Page 7

Chapter Seven

CRUE

A soup kitchen?

You’ve got to be kidding me.

I’ve spent three days tailing Fiametta. Trying to crack her code and see what makes her tick. And every time I’ve seen her face, the two sides of my internal war have battled for supremacy. Some glances give me the same feeble bodily response as the night we met, with angst-driven sweat on my brow, clammy palms and an inability to think straight. I feel a sick yearning that makes my cock throb with want – scratch that – need.

Then there’s the other reaction. Pure, seething hatred. Seeing her face becomes the perfect reminder of why I’m stalking her. The thrill of sticking my blade into her heart makes me stiff enough to rival the bleeding-heart bullshit.

Huh.

I wonder what all of that says about me. Getting off on the idea of revenge for my mom. Maybe it’s something to explore with whoever winds up in my kill chamber next.

Until then, focus.

My quest for information about Fiametta has come up surprisingly short. She leaves the house at seven sharp and heads to work. Afterward, she spends an hour in the gym with her ginger, firecracker friend, Simone, before they share a snack for dinner or head their separate ways.

I’m not oblivious to the notion that the mutt nipping at her heels is why Fiametta is so docile. Or maybe, she heard I killed the two men who were meant to be her security for her evening out and she doesn’t want to risk anything.

Have I scared you, my pretty little plaything? Good. You should be scared.

I’m starting to understand how Mark feels during our stakeouts. Staring at nothing and hoping it will blossom into something exquisite. Where’s the thrill? The excitement? Fiametta has made this hunt pure tedium.

Until now.

I had her painted as a spoiled rich kid. Happy to forego her daddy’s love and affection, as long as her wallet never ran dry. There sure as shit aren’t enough customers going to her store for that place to afford the luxurious lifestyle she leads.

But I’m a big enough man to admit when I’m mistaken. And watching her head into a soup kitchen isn’t the kind of thing a daddy’s princess would do willingly. The grimace on her mutt’s face is what makes me think it’s her decision, more than a forced act.

Well, it isn’t going to break any records, but I’ve found a nugget of gold after seventy-two hours of tailing Fiametta.

And I’m deeply intrigued.

Once Fiametta, Simone and their guard dog are inside the building, I casually make my way across the street. A small line of New York’s starving has started forming along the front wall, but I’ll need a few more faces around before I can make my move.

It’s a big risk to go inside, when Fiametta is already showing signs of knowing she’s being followed. They’re subtle, but obvious, like when she casually glances over her shoulders and scans her surroundings, trying to appear nonchalant. To a layman, her tactic may come off as uncaring observation, but I’ve made enough blunders for her to stay extra vigilant. No doubt, the one outside her store was my biggest.

And Lorenzo pretty much sealed it up, by placing Tomas Bernardi, the Napoli Family’s thumb-sucking troglodyte of a second-in-charge, on her personal security detail. She’s too smart to think he’d do it purely for an in-case situation. If he didn’t smell blood in the water, he wouldn’t have given her the best he could offer.

But I need to get inside that soup kitchen. I want to see her doing this honest task with my own two eyes before I believe it. Until then, I refuse to completely believe she’s anything other than a spoiled princess.

I wait against the side of the building for the better part of an hour, watching dark-gray clouds forming in the early evening sky. The line has gone from ten early birds to what must be a hundred or more broken and beaten souls. I look among the newer arrivals for the biggest guy I can find, focusing mainly on the back of the line. When I spot him, I raise the biker mask over my face and approach him at a casual saunter.

“Give me your coat,” I demand as soon as I reach him. He’s wearing a filthy long coat, with an enormous tear running from the right pocket down to its hem. The reason the coat caught my attention is its high standing, wide collar. Along with my mask, it should provide ample anonymity.

“My coat?” He grabs the lapels and tightens them to his chest. “No. I can’t. It’s gonna be cold soon.”

Too much time spent with Matteo has given me the luxury of ignoring pleasantries and explanations. But a bigger takeaway, which proves most useful in times like this, is that money talks.

“I’ll give you two grand for it.” I shove my hand into my pocket and draw out a neatly wrapped bundle of hundred-dollar notes. I couldn’t say how much is there, for certain, but it’s Matteo’s money. Let’s call it operational expenses.

I throw it at the guy’s feet and watch his widening eyes fall upon it.

“Why?” He asks, mid-strip.

“Give me the jacket. Take the money. And piss off.”

Why Fiametta’s working in a soup kitchen means anything is surprising, even to me. These people are meaningless to me. Life is full of choices and circumstances. You’ve been dealt a bad hand? Fight your way out of it. Giving up won’t garner my sympathy. But her being here has to mean something.

Maybe that she isn’t a piece of shit like her old man.

Instead of handing me the coat, he tosses it at my face as if it’s some grand distraction. Once removed, I see him running down the street and my money is gone from the ground.

