Taming Seraphine

SERAPHINE

Leroi wanted me to stay behind while he dealt with the Rosalind situation, but I insisted he bring me, reminding him of his promise to not leave me behind. He tried to argue that it’s not the same, but I can’t sit in his apartment, fretting about another hitman running around wanting to kill him and his family, when maybe there’s something I can do to help.

After throwing on some clothes, I put in my colored contacts and we head across town to Alderney Hill. This district is fancier than Queen’s Garden, with every street lined with dense juniper trees that shield its mega-mansions from prying eyes. I remember Mom calling this the old money part of the city because it’s where the original settlers built their homes. It’s also the location of the Montesano estate.

Leroi’s jaw is set, and his grip on the steering wheel is so hard, his knuckles are white. Tension raises his shoulders, and the veins on his temple stand on end. I reach over to the driver’s seat to offer some comfort, but he barely responds.

As we drive through streets that wind upward through a conifer-covered hill, my stomach coils with dread. I’m about to meet the sons of my first target, Enzo Montesano.

“Will they recognize me?” I whisper, a shudder running down my spine.

The guard who served me drugged champagne would have remembered laying me on that bed, and there might have even been cameras.

He shakes his head. “We all thought Uncle Enzo died of a heart attack. Even if they suspected he was murdered, you’re no longer a blonde-haired, blue-eyed little girl.”

I nod, but it does nothing to ease my churning stomach.

Finally, we reach the top of the hill, which has been flattened to create an estate surrounded by a wall of tightly packed conifers. We stop at a tall iron gate manned by armored guards and Leroi winds down the window.

A man in a visor peers in, his gaze assessing Leroi before lingering on me. My breath stills, and I sit straighter in my seat.

“Who’s the girl?” the man asks.

“She’s with me,” Leroi growls.

“Let them in,” says a voice from the guard’s walkie-talkie.

We pass enough men to form a small army, and submit to a few more security checks before we finally pull up to a mansion that looks built for a Roman senator. It’s a huge, white villa that’s half covered in ivy with a palazzo-style front porch of marble pillars. Coming here reminds me of how Dad used to rant about how Enzo Montesano thought he owned New Alderney.

Leroi gets out and opens my door, snapping me out of my thoughts. I don’t understand why my mind is dredging up such old memories.

We walk hand in hand up stone steps that lead to a set of double doors, passing armed men who acknowledge Leroi’s presence.

I recognize the man waiting in the hallway from the nightclub. Up close, he looks a little like Leroi, with the same piercing dark eyes, olive skin, and broad shoulders. This has to be one of the Montesano brothers. His features are harsher than Leroi’s, as though he’s lived a harder life, and under his shirt are glimpses of tattoos.

“Bringing a girlfriend?” He arches a brow in my direction.

“Apprentice,” Leroi replies.

“Like Miko?” He turns to me, his gaze sharpening and becoming more critical.

This man is nothing like his father. He was a greasy and lecherous old man who deserved to die. He’s the kind of predator more interested in shooting a woman through the head than placing a hand up her skirt.

I straighten, my face forming a blank mask even though my stomach trembles at the thought of him recognizing me as the woman who killed his father.

“I’m nothing like Miko,” I say. “I like to get my hands dirty.”

He cracks a smile.

“This asshole is Roman,” Leroi says. “He’s the oldest brother.”

With a nod, Roman turns on his heel, expecting us to follow. “Cesare’s still in the middle of interrogating the assassin, but I can tell you what we’ve found out so far.”

Now that I’m no longer under Roman’s scrutiny, all the tension leaves my lungs in an outward breath. Leroi tucks me under his arm as we walk alongside the oldest Montesano brother through a house that looks more like a museum.

The entrance hall is four times the height of a regular mansion with a glass atrium that floods the space with natural sunlight. We walk through white marble arches, passing busts of people who look like Leroi and Roman.

I finally get the meaning of old money. It’s a level of class and sophistication that would have eluded a man like Dad. He never had an interest in art, and the only beautiful possessions he ever valued were his women. It’s obvious that the Montesano family has held power for generations.

“Did Leroi tell you this is where he grew up?” Roman asks from Leroi’s other side.

“No?” I glance up at Leroi’s profile, wondering if this was where he shot his stepfather.

“Until I was ten,” Leroi says with a wistful smile. “Then my mother moved us out after my dad died.”

