A lone tear rolls down my clenched cheek, the first one I've shed since she left this world. Three weeks. I haven't cried in three weeks. I didn't have time to cry. I couldn't. If I cried, I feared I'd never stop, that I'd live in a perpetual state of agony. Of grief. Of sadness.
Stop crying. Stop.
I should've let myself feel this loss earlier. Not now. Not when I have five minutes left on break. Not when the bank manager already commented on my smudged make-up. Not when I have to face customers for the next two hours before we close. Just two more hours and I can go home to an empty house. Two hours until I can climb into bed and stay there until my next shift. Two hours. You can do this, Kiara.
Two fucking hours.
With glossy eyes, I scroll through my camera roll, my heart aching as my grandmother's smiling face looks up at me with her signature red lips.
You were all I had left, nana, why'd you have to leave me too? Are you with Mom and Dad right now? Are they happy? How about Grandpa? Is he up there? Did they let him in? He was kind of a dick but I think he made the cut...right?
Tears spill onto my screen, seeping into the crevices. Damn it. Flipping my phone around, I wipe it against my thigh, taking a deep stabilizing breath as the backroom door creaks open.
Shit. Already?
"Kiara!" Bethany, my fifty-year-old manager barks, her shrill voice echoing through the sterile empty room. "Your break is over. I need you up at the front." She narrows her judgemental eyes at my chest, her thin lips pursed. "And button up your blouse. This is a bank, not a brothel. What would your grandmother say if she saw you walking around looking like that?"
She'd probably tell me to unbutton my blouse even further; grandma wasn't a prude, at least not at home. But to the small town of Hawthorne, Granny Anne was a saint and a recluse, barely leaving the house, except for church. She was wary of the outside world, she never even let me go to school. I'll teach you everything you need to know, dear, she'd say to me.
And she did.
With a tight-lipped smile, I fasten the top button of my standardized white blouse. "Better?" I ask, standing up and slipping my phone back into my purse.
"Much," Bethany states, uppity arrogance radiating off her stump body. "I know this is only your first day but you've had a week of training. If you read our employee manual like you said you did, you'd be well versed in our dress code." She takes a purposeful step towards me. "I gave you this job because your grandmother was a dear friend. Don't make me regret it."
I fight the urge to roll my eyes. "And I'm so thankful for this opportunity, Bethany," I say, my tone sweet, grateful, despite the fact I want to smack this priss over the head with a rotary telephone. "You've gone above and beyond to help me, so thank you."
Bethany tosses me a smug smile. "I am a very kind and generous woman," she states matter-of-factly. "It's in my nature to help those in need."
"Yes, you're very kind," I say. People who are kind and generous seldom refer to themselves as such but I'm not interested in starting a confrontation. "I'll get back to work now."
"Go on now," she says, shooing me out of the room. Once she closes the door, I immediately unbutton my shirt. Fuck you, Beth. If she gave me a uniform of the correct size, we wouldn't have this problem.
As I walk past Evie, my only other coworker, to my computer situated on the far counter of the bank, the street lights flicker on, casting shadows of the trees lining the block.
I groan, resting my elbow on the ashy wooden counter, my gaze flickering up to the clock hanging next to the sign that reads Hawthorne United Trust.
God, it's only 6 pm but darkness has enveloped the sky, no hues of color, no evidence of a sunset, just grey dim clouds. It's miserable. Completely dreary. No one's going to come in. Not today.
Why didn't I bring my phone out here? I could've finished watching Les Enfants Du Paradis. I wanted to finish it with granny. But now I'll have to watch it alone. I'll have to watch everything alone.
The next fifteen minutes pass in silence. Evie doesn't talk to me, her attention focused on the game of solitaire she's playing on her computer. I'd play too but it's not fun when you always win. Computers are intelligent but they have flaws. Like humans.
A howling suction of wind draws my attention to the front doors, my eyes narrowing at the tall, handsome man in a beige trenchcoat entering the bank, followed by two shorter, fatter men in his tow.
Great. People.
I straighten out my shoulders as I follow his contemplative cold gaze that's jumping between me and Evie.
Not me. Not me. Not me.
His decisive amber eyes land on mine and he strides towards me, the sharp edge of his stubbled jaw tensed, a barely noticeable sheen of sweat gracing his olive complexion.
I clear my throat, a lack of oxygen in my lungs as he stops in front of me. Crap, he's gorgeous. The two dodgy men stand close behind him, watching him with a hawk-like gaze. Bodyguards?
