Page 7 of Blood Queen
From my room, I can hear Papa closing up the house for the night. Locking windows and doors and checking my bedroom door before setting his rifle down next to his bed. Thethunkof the butt hitting the hardwood floor, the telltale sign.
After my door handle turns and Papa is satisfied that it’s locked, I know it’s safe to crack open my window. I love the smellof the fresh, crisp mountain air. A cacophony of sound creeps inside when I stay still and quiet. Crickets, frogs, deer, and birds. It’s the best soundtrack.
It’s also the only noise out here, we’re buried so deep in the mountains. The cool night air wafts in gently, improving the sleeping conditions. My eyes flutter closed as I think about the golden-skinned boy, Truman, from earlier.
Soon, I drift off.
I’m sitting at a table. Sunlight streams through big windows next to me. A radio plays lively dancing music with a little static mixed in. I watch the dust dance in the beams of light. Two boys sit at the table with me, laughing as they use a piece of macaroni for tabletop football. A beautiful woman kisses my forehead before returning to the stove to stir a silver pot.
I feel so small. Too small.
A man enters the room. He tousles the boys’ heads before pinching my cheeks and kissing me. It makes me laugh.
The man kisses the beautiful woman and I feel joy or maybe just peace. The man grabs the beautiful woman and starts dancing around the kitchen with her.
Glass shatters around me. It flies like glitter. Red-tinged glitter. I blink rapidly and swipe at my face. The joyful song still plays.
Debris flies and crimson splatters every surface.
I cry.
I wail.
Except for the radio, the room falls silent. No one moves. Notthe beautiful woman. Not the man. Not the two boys. I can’t move from my seat. I’m locked in. I squeeze my eyes shut tightly and scream.
When I open my eyes, a man, my father, lifts me from my chair and squeezes me to him. He whispers words in my ear as he walks with me from that room. From the woman, and man and the two dark haired boys.
I wake up sweating and nervous and confused.
It’s a dream that has plagued me for as long as I can remember. It feels more like a vivid memory than a dream, but that’s ridiculous. I’ve never been in any life-threatening situation before.
Sometimes, I lie in bed and try to recall my very first memory after I wake up from the nightmare.
As far as I can tell, I remember being three or four years old and Papa’s handsome face. His big hand holding mine and the way I struggled to keep pace with his long even strides as he walked.
I remember hotel rooms and being in the car a lot before we finally settled in our cabin. I don’t remember my mother. It ticks me off that I can’t conjure up a vision of her. It pisses me off even more that Papa refuses to discuss it with me.
5
Present
Step 1. Identify the target and their flaws. Danza’s Wednesday at nine. Roberto Leonetti, 3 to the back of the head.
Step 2. Develop a plan. Simple is best. Disguise for security cameras. Fake ID. Get him alone.
Step 3. Execute plan.
Step 4. Don’t get caught.
It’s a straightforward job, but I can’t shake the unease creeping up my spine. Lorenzo, Roberto’s father and head of the Leonetti family, was always nice to me. He knew not to cross the invisible line and never treated me like a dumb woman. He was respectful in a way most mobsters weren’t.
Which is probably only thanks to his mother. His fatherdefinitely didn’t inspire any morals. But I’ve been raised better than that. My father once told me, “You can’t let emotion cloud your judgment.” And as much as I hated to admit it, he was right. I need to distance myself from the situation. This isn’t personal, it’s just business, no more, no less. In the end, I’m a Testa, and Testa’s don’t back down—ever.
I’m dressed to kill in my little black dress and heels clicking on the casino floor of Danza’s Casino, a glass of expensive vodka in my hand. The blonde wig irritates my scalp, and the sunglasses feel like overkill inside. But I fit right in with the other patrons.
Roberto has a suite on the top floor, which means he feels untouchable here in his own empire. It only makes him an easier target—overconfidence is what gets you killed in this line of work. Viggo was my first real test; if I screw this one up, it’s over for me and I’ve worked and sacrificed too much in the last four years only to fail now. This hit will hurt. It’s not a maiming like Viggo—it’s a kill.
Fake ID in hand, I flash it at the burly bouncer outside the elevator.