The men fall silent, and I can tell they’re both thinking about the past. Leroi’s grip around my shoulders tightens, and I wrap an arm around his back and give him a gentle squeeze.

I can’t help thinking how shitty it is that parents’ actions can vastly affect the lives of their children. Dad burned with jealousy over Enzo Montesano, so he arranged his death and framed his oldest son for a crime he didn’t commit. And he used me as a killer to pay off Mom’s debt because she slept with our bodyguard.

A door to our left opens and a wild-eyed woman steps out with messed up hair, wearing a silk kimono covered in white dust. Behind her is a mass of broken furniture, glass shards, and smashed vases. I catch a glimpse of slashed paintings and heavy curtains hanging off their rods in tatters.

Our eyes meet, and I do a double take. Isn’t that the one I danced next to at the nightclub?

Her lips part. “Sera?”

“Ember?”

“Are you friends?” Roman asks her.

Ember scowls. “Fuck off!”

Before I can even process what’s happening, she slams the door. As Leroi pulls me away, I hear glass smashing against the wall.

Roman chuckles. “Emberly has a volatile temper, but that comes with being a talented artist.”

I glance over my shoulder, back toward the door where Ember disappeared. What on earth is going on in this mansion? It’s like a reunion from the nightclub. Ember didn’t exactly look like she was here against her will. If she was, she wouldn’t have shut herself up in that room and she certainly wouldn’t smash up expensive-looking antiques.

My mind is still reeling when we reach a room that doesn’t match the rest of the mansion, a gentleman’s study with brown leather furniture and lined with ebony bookshelves. Daylight floods in through floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook manicured gardens and a set of stone steps that lead to an enormous pool.

When Roman shuts the door and guides us to sit at the sofas by the window, Leroi asks, “What are we dealing with?”

“How did you not suspect that the woman you were fucking was an agent for a rival firm?”

“Not all hitmen come in male packages,” Leroi drawls. “Besides, I wasn’t her target.”

“What makes you think that?”

“The only thing she tried to kill me with was her whining. It’s likely that she was using me to get close to you or gathering intel.”

“Shit.”

Leroi shrugs. “You, of all people, should know how far your enemies will go to take you down.”

Roman threads his fingers through his curls and sighs. “Shit. You’re right.”

My gaze bounces from one man to the other, and I wonder if they’re talking about how Roman got framed for murder. I clear my throat. “Who is Rosalind’s client?”

“Capello,” Roman mutters.

“Did she say?” Leroi asks.

“Cesare got her to admit it. Now he’s working on getting her to name specifics.” He walks to a drinks cabinet, pours a glass of amber liquid, and holds it up as an offering.

Leroi waves him off. “I doubt that she’s even a key player. Some agents infiltrate their target’s household or friend group before a large job. That’s what I did for my last one.”

The corners of Roman’s lips pinch, as though he disapproves of Leroi even referring to murdering the Capello family. It’s a good sign for me because it proves he doesn’t suspect my association with them.

“Benito tells me that Rosalind was a regular at the club. Cesare got her to confess to working with a few others to identify every close associate of my brothers.”

Leroi nods. “Capello must have been planning a massacre months before he died.”

Roman grunts. “Probably wanted to finish the job he started when he got me locked up.”

I shuffle on my feet, my skin crawling at the reminder that Dad was universally evil and not just to me. The worst thing is that I never saw him coming.

“How long have you known Rosalind?” I ask.

“Three, four months,” Leroi mutters.

“The real issue is getting the firm to call off the hit,” Roman says. “I need to find Rosalind’s handler and persuade him that attacking anyone connected to the Montesano family is a deadly mistake.”

Leroi reaches into his pocket and extracts a scrap of paper. “Take this.”

Roman’s brow furrows. “What is it?”

“Rosalind’s sister came by my apartment this morning, thinking she was with me. You can use that family association to persuade Rosalind to talk.”

Roman reaches for the number, but Leroi pulls back. “Promise you won’t hurt the girl?”

He frowns. “How old?”

“That’s not the point. She’s innocent.”

“I won’t fuck with her. Neither will Cesare nor Benito, but Rosalind doesn’t need to know that.”

“Fine.”

“It had better work.” Roman takes the paper and examines its contents. “Otherwise Samson Capello’s survival will be the least of our problems. If we can’t call off that hit, there’ll be a full-scale war.”