“No, girl. We’ll be outside in a few minutes,” I whisper down to her, petting the triangle on the top of her head to keep her calm and still.
She sniffs the air around us a couple of times. I can’t help but mimic her, curious about what she’s smelling that holds her interest so much. I take a subtle inhale; the first thing I smell is Inga’s perfume, which has a strong scent of fresh-cut grass. However, underneath that, I detect something stronger and more masculine. Leather and spicy undertones that make methink of a smooth liquor, like a fine aged bottle of scotch, with a hint of something sweet, like cinnamon.
It’s so delicious and addicting that I can’t help taking another deep inhale like some sort of weirdo. I swear I’ve smelled it before, or at least subtle hints of it from somewhere, but I can’t concentrate on the where part because my mouth is literally watering. I turn my head slightly to the right, embarrassed when I hear a light cough to cover a laugh because I’m pretty sure my nostrils were flaring. As the elevator dings and Sofia tugs on her leash to signal our stop, I quickly turn my head back around.
Thank God. I was moments from crowding the man in the corner of the elevator and sniffing him like a hound dog or a druggie looking for their next hit. My face is probably as red as my hair. Luckily, my furbaby is tugging on her leash to get outside, and Inga’s heels are clicking at a rapid pace towards the lobby doors; she’s basically jogging, which I find strange. Why is she in a hurry? She often claims that a woman should not run but instead should calmly walk to her next destination, as that is what a proper lady supposedly does.
I’m running after them before I even know what I’m doing, but I don’t hear the stranger step off the elevator and find that even weirder. Maybe he forgot something in his penthouse?
“Madama O’Connor,” the doorman, Jack, says quietly as always while he holds the door open for us to step outside onto the sidewalk of downtown Manhattan.
“Thank you,” I say in a rush as I pass by, jogging to keep up with Sofia, who’s pulling me by her leash. “What is with you today, girl?” My question goes unanswered, of course, because she’s a dog, but Inga must have been listening because her voice suddenly next to me makes me jump in my heeled sandals.
“She must have wanted out of the building for some fresh air, which will do us worlds of good. Let’s go take a walk, shall we, Lass?” she hurriedly says, grabbing my elbow and heading westtowards Central Park at a clipped pace that has me stumbling in my heels.
I bump into a person not even a minute later, their rude New York accent falling on deaf ears because I’m used to it by now.
“Hey! Watch where you're going!” Some nameless New Yorker shouts. Being the person I am and not wanting to explain to a complete stranger that I’m fucking blind, I just hiss like an angry cat at him at the same time Sofia growls.
“Fucking freak.” I hear him mumble as he trips over his feet to get away from us, probably thinking we have rabies, but if it helps keep the rude people away, it’s okay in my book. Even if I appear more insane than I really am, it's all worth it. A girl’s got to do what she has to do to live in the Big Apple, or it will eat you alive, no matter who you are.
I hear a loud, pained grunt behind me, and being the curious person that I am, I start to turn to see if it’s the rude man. Maybe he fell? He could be hurt. I’m not completely emotionless; I do care even when someone doesn’t deserve that piece of me. Even if I won’t get that type of kindness paid in return.
“Now, now, Lass. Let’s get going. Busy day ahead of us.” Inga’s voice comes out in a high-pitched tone as she tugs at my arm to guide me through the hustle and bustle of the packed sidewalk.
I shrug and place my two fingers between Sofia’s shoulder blades as she sticks to my right thigh. Feeling her fur moving under my fingertips helps ground me and makes it somewhat easier to ignore all the loud sounds and voices surrounding us. It helps keep people away, a little distance from us on the tight sidewalks. Everyone only sees my leadership dog being all protective and menacing, but no one knows she’s a real sweetie inside under all the bark and growls.
It’s amusing how your other senses will come alive when you can’t use your eyes. For instance, my hearing can getoverwhelming because it’s working overtime. I pick up too many voices chatting at once, so it does become difficult to focus on one thing. Everything feels more sensitive to touch, too, always making my fingers tingle if I accidentally knock into someone and feel the fabric they are wearing. I will admit, silk is my favorite. It doesn’t feel scalding, as if my fingertips are all being set on fire. I think smelling is the worst. Except for the man in the elevator, I could smell him all day long without a problem. However, scents can sometimes be overpowering. Like right now. The hundreds of taxis driving by with their exhaust are already giving me a headache, and so is the stench of greasy pizza every few blocks. I prefer the aroma of freshly baked bread emanating from the cafes on every corner. But the thing is, each of those senses can come in handy when I need them. Like right now, I’ve heard the same rapid click of heeled boots each time we pick up speed or slow down for the last two blocks. I’m being followed, but then again, I always feel like I’m being watched.