If there’s one thing I can respect about these folk, it’s that trust is hard to come by. Accepting a deal isn’t as easy as saying yes and taking what you can, leaving nothing behind. I shed my leather jacket and toss it onto the ground. Had my new friend waited a moment, I’d have given it to him along with the money.

And just like that, when someone else collects it, I’ve helped more people in one night, than I have in years.

Is my pretty little playing rubbing off on me?

Then it’s back to waiting. This is the kind I don’t mind. There’s purpose behind it. I’m not just sitting in my car, following some chick around.

Before long, a rotund man at the front door, who’s holding a cane in one hand and a bible in the other, ushers me inside.

“God bless you,” he says.

“And you.” How else am I supposed to respond to that?

Then I’m inside, only to remark that I’m inches away from Tomas, who’s also sitting at the front door, inspecting each new entrant with total boredom twisting his face in a frown.

Here we go.

I slip my hand inside the coat and rest it lazily on my dagger. If this prick moves, I’ll slice him open.

“What are you looking at?” He speaks with a raspy wheeze accompanying his words. “Ain’t got no handouts. Piss off.”

She hasn’t told him about me. Not that I look too dissimilar to the rest of the hungry wandering the main hall. But there are key features he should’ve noticed. My hair, my eyes, and the fact that I’m built better and clearly not starving.

In an instant, as I spot her among the crowd, all thoughts and rational for Tomas’s behavior disappear. My head empties at the sight of her warm smile, as she lays a tender hand on a young kid’s shoulder. She’s talking to him like a person, while he slurps spoonfuls of soup.

Her smile must be contagious, because both the kid and his mother are practically glowing from whatever Fiametta’s saying to them. It’s all I need to see to have my answer.

Her heart is pure gold.

But it will not erase the sins of her father.

***

Two Weeks Later

A lot can happen in a fortnight. Especially when you have your eyes on the prize. Mark and I have been putting in long days and even longer nights to clear Matteo’s list. And if all goes according to plan, I should receive a message from Mark any minute now saying it’s done.

I paid him a small fortune to handle most of the remaining names on my original list. Though there’s always a risk involved, he walked into more danger than my tolerance would usually allow for him, more than once. But while he was handling the losers and nobodies, I’ve been preparing for the biggest kill of all.

My pretty little plaything.

After a lengthy back and forth, regarding my sanity concerning this job, I finalized the paperwork on one of the rental apartments opposite Fiametta’s building. It caught my eye the very first night I tailed her here, and since I’ve spent more time sleeping in my car on this street than at home, it’s my only logical next step.

My new apartment is directly adjacent but three stories taller than Fiametta’s. My balcony gives the best view, but my main stalking takes place at night, from the enormous floor to ceiling window in my new living room. I conduct surveillance at night, with all the lights off, to ensure she’ll never know I was watching.

With the curtains open, I can see the totality of her mutt’s quarters up to the door that exits into the short hall. Her living and dining rooms are clearly in view and even part of the kitchen counter, too.

Most importantly, inside Fiametta’s bedroom, I can see to the furthest end of her bed. She’s only free from my ever-watchful eye when she’s in her en-suite. And even then, my mind is awfully good at conjuring what she may be doing.

Not that I’ve had to let my imagination run riot over the three days I’ve been here. From the shower, her towel-wrapped body moves straight to the walk-in closet without much dawdling. I still haven’t had the pleasure of a clean view of her naked body, but with the help of my binoculars, I’ve managed a fairly deep view of her cleavage, wrapped in that towel. Or her thighs, as the towel falls apart where she wrapped it, reminding me tauntingly of my wasted opportunity that night I first saw her.

And when I don’t see her in the flesh, my own mind reminds me. It plays the tender touch of her skin against my face on repeat. It replays the soft cooing sounds as I kissed her flesh. The conjured flashes of my cock sliding inside her soaking cunt are so vivid I can almost feel it.

Even now, after a long day at her boutique, my mind is only on one thing, as she locks her door and drops onto her bed with a hefty sigh. I watch her slip off her dress, drop to her knees and parting her legs to give me a full view of her pussy. Is it still bare, I wonder? Does it even matter? I wouldn’t be going for that soaking slit right away. I’d start with both hands on her head. Tell her to stick her tongue out, right before I slam the tip of my cock between her plump lips. Listen to the sound of myself smashing against the back of her throat as she fights to breathe.

And only when her eyes roll to the back of her skull and Fiametta’s on the verge of passing out, would I allow her a lungful of oxygen. But only one, before it starts again. And again. Until my dick is drenched in mother nature’s lubricant for the main event.

I fight the urge to stroke myself as my imagination continues to stir. I refuse to waste my seed against this window, when it’s meant for her fucking womb.

Better hurry then. This Little Flame’s time is running out.