Menace (Scarlet Scars #1)(47)

“You look like her,” he said, his tone flat. “I pray you never act like her. I would not handle that well.”

He pulled away, prying her off of him, leaving her standing there in a cloud of confusion. She shook it off, though, her smile only growing as she hugged Buster, holding him to her nose and inhaling deeply.

It was almost like hugging her mother.





Chapter Fourteen





Puzzles.

Each piece perfectly cut, molded to fit the ones surrounding it, unique in its own right so it can’t go anywhere else, only where it belongs. Alone, the piece means nothing, a flicker of a picture, like a story without an ending, just a random scene without any credibility. It’s like getting your dick wet but never getting off, sticking it in but not f*cking.

What’s the point of that?

Puzzles demand follow-through. You can’t just dick out in the middle of one.

Or, well, I can’t.

It’s kind of a metaphor for life. Moments are pieces, formed together and built upon, creating the bigger picture within the border of your world. My puzzle is full of deformed shapes and jagged edges, but it still all fits together in its own twisted way, making a hideous f*cking picture of my reality.

I like puzzles.

That’s probably not a surprise.

The library on the first floor of the house is mostly vacant, just like most of the other rooms. Only own what you can use. An oversized ebony veneer table spans the center of it, golden brown and stark black wood merging together, the kind of table you’d find in a boardroom surrounded by those expensive ass ergonomic chairs. There’s a single black leather office chair in here somewhere, shoved aside, as I stand in front of the table, gazing down at it, tapping the corner of a puzzle piece against the shiny striped wood, thinking.

I’ve been working on this puzzle for a few months now, since the day we moved into this house, the border completed, taking up half of the table, sections pierced together inside of it with others just sitting around. Eight thousand pieces. A replica of Michelangelo’s painting on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.

Sounds boring, I know.

Just stick with me here.

It’ll get better.

I try the piece a few spots before snapping it into place near the border. I look around, seeking out another, when light tapping echoes through the library from the open doorway as knuckles rapt against the wooden paneling.

Seven stands there, not crossing the threshold, clutching his phone. Or well, my phone, actually. He tends to filter my calls for me whenever he’s around, like some pseudo-secretary.

He doesn’t come any closer, waiting for acknowledgment. Others move around the house, the rest of my little personal wrecking crew, seven of them in total. There used to be ten, a nice, round even number, but the other three? Well, they met unfortunate ends due to their own stupidity.

I don’t have many rules. Do what you want. Screw who you want. Steal, and lie, and cheat, if you must, but when I tell you something, you listen, and it’s in your best interest not to annoy me, because I can be a bit touchy.

Oh, and don’t step foot in my library without my permission.

“What is it, Seven? I’m busy.”

“That guy is calling again.”

“Which guy?”

“Ricardo Conti.”

“Who?”

“Amello’s guy.”

“Which guy?”

“The one we met out on the dock that night.”

“Ah, that guy,” I say, trying a piece in a few spots before discarding it, picking up another. “He doesn’t look like a Ricardo.”

“That’s his name.”

“I don’t like it.”

“I didn’t imagine you would.”

There’s nothing spiteful about those words from Seven, so I take no offense to them.

The guy knows how I tick.

I try my next piece, finding its spot, and move on to yet another when Seven clears his throat. “Boss?”

I look at him again, growing impatient. “What?”

“Ricardo,” he says, holding the phone up. “He’s calling.”

“Now?”

“Yes,” he says. “Do you want me to tell him you’re still busy?”

“Depends on what he wants.”

“To meet up with you again.”

“Oh, well, invite him over, then.”

Seven’s eyes widen. “Here?”

“Yeah, why not?” I shrug. “It’s still cold as f*ck. I’m not hanging out on some dock tonight, freezing my nuts off again. If he wants to see me, here I am.”

“Yes, boss. I’ll tell him.”

Seven retreats as I continue working on my puzzle, trying to focus, but my vision is blurring and making it hard to see, the colors all merging together. I try for a bit longer before giving up, a headache setting in. Snatching the chair closer, I drop down in it, propping my feet up on the corner of the table as I close my eyes, draping my arm over my face, trying to block out all of the light.

God knows how long I sit here, zoning out, dozing off, before a throat clears. I open my eyes, alarmed, seeing a man stepping into the library. Ricardo. Sitting straight up, feet hitting the floor with a thud, I reach for my gun. I point it before he can come any closer, aiming center mass.