Like a shadow is always hovering over me, but I can’t see to know if it’s real or not.
CHAPTER 2
ROMEO
“As you can see, all the cocaine is here for the exchange. It was an effortless export from Italy. Seventy kilos are all accounted for. Do you, uh, have the money?” Marco stutters, reaching into his jeans pocket and producing a handkerchief to wipe the beads of sweat off his forehead.
I don’t say anything, just watch him shift on his feet as he glances towards the exit and back at me with a loud gulp.
Hmm, he’s nervous. What could he be hiding from me?
I arch a brow and move from between Tony and Enzo with my hands in my slack pockets. My posture is relaxed, even though it’s a scare tactic. Marco would be foolish to attempt anything. No one messes with me or the Sicilian Mafia unless they have a death wish. But maybe he does. I'd be happy to be the one to put the poor bastard out of his misery. With one swift plunge of an ice pick to the back of his neck, all his body functions would cease instantly as I severed the spinal cord. It’s an easy and mess-free kill. A win-win in my book. I don’t have a problem with getting rid of this greasy toad. I have the FBI up my ass at the moment, but that’s nothing new. Someone is always watching, so I just have to get creative with shipmentsto the States. That’s why Marco is here; he’s not family, but my second cousin twice removed said he could be trusted. So I followed my cousin’s advice even though my gut told me it was a risky move to trust someone outside of the familia.
I always follow my gut; it’s what’s kept me alive and outwitting the government for this long. Three years since taking over the mafia after my pops passed away from a bullet between his eyes, I’ve been leading with a strong iron fist and have earned respect with a healthy dose of fear. At the current moment, Marco’s whole demeanor is telling me not to trust the fucker, and something isn’t right.
I stroll around a pallet of cocaine, seventy kilos of devil's powder valued at ten million, eagerly awaiting distribution into the streets of New York. It has the potential to triple my wealth with a single exchange with the right buyer. This cocaine is a top product. I hired men in Italy to meticulously prepare, measure, cut, and taste-test the product, ensuring it delivers an unparalleled high. You can’t find any other cocaine like this; it creates animosity with trade businesses and positions me as a competitor to other mafia families trying to distribute their drugs on the streets. I don’t really see this as a competition; you can’t beat my product, and everyone knows it. The Irish mob in the Bronx, the triad on the Lower East Side, and low-grade drug dealers brewing in their shithole meth labs have nothing on the Italian mafia. Marco brought in my supply from the Atlantic Ocean to New York Harbor on a cargo ship, docking and unloading near the Irish territory. I almost didn’t go through with the shipment. But after looking at every angle to get the product overseas, with the government breathing down my neck, I didn’t see any other choice. I didn’t like it, though; I can’t trust anyone but blood.
“It's a bit chilly tonight, isn’t it?” I say casually, keeping my eye on the cocaine as I address Marco.
I hide my smirk as I hear him sputter and shift around some more, his body leaning towards the exit of the door on the far left side of the warehouse. I cut my eyes to Tony and Enzo, for a split second, their gazes connecting with mine with a small nod. That’s the good thing about working with family: you don’t have to say much for them to understand what you want. My two cousins know me; we grew up together, a group of boys getting into trouble together the moment we started walking and still going strong at the age of thirty. They quietly walk away, going in different directions without saying a word, which makes Marco more nervous.
Yeah, the fucker is hiding something. I smell a rat.
“Ye-yes, really cold. Where are they going?” he asks with a stutter, hardly able to meet my gaze as I step closer to the pallet and produce a switchblade from my pocket.
“You know, I find it very curious. It’s fucking freezing outside and just as cold in this warehouse, and yet… you're sweating bullets. Do you have something to tell me, Marco?” I ask in a casual tone, flipping the switch on the blade and cutting a neat line over the wrapping on the cocaine.
Pure white spills out of the opening, and I stab my switchblade into another cocaine bundle as I grab the blocky package of cocaine while looking up to see Marco go pale as a ghost.
