Menace (Scarlet Scars #1)(11)

“You do not need her,” he said, not a hint of emotion in his words. “I am all you need.”

“But—”

Before she could argue, his hand enclosed around her chin, palming her face, his strong, inked fingers digging into her cheeks, squishing them.

He gripped her tightly, leaning closer. “You will not speak of her to me again. Do I make myself clear?”

The little girl nodded, tears streaming from her eyes.

He shoved her face away, nearly knocking her from the stool.

“And stop crying,” he demanded, standing up to walk away. “She is worth your heartache no more than she was worth mine. We will both get over it.”

The little girl didn’t believe that. She couldn’t. Wouldn’t. She might face her fears and wipe her tears, like her mother had taught her, but she would never get over it.





Chapter Five





A white split-level house in south Queens.

There’s even a picket fence surrounding it.

It’s fit for a picture-perfect family: Mom, Dad, two-point-five kids and a golden retriever, living happily in quiet suburbia. Four bedrooms. Three bathrooms. There’s a library downstairs. It’s in a neighborhood typically free of crime.

No murders.

No robberies.

No fun at all, quite frankly.

Just call me Ward Cleaver. Leave it to f*cking Beaver. The house is all mine. I’ve found the American Dream.

I’ve got to say... the shit isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

Snow covers the sidewalk that runs along the front of the house. The streets have been plowed since it started snowing, but everything else is doused in a layer of stark white. Standing at the foggy front window of the house, I stare out into the cold morning, watching thick flakes fall from the cloudy sky.

The monochrome tone is pretty consistent with how I’m feeling.

Monotonous. Drab. Tedious.

Fifty other f*cking words you’ll find in a thesaurus.

I’ve only lived here for a few months but I’m already itching to move again. Since coming to New York just a few years ago, I’ve stayed in eleven different places, most of which I hadn’t exactly had permission to move into. I see an opportunity and I take it, whether it’s acquiring a house or, well, a job position.

What can I say? I’m resourceful.

Can’t fault me for that, can you?

“Is it still snowing?”

I turn at the sound of the voice behind me, watching as my little brother steps into the living room. Leo—or Pretty Boy, as I’ve always called him—is sixteen years younger than me, in his early twenties, while the thirties knocked on my door long ago. We’re nothing alike. He’s young and hopeful. I grow bitter as I age. He’s got a lot of heart. I’ve been told a time or two that I’m a bit of a callous prick.

He loves this house, this neighborhood, and this dream...

The only thing I love is, well, maybe him.

Everything else is just a fickle fondness that I tend to grow tired of real f*cking quick.

“Of course it’s snowing,” I say, strolling over to the black leather couch to sit down. “I’ve got things to take care of, so naturally it’s going to snow all damn day and make everything as difficult as possible.”

Leo steps by me to take the spot in front of the window. “Such optimism.”

“Yeah, well, not all of us can be sunshiny all of the goddamn time.”

Truthfully? I’m in a pissy mood. I’ve been home for hours, long enough to witness the sunrise, but that’s nothing new. I’ve been an insomniac most of my life, which is probably why I’m so paranoid. Sleep evades me and people aggravate me, making my trigger finger a little twitchy, if you know what I’m saying.

Usually, I handle it better, the lack of sleep, but today it has me on edge for some reason.

My attention shifts to the coffee table in front of me. The red high heels sit in the center of it, side-by-side. I pick one up, running my fingertips along the red sole. The heel is long and thin, curved a bit, maybe six inches, and sharp enough that, in a pinch, she could’ve easily taken my good eye out with it.

After all, everything’s a weapon if you look at it the right way, and I’m the MacGyver of murder. I could kill a man with a shoe like this. Wouldn’t even faze me to have to do it, either.

“Do I even want to know why you’ve got those?” Leo asks.

I glance at him. “Long story.”

“Does it end with your feet shoved into a pair of red pumps? Because if so, I’d really like to hear it.”

“I’m afraid it’s not nearly that interesting,” I say. “Met a woman who was wearing these. She got away, left her shoes behind.”

“How very Cinderella.” He shakes his head. “And what, you’re going to try them on every woman in the kingdom until you find her again?”

“If I have to,” I say, setting the shoe back down beside the other one. Before I can elaborate, there’s a noise upstairs, a loud thump above my head. My gaze drifts toward the ceiling as my back stiffens.

“It’s fine,” Leo says. “Just Mel.”

“Who?”

“Mel,” he says again. “You know… my girlfriend?”