I answered the call, hands-free, and waited for him to speak.
“Bonsoir, Zed.”
“C’est fait,” I replied curtly.
“Of course it’s done.Tu es monbourreau préféré.”
You are my favourite punisher.
“Don’t I know it,” I said dryly, taking a swift turn on a yellow light, seconds before it turned red. My engine purred and pedestrians watched me wide-eyed, as was the case whenever I drove my car. My windows were extremely tinted, to a point where it was nearly illegal. “Is there another reason for your call,papa?”
I rarely called himpapa. Since my adoption at thirteen, he’d only been Yves. But occasionally, I liked to tease and the word was like a boost of serotonin for him.
“It’s midnight,” he intoned, his voice hoarse from years of smoking.
“So it is.” I put my foot on the gas, going eighty-five in a fifty-kilometre zone, killing the distance towards MacGregor’s bar.
“Happy thirty-fourth birthday, Zeno,” he murmured softly. “Que Dieu te bénisse. Here’s to a year filled with happiness and success in all your future endeavors.Nous sommes fiers de toi.”
I digested his words, raking my fingers through my black hair.
When I remained silent, he added, “Come visit soon, eh? Yourmamanmisses you very much.”
“I will.” I’d do anything for Céline De la Croix. Give her my kidneys too, if need be. “Merci, Yves.”
The call ended and I slid my car into my usual reserved spot at MacGregor’s, cutting off the engine.
I stashed my weapon in my chest holster and chucked off my black leather gloves. The dark smirk on my face was depraved, for lack of a better word, as I caught my own brown-eyed stare in the rear-view mirror.
Nothing settled my soul like providing for my loved ones.
Sliding out of my car, I stood in the deserted parking lot and adjusted my cufflinks. I cracked my knuckles, my neck, and rolled my shoulders back, resetting myself and tossing away the aftermath of a glorious kill.
The tall trees shifted with the night breeze and I paused, inhaling deep.
The prominent note lingering in the air tonight?
Pure fucking justice.
CHAPTER 1
Devil’s Luck
Darla
Ionce heard that fortune favoured the bold.
It favoured the kind of individuals who weren’t afraid of helping themselves to the bigger slice of pie and the most comfortable seat at the table. The kind of individuals who had no qualms about expressing their opinions—no matter how volatile and unabashed—and thrust open every door of opportunity in the name of ambition and drive.
I hadn’t felt bold in years.
Not since my mother made it abundantly clear that my life was carefully planned down to the finest detail. Not since I’d been bullied for expressing myself through a catalogue of wild fashion choices as a child. And not since I graduated high school and traded my pom-poms for demure-coloured ball gowns, red sole heels, a bachelor’s degree in education, and the most respected title a woman on South Side, Montardor, could have at twenty-seven years old.
Principal Hill of St. Victoria High School.
St. Victoria was perched on a grassy hill in the cleft of South Side’s projects and its most prestigious gated community. A motherhouse turned high school over a hundred years ago, its leadership position had always been occupied by a Hill woman. My great-great-grandmother was the first Principal Hill and now I was the latest addition to the collection after my mother passed the torch to me.
In hindsight, I came from a strong line of powerful, opinionated women. And most days I was exceptionally proud of it, but sometimes…sometimes I was exhausted with the upkeep of the Hill name.