Wicked Angel

Wicked Angel

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Angel

11 years old …

Black cloaked bodies moved in sync as they surrounded my father, my sister, and me—leading the three of us from the limo we’d just stepped out of towards the hill where several more figures dressed in black waited. Dry, slightly cool air slapped me in the face. I turned to look up at the clouds hovering overhead, threatening this already dreary day with more rain. At the sight of more men in black stationed around the cemetery, my insides rolled. Nervous, I reached out for Dad’s hand, pausing when he pulled away.

“Remember the rules, Angel,” Dad said.

As if to prove that she was better, Jackie leaned around his back and scowled at me. “You know better,” she snapped before falling back into place. I bit my lip so hard I swore I could taste blood. She was right, though; I did know better. I’d just hoped that under these circumstances we could be a little different … we could be normal. Apparently not. Even at Mom’s funeral, we weren’t allowed to show affection.

There were so many rules. Where we could eat—never anywhere Dad hadn’t yet approved. What we could wear. Where we could shop—only the best brands and only from certain stores that would allow extra security while we were inside. Who was allowed to pick us up or drop us off at school—never anyone we hadn’t been expressly introduced to before. Who was allowed in the same school—certain family’s children were never allowed within a certain distance of us. I never understood any of it until this moment.

All those secrets. All those times when I couldn’t understand why we had so much security detail and so many people living in the mansion. It all became clear here. We weren’t a normal family, and we never had been. We were different, and the things my father did … they weren’t good. He had enemies and as his blood, so did we.

My flat, black Mary Janes slid through the dirt of the ice-cold ground. Everything was numb. My eyes were sore and raw from the amount of tears I’d cried. They felt swollen, and whenever I reached up to touch them, it only hurt more. I felt all cried out. I was so drained of tears I wondered if I’d ever be able to cry again. The dark, itchy dress I wore was a stark contrast to my fair skin. My shoes were quickly getting dirty from the light rain misting our faces as we trudged through the cemetery. Mom was being buried today—in the mud and rain and cold wintry air. I could hear the dull thud of raindrops when one of my father’s men opened an umbrella and held it over our heads as we finished making our way up the hill. It only made the sadness I carried weigh heavier, and I felt as though my heart had cracked a little more with each passing moment.

My footsteps slowed as I saw the dozen or so wide-chested men crammed into suits, looking like overstuffed penguins standing around the casket. Dad didn’t look back as he moved forward, and the men that came today reached for him, offering their hands in condolences. I guess the funeral of a beloved mob wife was a pretty big deal. I looked around for somewhere to tuck myself away so I wasn’t in the way but could remain close to Dad and his bodyguards.

“What are you doing?” My sister’s sharp voice startled me, disrupting the quiet in my head. Jacquelina scowled at me as she hovered nearby. Her thin lips tightened with the sharp look, making her face appear even more bird-like than it already did with her slightly larger-than-average nose and the widow’s peak at the top of her forehead. She looked more like our dad with her dark hair and olive skin, but me—I looked like our mom. Softer, rounder, and shorter.

At nearly seventeen, Jackie was almost six years older than me, and other than our similarly shaped eyes—though hers are brown to my hazel—the reality of being related to her seemed near impossible. There were few other similarities, both physically and personality-wise. I had emotions, but she … well, even at her own Mom’s funeral, her makeup was completely untouched, no tears or mascara smeared down her cheeks. It was as if it was just a normal day.

Whereas I’d typically duck my head and apologize for the unseen insult. Today, I was different. I was tired and angry and sad. I found a chair in the first row and sat on the edge before looking up at her expectantly waiting face. “Sitting,” I snapped back.

Jackie’s eyes widened at my tone. She stepped back and folded her arms across her chest. “Touchy much?”

I bit my lip again but didn’t reply. Instead, I turned my gaze to the casket. Closed, of course. Why wouldn’t it be? There’s nobody inside. From what I’d overheard from Dad’s men, Mom’s body had been so badly beaten, it was hardly recognizable. No eleven-year-old should have to hear that, but I had only myself to blame. I’d been eavesdropping near Dad’s office, and when I wasn’t in their direct line of sight, Dad’s men weren’t all that great at tempering their words.

Swallowing the lump that formed, I tried not to flinch when people moved around and between Jackie and me. My heart felt like it was hammering at a million miles a minute. Sweat collected in my palms even as I tried to squish my fingers into them to stop it. Jackie’s stare continued to bore into me for several moments until she seemed to get bored and finally gave up. I was thankful when she flipped her hair off her shoulder and headed across the space toward our dad. That was just who Jackie was, and it wasn’t like we’d ever been particularly close.

