on the street.

People don’t notice you if you don’t want to be seen.

Thudding boots behind me echo in the rush, and I groan.

Apparently not well enough. Security guards, in their thick black boots and leather belts, run after me.

Rolling my eyes, I skid to the left, taking the side entrance.

It’s only a few steps to the stairs, and I fly down, flights ahead of the heavy guards.

If they really want to catch people, they need to get in better shape.

I emerge from the parking garage, not bothering to watch the road as I cut across three lanes of traffic. A horn honks, and another car slams on its brakes, the piercing squeal sounding into the late afternoon. A few people call out to me, “Can we help you?”

“Where are you coming from?”

“Is someone after you?”

But I keep going. I fling myself over the guardrail, sliding down the embankment, my old sneakers catching every branch and rock on the way down.

Pain slices into my heel and another on my right toe.

Stones cut through the flimsy material, the sharp ends catching my forearms and hands as I try to slow my descent.

Slamming into the side, I grip a root and swing around blindly.

I dart into the underpass, listening as I press against the slimy cement wall.

Only my panting hits my ears, but I force myself to wait. I may harbor every evil my father ever committed, but I’m also patient. It’s a gift from Death himself, he used to say. After all, when you have a child brought back from death, they must have been touched by the Reaper himself to survive.

I don’t know how long I wait. Minutes turn into hours, and my body is stiff against the wall.

I don’t move. I barely twitch at every sound.

When the sun finally sets, I leave the underpass and head left.

It's a short walk to the camp—the one my mother and I have been staying at for the last few weeks, which is fine with me. I don’t want time to think.

To think about how alone I am now. How I’m going to survive. What I’m going to do next.

I swallow the lump in my throat.

At the edge of Boston is where the unhoused settled into makeshift tarps, tents, and boxes. Most ignore each other, but not everyone here is kind. My mother and I found that out on our first night, which is why I have a box cutter. Someone thought they could take our food, and they paid the price.

A gurgle to my side captures my attention. Pausing, I tilt my head, shoving my hands into my ripped pockets. The lapping water behind me is the only sound, but I wait.

Another gurgle, this one followed by a laugh. The hair on the back of my neck stands up, awareness hammering into my head.

Picking my way through the woods, I only get a few feet when I see three kids—big guys better suited to the football field—and the young girl between them.

Her eyes are wide, her mouth gasping as one of them squeezes her tiny neck. Another has her hips pinned to the tree, and the last? His dick is out, and her shorts are torn.