Chapter 2: Beautiful Beast: Prologue

20 years ago

(Rafael, age 19)

“Clear,” I say into the phone.

A moment later, a man dressed as a maintenance worker exits the exclusive antique and jewelry store at the other end of the long hallway, hurrying toward a door with an emergency exit sign overhead. Even with his baseball hat pulled low, Jemin keeps his head bent and the phone pressed to his ear, trying to hide his face from the multitude of surveillance cameras. The dude is being cautious despite Endri Dushku, the leader of the Albanian Mafia, shelling out a pretty penny to a guy in the mall’s security office to fuck up the video feed for ten minutes.

The moment Jemin disappears from view, I enter the staff-only stairway. “I’m coming down.”

“No,” the voice on the other side orders. “Endri wants a video of the blast. I set the timer for five minutes, so get your camera ready. I’ll be waiting at the garage exit when you’re done.”

I push up my sleeve to take a look at my wristwatch. It’s old, the glass face scratched and the leather strap worn-out. Other than the clothes on my back, it was the only personal item I had with me when my brother and I fled Sicily.

“Fine,” I grumble into the phone and cut the line.

It riles me to no end to follow orders from a pretentious asshole like Jemin, but that shit ends today. The deal I’ve made with the head of the Albanian Mafia expires tonight.

Yesterday, to my utter amazement, Dushku offered me a regular role in the Albanian clan, one that includes all the standard benefits. I was tempted to agree. It would mean security and no shortage of money. But not respect. I would remain nothing more than the Sicilian scum they’d taken in. So, respectfully, I declined the offer.

In the chaotic and violent world of organized crime, very few values are upheld. The sole exception—keeping one’s word. And Endri Dushku keeps his promises. Starting tonight, I’m a free man. With the experience and the underground connections I fostered while working for the Albanians, I can easily earn a living and reach my goals. I promised my brother we’d go back home someday. And I, too, keep my promises.

I just have to finish this job.

Cracking the stairwell door, I keep an eye on the second hand as it makes its way around my wristwatch. The faint ticking is the only sound breaking the silence, bouncing off the concrete walls like a damn whisper inside a high-ceiling chapel. The shopping mall doesn’t open for another couple of hours, so there’s hardly anyone around. Most stores’ employees won’t be arriving anytime soon, and everyone else tends to congregate in more public areas like the food court. This end of the complex is deserted, the perfect condition for setting up the explosives inside the store filled with old trinkets and shiny delicate crap no one born in this century cares about. The owner of the store is old-school and should have known better than to decline the Albanian clan’s “protection.” If he hadn’t refused to pay, Dushku wouldn’t have decided to teach the guy a lesson, starting this week with a bang. The bomb inside the shop will level the fucking thing and destroy the collectibles that are tucked away in a bajillion glass cases.

I’m just setting up my phone to start recording when the happy laughter of a child rings through the mall hallway. My body goes utterly still. There shouldn’t be anyone here right now. Least of all kids.

“I don’t understand why you had to trouble the poor woman to help us before the place even opened.” A female voice drifts toward me. “We could have picked up the dress later.”

“I wasn’t in the mood to deal with the crowds,” a male responds while the pitter-patter of little feet gets closer. “Baby! Come back here!”

“Oh, just let her be.” The woman again. “You know she likes those crystal roses inside the antique shop window. There’s no one around anyway, and you can still see her from here.”

My hand squeezes the edge of the door so hard, the wood cracks. A deafening thump reverberates through my head—my heart beating so fucking loud, it could rival ear-splitting thunder as my brain processes the situation. There isn’t enough time to call Jemin and get him to kill the timer. Even if I do, it’s doubtful he’ll listen to me. He’s never given a shit about collateral damage.

Gleeful giggles echo through the space as a little girl, no more than three years old, dashes past the stairwell, straight toward the lit-up display of the antique store. The store that’ll be blown to smithereens when that incendiary device goes off.

I don’t think—I run.

Adrenaline surges through my veins as I sprint after the child who’s almost halfway to the store at this point, squealing with delight. Her arms lift in front of her, reaching toward the glittering crystal flowers showcased under the pod lights of the display window. Ten feet separate us.

Two voices—the parents—are shouting somewhere behind me. They must be flipping out over a stranger chasing after their daughter, but there’s no time to explain. Those explosives will go off at any moment.

“Stop!” I roar at the top of my lungs.

The girl halts.

Five feet.

She turns around, her eyes meeting mine. Too late. I’m going to be too late to whisk her out of harm’s way.

One foot.

I scoop the girl into my arms just as the loud detonation splits the air.

Pain sears my face and hands as shards of glass pelt my flesh, the sensation so overwhelming that I can’t seem to draw air into my lungs. A plume of smoke and dust swirls around me, as if I’m caught in a fierce whirlwind somewhere in the depths of hell. My arms are shaking, but I keep the little girl pressed to my chest, her head tucked under my chin, and my limbs shielding her back.

Please God, let her be okay.

Everything happened so fast that I didn’t even get a chance to turn around, never mind get her somewhere safe, but she’s so tiny that my body almost completely envelops her. Between the ringing in my head and the blaring of the fire and security alarms, I can’t hear her—no terrified wailing, not even a shuddering breath. But I do hear the pounding of running feet and the woman’s heartbreaking screams.

A tremor runs down my spine, and my right leg folds under me, my knee hitting the floor. The pain is so intense that drawing enough air into my lungs is getting harder with every breath. I don’t have enough strength left to keep myself upright. The only thing I can concentrate on is keeping the girl plastered to my chest. I slide my hand to her cheek and let myself topple sideways to the floor. Immediately, another onslaught of agony stings my face as it hits the glass-covered surface. Jagged fragments pierce the back of my hand that’s still cupping the girl’s cheek, holding her off the hazardous tile.

It can’t have been more than a few seconds since the explosion, but it seems like hours have passed. My vision is getting blurry, everything around me is dissolving into a shapeless haze. Everything except for a pair of wide dark eyes, shining like polished onyx from between the strands of ink-black hair. Blood and smudges mar the girl’s cheeks and forehead, but she’s not crying. Just clutching my shirt and . . . glaring at me. As if she’s annoyed with me for disrupting her playtime. I’d laugh, but I don’t have the energy.

The kid’s unharmed.

I haven’t become a child murderer.

Still just a killer.

Everything around me continues to fade. Is someone screwing around with the lights? The only thing I can see are the girl’s onyx eyes.

But then, they too are gone.