Femme Fatale Reloaded (Pericolo #2) by Kirsty-Anne Still
CHAPTER ONE
This could be the perfect life.
Sunlight heats my face, adorning me with an overwhelmingly pleasurable amount of warmth. This is the life – an escape from all hell. I’ve basked in this glorious life for almost four months. It was meant as a punishment, but I’ve bettered my tan, bettered my Italian, and bettered my aim with a revolver.
But I have lived it all with half a heart.
I don’t cherish things anymore because I know how easily it can all be ripped away. I refuse to enjoy any part of my life as a mob princess; I just live it. It’s an obligation placed on me before my birth, and I have to learn to cohabitate with this haunting. I don’t have a choice to love it or hate it, I have to lump it.
And as the sun beats down, I wonder if I could escape and just hide in some quaint Italian village and never see a horrible thing ever again. Stumble upon a new community; find an Italian man to love me, and a place to live out of my days. My own skepticism lashes out and I finally open my eyes to my reality. Before me lies the coastline, and while I’m on top of the mountain, I realize there is no escape from this life.
I’ve been living practically on top of the world, but there’s no peace here.
“Amelia!” my Uncle Alberto’s thick, rich Italian accent penetrates the tranquil air and I bristle. Unlike my father – whose American life has weakened his accent – Alberto’s is enough to make your skin crawl. It’s pure, unforgiving, and resonates the old country and all that thrives within. “You can’t stay in there all day!”
“Yes, I can!” I shout back over my shoulder, not even moving from my position. “And I will.”
“We need to discuss things,” Alberto says. I look back to see him standing on the edge of the pool. “You’re requested back in America.”
“Now, is it optional to go back or will I be forced to go back?” I ask, turning to lean my back against the side of the infinity pool. Instead of a glorious view of the shore and stretching sea, I’m met with the historic Abbiati mansion and the stormy expression my uncle always wears. “If I’m being honest, I’d really rather not be bundled into a car then a plane in the middle of the night again. It’s not one of my most favorable experiences.”
“You needed out of that situation, Amelia. It was for your own good,” he tells me, and I just snort. “You’re wanted back on urgent business,” Alberto shouts out from across the pool. He looks all the more irritated as I relax against the side of the water, my feet kicking beneath the surface. “Don’t be awkward about this, Amelia. It’s been long enough. It’s time to go home.”
Home. I’m not sure I even know where that is now. My meaning for it has shaped and morphed so much over the passing years, but now I’m not sure where it is because all the homes I ever loved ended up destroyed, and in a way, I feel to blame. I’m the destructive element in every situation I’ve been in, so if I have to go back to Manhattan, I won’t be polite – I won’t be loving – I’ll just be there. Everything I held so close and dear to me disintegrated in one night, and I ended it all by raising a gun to my father.
I know monsters face no salvation. I realize I will never feel again unless by the hands of a miracle, but you can’t blame a girl for being a dreamer.
“You’re not even listening,” Alberto hisses, snapping me from my daydream. “Get out and get packing, Amelia.”
As I watch him all but stomp away from me, I realize I’ve wrangled a lot of bad emotions in him. Apparently, he’s more like my father than either likes to think. I can get under his skin just like I could my father’s and all with just a little burst of rebellion.
I’m not too proud to say I've come to be a hard bitch to work with. My uncle has on many occasions been close to flipping out at my direct disregard to adhere to the powerful hierarchy I was born into. But, so what? I was forced here with no option. I just needed to be put out of sight for pulling a gun on my father and while some have shunned me, more have applauded me for standing up to a man like Salvatore Abbiati.
No one knows that behind closed doors is when the facade drops and the tears fall. I don’t let anyone see that behind the cold, killer glaze to my eyes, I’m actually damaged and irreparable. No one has been there to hug me or care for me. I’ve been left to seek approval in the worse way possible – killing whoever pissed off an Abbiati member – and I only did it so I could belong in a place I know I never will.
Under the killings, the debauchery, and the illegal activities, I’m hoping for a miracle to encircle me and transport me back to a time when I was sheltered to the true nature of my own flesh and blood.
Times have changed.
I won’t ever be more than the girl crazy enough to shoot one of her own.