Closing my eyes and resting back against the seat, I sucked in a breath and then slowly released it as I thought about the fact that despite the big mouths of my father’s bodyguards, Jackie was the one who’d told me the truth about how Mom had died.

I’d been crying in my room several days ago when she’d popped inside and leaned against the jamb, watching me with cool, unbothered eyes. It always freaked me out when she did that. Sometimes, Jackie would just show up somewhere, and instead of saying anything at all, she would stare at you. Watch you. Then she’d ask strange questions like, “Does it hurt when you cry?” or “Why do you feel bad about lying?”

And the day we’d been told about our mother’s death was the same.

 

“Do you know what killed Mom?” she’d asked.

I sniffled hard. “Car wreck? Th-they said it was an accident.” I swiped angrily at the wet streaks on my face. Did she really have to question me today, of all days?

Jackie nodded and sighed, but she didn’t look exactly comforting. I used to think it was just the way her face naturally fell, but at that moment, I realized it was because she truly didn’t seem to care about me. There was no reaction to my tears, no attempt at consoling. Her lips were twisted in more of a downward, irritated scowl. “Ah, so that’s what he told you.”

My hand slowed, pausing against one cheek as I processed her words. “Told me?” I repeated. “What do you mean ‘told me?’”

“It’s just because you’re still pretty young,” she replied without actually answering my question. “Young enough to be kept in the dark…” She trailed off, turning to leave.

Confusion swirled within me. What did she mean? I jolted forward.

“Wait!” I called, grabbing hold of her arm to keep her from leaving. “What do you mean ‘kept in the dark?’” Dad wouldn’t lie to me, I thought. Sometimes he was mean and he yelled, but he loved me—us—and Mom. He wouldn’t lie about how she died, but Jackie sounded so sure. I had to hope this was just one of her mean tricks.

Jackie angled back to look at me, her expression devoid of any pity or guilt. I hated that too. I knew Mom always said that Jackie was special and she needed help understanding emotions more, but it was just too hard and she was just too freaking mean sometimes. I swore she did it on purpose.

“Mom didn’t die in a car crash,” she said as she turned back to face me. She tilted her head to the side. “Dad pissed someone off and they went after her.”

My jaw dropped. “What?” She couldn’t be right. I shook my head. That didn’t make any sense. Why would—before I can finish my thought, however, Jackie’s talking again.

With an eye roll and a huff, she took her arm from my hand and folded it along with her other one across her chest. “Ugh, grow up, Angel,” she snapped. “We aren’t a normal family. Dad’s a criminal. We are criminals, and criminals don’t get happily ever after’s. We won’t get into heaven, no matter how many times you get told you’re daddy’s little angel. Dad’s a powerful man, and he has enemies, enemies that got too close and Mom paid the price. There was nothing accidental about her death.”

My head started to throb. “I don’t understand—why are you telling me this?”

“Because I’m tired of everyone in this house protecting you from the truth like the little princess,” she growled at me. “It’s annoying. The sooner you realize the truth, the better. Mom’s gone now, so that means I’m the next lady of the house. What I say goes.”

I ignored her last statement. Whatever she wanted to be—in charge, in control, or whatever—I was not going to even acknowledge it. “You have to be wrong,” I insisted.

“I’m not,” she sneered. “It’s because of who he is. Who we are—the Price Family. Syndicate. Read the papers, or better yet—why don’t you just ask Dad?”

“I will,” I snapped, pushing past her and into the hall.

 

Imagine my surprise when it all turned out to be true. The illusion of a normal life, of a normal family with loving parents, came crashing down the day my Mom died—its destruction illustrated by my own sister. It all made sense, then. The rules. The reasons. Dad was a criminal; not just any criminal, though. He was powerful, and that meant that Mom had died because of something he did.

Even if he felt regret, even if he felt sadness, the truth was now in front of my face in a cold casket with a bunch of men in black gathered around. I pinched down my fingers against the outside of my thigh, trying to feel something because everything was quickly growing numb all over again, when a deep voice startled me.

“You shouldn’t do that.” I jumped at the sound of a man and a moment later, the chair next to me creaked under fresh weight. I looked up and up and up some more into a pair of startling blue eyes.

“W-what?”

