ONE
Mila
“Princess,what have I always told you about pointing? There are always three fingers pointing back at you.”
Technically, that’s not how aiming a .22 caliber pistol works. One finger is on the trigger, and the rest try hard not to shake while holding this lightweight hunk of metal in place.
But Emil “Bulletproof” Whitman always says shit like this. Lesser men would be pissing themselves. Emil? He’s got quips and misplaced platitudes. Nothing scares him, and no one can seem to manage to kill him. Not his enemies. Not even his friends, who know where he sleeps.
Today, all of that ends.
It’s only the two of us in this treehouse, fifteen feet above my high school graduation party. No witnesses, no bodyguards.
The only question is, will he reach for the gun he keeps strapped to his ankle?
Ten feet below us, two hundred members of the “family” are laughing, dancing, eating, and enjoying themselves. As they should; after all, it is my party, and I planned it to the most minute detail. Oh, but they’re not here for me. The partygoers are all Emil’s tensely-loyal subjects, obligated to make an appearance or face the wrath of a leader who’s gradually becoming increasingly unhinged and unreasonable as the years wear on. Some say he’s too old to rule. But others point out that his father led the outfit like a well-oiled machine until he was 90. No, Emil’s far greedier, more ruthless, and getting messier by the day.
Most of all, he loves to flaunt his wealth.
Bulletproof wanted a huge party to congratulate himself for raising me as if I were his daughter. To pat himself on the back after what he did to my real parents. So I did my best to play along. He was thrilled to hand over the plans to me and spared no expense. I asked for and got an enormous Harry Styles ice sculpture. Same for a tropical fruit arrangement on every table. And for professional fireworks. I got all that, plus a wedding coordinator to time every movement of the day like a freaking train conductor.
Bulletproof’s only intervention in this party is the fifteen private security guards posted around the property’s perimeter. I imagine his usual security goons aren’t too happy with that; hiring outsiders, even from a powerful private firm of highly-paid former black-ops types, is messy. They charge more than what he pays his men. I’m quiet, and that’s how I’ve learned precisely how the sausage is made—all the sausage.
Up here in the treehouse? There’s no room for bodyguards. No third set of eyes. No security cameras. It’s just me and my adoptive father, the most notorious kingpin of organized crime on the Eastern seaboard.
I’m just a girl; what is there for him to be afraid of? Why, I’m only his quiet, meek, terrified ward of the last ten years. He’d have no reason to say no to a private meeting with me here. The man paid no attention to me for ten years when I didn’t turn out to be what he wanted in a daughter. But he loves to put on the mask of a magnanimous father figure when other people are watching.
And yet he didn’t seem surprised when I pulled the .22.
The man is eating his Funfetti cake and commenting on how it’s rude to point at people.
I don’t respond; I’m too busy willing my hands to not sweat, to not drop the gun.
“Where did you get that anyway?” a bemused Bulletproof asks, chuckling. “You hate guns.”
It’s true. Over the years, the fearsome mafia leader has tried to have me trained on his own private shooting range, but I always shirked those lessons.
He had chalked it up to teenage rebellion and my shy nature, but that was all part of my plan. To carry out my revenge, I had to make Bulletproof believe I would never touch a firearm in a million years.
I only needed one person to show me how to put a bullet between someone’s eyes at close range. One trustworthy individual who would never ask questions. Khaz.
A mercenary like Khaz can be a dangerous ally, but he’s the only person in this life I’ve ever loved and trusted besides my parents. His motives have always been clear: making money and keeping his head down. I think that’s why I love him like a grandfather; he wasn’t involved in the power grabs. He’s the least deceitful person in my life.
Khaz didn’t want to know anyone’s reasons for hiring him. He doesn’t care whose side you’re on. He’s a guy who gets shit done.
He would never admit it, but Khaz’s grumpy ass has grown attached to me over the years.
The .22 from Khaz came in a plain package among a large haul of bright, glittering boxes and gift bags loaded with graduation gifts. The presents from well-wishers began appearing at our doorstep in advance of the party earlier in the week. Khaz and I had it all planned out. His gift appeared the morning of the party with a heart-shaped tag and somehow made it past Emil’s explosives experts’ careful scanning.
Khaz sent everything I needed to help me start a new life. Passport, driver’s license, social security card, and birth certificate. Those, I made sure, were in there. I didn’t look too closely at everything else. I stuffed everything in my bag and stashed it in the treehouse early this morning.
Killing my adoptive father might seem like a poor life choice, but I’ve thought it out. I don’t blame the random hitman who fired the bullets that killed my parents, whoever he might be. He was only carrying out orders from Emil. Emil put the hit out on my dad, who couldn’t pay back his gambling debts.
So, for ten years, I’ve been plotting my revenge. Today, I carry it out. I watch Bulletproof shake his head, chuckling like he can’t believe this sweet, quiet teenage girl he knows so well and supposedly loves is messing around with a firearm.
“You can’t tell me what to do anymore,” I tell him, my hand shaking.
The man’s got a fork full of Funfetti cake with vanilla buttercream frosting lifted halfway to his mouth when he freezes.