𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐊

𝟗 | 𝐀𝐍 𝐔𝐍𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐓𝐇𝐘 𝐎𝐁𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍

𝐁𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐃𝐈𝐅𝐈𝐄𝐒 𝐌𝐘 𝐂𝐔𝐅𝐅𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐒 on my right hand while I use my left to tinker with my black bowtie. Esmeralda's loud inhale of our fresh cocaine supply rings in my ears as I brush a few pieces of hair into my face, partially hiding the white scar jutting across my cheek and forehead.

The green emeralds on my wrist match well with the color of my eyes as my operations leader clasps his hand in a few light taps over it and lets me know he's finished. Blaine's long, black hair is half-up, half-down—his eyebrow piercing glinting underneath the low lightening and igniting the equivocality in his black suit as he takes a step away from me and meets an acquaintance with his wife, Eden, who is dressed in a luxurious floor-length, black gown.

Esmeralda wipes her nose with the back of her hand and moves from her chair, slinking over to join me in the reflection of the mirror. Her heels bring her to my chin, giving her the occasion to mess with the hair I'd just fussed with. She pokes her lip out in combative pouting at my scowl while she moves my hair back to a fixed position.

"Don't hide," she says gently.

"I don't," I reply, knowing damn well that I do.

Esmeralda doesn't comment.

Her hands deescalate my face and slowly fall against the rounded flatness of my shoulders. I take a second to breathe—inhale and exhale—while she rubs the brunt of her thumbs into my blades. She tells me without words to calm down, that this meeting is simply that—a business meeting, and I thank her for her kind attention in my head.

My right-hand woman is a lot to handle. She's certifiably ridiculous and has no problem drinking spilled blood or playing patty-cake with detached hands, but she is everything to me. Because, underneath all that craziness, is just a girl who was thrown into the mafia too young. Underneath her actions is just a woman who knows me better than anyone else.

She is who I am most grateful for.

She has never left my side, not even once.

"So, what is the plan for tonight?" Eden asks me.

I open my eyes and respire at the same time Esmeralda finishes her massage and takes a pace away. She bends over in front of me and fixes the edges of her lipstick in the mirror while I give my full responsiveness to my bravest and most important fighter.

Eden's blonde curls bounce around her chin as she tilts her head and recalls me. Her pitch-black eyes are haunting in the way that they are the gates of paradise for dead flowers and butterflies. Sometimes I tend to forget that she is more than just my weapon.

"Eat," I shrug.

"Business wise," she contends.

I sigh and run another hand through my hair, not bothering to care when I ruin Esmeralda's work. I take a few steps away from the mirror and grab the rolled-up twenty. I play with the money between the pads of my pointer and thumb and deliberate.