The man was tall with a straight back, a proud nose, and a sharp jawline. His hair was a sandy blonde, swept away from his face and his eyes were the deepest shade of blue I’d ever seen in my life. I was so mesmerized by them that it was only when he blinked at me that I realized I was staring. He nodded down to my thigh, where my fingers were still lightly rubbing against the sore spot. “Once you start, you won’t be able to stop,” he advised.

I pulled my hand away immediately and faced forward as heat rocketed up my cheeks. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lied.

The corner of the stranger’s mouth tipped upward, and somehow I found that to be even more intimidating than he was before. However, even with that intimidating air, something told me he wasn’t an enemy. My attention continued to follow him out of the corners of my eyes.

“Then let me just offer my condolences.” He gestured to the casket and I saw the black gun strapped to his chest beneath his suit coat. The sight of it made my insides coil.

I could feel the scowl form on my face. “I don’t want your stupid condolences,” I snapped. “Go talk to my Dad or something. Leave me alone.” I folded my arms across my chest, but beneath one, I turned my hand and sunk my fingernails into the underside of my bicep.

The man didn’t get up immediately though. Instead, he turned fully in his seat and looked down at me. “You’re angry, kid,” he said. “I get that, but anger isn’t going to bring her back.”

“Nothing will bring her back,” I pointed out. “So what else can I do but be angry?” Why the hell hadn’t he left yet?

The man’s eyes roved over my face, but I turned away, forcing my own eyes down to the ground so I wouldn’t meet his. “It’s a rough world.” His voice remained clear and even. I still didn’t look up. “If you’re Raffaello’s daughter, then there will be more where this came from. My advice—”

“I didn’t ask for it!” I finally looked up and immediately regretted it.

His eyes weren’t on me at all. In fact, they were somewhere behind me. It wasn’t that, though, that freaked me out—it was the cold look in them. The icy fire grew as he glared at someone, but when I moved to look back, he stopped me with a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t,” he warned quietly.

“W-what?” Looking up at him, I spotted a tiny little sliver of a scar coming out of the neckline of his dress shirt, slightly curved. For some reason, I focused on that scar. Curious and also a little afraid. How many more did he have? Where did he get them?

“Take my advice, kid,” he said. “Don’t let one loss kill you. Life is all about fight and vengeance.”

“Vengeance?” I repeated the word with a little hint of confusion. What did he mean by that? Once again, I tried to turn to look over my shoulder and see what it was he was glaring at, but he stopped me.

“Yes,” he replied, this time grabbing hold of my chin and turning my face forward forcefully. A loud car honked in the distance, making me jump as the man’s eyes returned to mine. “Everyone’s lost someone. The best way to move on is to make sure that whoever took them from you pays.”

“But … I’m too young,” I said.

His lips twitched again and his head bobbed up and down in agreement. “Yes.” His voice rumbled deeper. “But I’m not.”

Before I could ask what he meant, someone behind me shouted and his arms closed around me, dragging me into his chest and then down onto the cold ground as a gun went off and a bullet whizzed over our heads. More shouting. Screaming. A woman yelling. My dad … my dad yelling and cursing. Then the man holding me disappeared. Another gunshot rang in my ears, so loud and so close that I had to cover them with my own hands as tears streamed down my cheeks.

Firm hands lifted me up and the man’s face reappeared in front of me. “Hold on, kid.” I didn’t know why he was asking me to hold on, but for some reason, I didn’t question it. I latched on, wrapping my arms around his shoulders as he started running. I was too big to be carried by an adult, but he acted as if it was nothing, with one hand under my legs and the other around my back.

The weight of the man pressed into my much smaller body and with it, the fresh scent of soap and spicy cologne. My nose wrinkled. It was too much, too strong, and too close. As he shifted, something from his chest touched me and I froze. I knew it for what it was, the outline was too distinctive for me not to recognize it; it was the same gun I’d seen before. Now, though, the weight of such a weapon didn’t scare me. It made me feel safe, just like the arms around me.

Pulling away, I looked into the man’s face and asked for the one thing I thought I didn’t want anymore. I asked for the truth. “Did you kill them?” I asked. “Did you kill the person who murdered my mom?”

The man’s steps slowed to a stop and when I took a look around, I realized we were back in the cemetery parking lot and there were loads of other men in black suits carrying guns. “Not yet,” he said. “But I will.”

Somehow, that one promise was the best condolence I could’ve ever asked for.

end of excerpt