"When we promised to love each other till death do us part, I never thought death would come so soon."
They call her Justice and it's probably because she takes the law into her own hands, dishing out whatever she wants to whoever she wants. At just...
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Vignale Enterprises is the kind of business that you know is run by a bunch of rich assholes.
It's in the dead center of Michigan Avenue, surrounded by hundreds of other commercial businesses. The one and only thing that's different about Vignale Enterprises is the fact that it's completely illegal. It's a front used for money laundering, but only a handful of people know that.
If I wasn't such a heartless bitch, I might feel bad for all of the investors that are being bamboozled out of their hard earned money. Then again, they might exact their revenge by hiring me to kill Nevio's father, Martino Vignale.
It would be my absolute pleasure to annihilate both of them, but for now, I have to work alongside Martino Vignale.
I park the rented car in front of his business, not caring if it gets towed or not. There are thousands of vehicles where this one came from. And if I really need one, I'll just steal it.
Crossing the busy street, I make my way toward the skyscraper that houses Vignale Enterprises. There are twenty-one floors to this gigantic office building. It's made out of clear glass and silver steel. It's so polished that it burns the back of your eyes thanks to the glare of the sun. Needless to say, I wish I would've worn sunglasses.
Stepping into the vast lobby, I'm greeted by a woman at the front desk. Her hair is artificially blonde and so is her golden tan. Despite the Barbie vibe that's oozing off of her, she doesn't seem as fake as she looks. It's like she's playing a part. As if she's an actor and none of this is real.
"Good morning, Miss..."
I don't let her finish her sentence when I say, "I'm here to see Martino Vignale."
"Well, do you have an appointment?" She arches a groomed brow in my direction, her hands typing away at a sleek desktop computer. When I don't answer her question, she decides to try again. "Can I get your name at least?"
"I don't have an appointment and I don't need one." I reply formidably. "And my name is irrelevant."
She stares at me with wide eyes, her mouth hanging agape. I guess it's not every day that people saunter off into this business, demanding to see the well-known and well-respected Mr. Vignale. Most people have to wait six months to get a meeting with him, but I'm not most people. I'll see him today even if it kills me, which it very well might.
"You can't see Mr. Vignale without an appointment. There's just no way that's plausible." Her voice has taken on an angry undertone as if she's totally over this conversation. "He's a very busy man. It takes months to pencil in a fifteen-minute meeting. If you want to see him, schedule an appointment today. Then, you can come back..."