"Welcome to Hawthorne United, my name is Kiara," I say, swallowing away a ball of nervousness in the back of my throat as he scans my face intently, his eyes dim, almost scared. "Identification and account number please."
"Of course," he says in a thick Italian accent as he reaches into his pocket slowly, carefully, and pulls out a black leather wallet, sliding a driver's license and bank card across the counter, his tattooed knuckles bruised, dry, speckled with....blood? What the- "Here it is, my identification."
I blink, grabbing his ID and angling it against my keyboard, frowning as I type his name into the system. "Alexander Smith?" I ask, raising an inquisitive brow. "Not a lot of Smiths from Northern Italy."
"I beg your pardon?" Mr. Smith asks, his voice hoarse.
"Northern Italy? That's where you're from, right?"
He doesn't look pleased or impressed. "What is it that makes you think I am from Northern Italy?"
"Your accent," I explain, pulling up his file. "I take it you're from Milan? Turin? Genoa?"
"I do not believe that is any of your business," he states, tapping his fingers impatiently against the counter, a sudden air urgency bouncing between our bodies.
"Apologies," I say quietly. Maybe that was rude. Hopefully, he doesn't file a complaint. I need this job. "So...how can I help you today, Mr. Smith?"
He cranes his neck towards the burly men hovering behind him, his teeth clenched. "I would like to access my safety deposit box."
"Oh, okay," I hum, biting my lip. He should've gone to Evie. "I can go get my manager for you. It's my first day, I'm not really sure how to—"
"No," he states, his deep voice startling me as he fishes a brass key out of his pocket. "I would prefer to keep my business here as discreet as possible. That is what this establishment offers, is it not? Discretion?"
"Yes, but—" I pause. "I haven't accessed the vaults before so I don't-"
"It is quite simple," he says in a low hum, methodically rolling the key slowly between his long fingers, his dark eyes flickering across my face. "You take this key—" He holds it up. "Insert it into a lock—" He points it at me, licking his lips. "And twist."
"Oh." Is all that escapes my lips, my breathing shallow.
"So easy—" He pauses as his icy gaze pierces mine. "Unless you are an imbecile, that is."
Wow. I scoff inwardly, ignoring the fact that my cheeks are burning up. Who is this man? So fucking condescending.
"Fine," I say through my teeth, snatching the key from his cocky fingers, angry at myself for finding him so alluring. "Follow me."
I round the corner, waving for Mr. Smith to follow me down the white hallway that leads to the secure vaults, two sets of heavy footsteps echoing behind us.
I pause. "Only authorized personnel can enter the vault, your...associates must wait out here."
Mr. Smith stiffens. "They go where I go," he states in an assertive tone, almost challenging me to refuse him. "I grant them permission."
"Fine," I sigh, clicking my tongue. "But they have to wait outside the vault in the hall. That's the best I can do. I don't want to be fired on my first day."
Mr. Smith glances over to his two friends who toss him a begrudging nod. Maybe they're his bosses. "That will do," he says, motioning down the hallway. "If we can hurry this along, time is of the essence."
"Big Thursday night plans?" I ask, leading him to the secure section of the bank.
"Yes," he says distantly. "Big plans."
Alrighty then. Not a talker I see. We stop in front of a vaulted metal door and I scan my security badge before entering my employee code. The door releases pressurized air before opening.
"After you," he says and I step inside, my eyes scanning the sterile surroundings, hundreds of silver mailbox-like slots stacked in the middle of the room. "It is number 406."
"406?" I hum, searching for the correct section, acutely aware of the whispers coming from the two men lingering outside the vault door that's propped open. They're speaking...Russian?
"This is going better than we thought," one of the men snickers in a language I learned last year. I narrow in on the correct box and unclip my set of keys, opening the first slot and removing a rectangular box. "He is an idiot like his brother."
"Igor will be pleased," the other man replies. "And to think we almost used a real bomb."
My eyes widen, snapping up to Mr. Smith's tensed expression. Bomb?! Oh shit. This is bad. I mentally flip through the employee handbook. Was there a section on this?!
"Sir?" I whisper cautiously, gripping his brass key in my hand, a sense of fear spreading through my body. This isn't good. "Are you here under...duress?"
"What?" he seethes, a flash of panic in his eyes. "Why would you ask such a ridiculous question?"
My all-to-curious gaze drags down the length of his body until I reach his hard chest, the barely noticeable outline of various shapes poking through the large tan trench coat. Holy fuck. My heart hammers.
"Is that a bomb?" I ask, my voice barely a whisper, my palms clamming up, my throat dry.
Mr. Smith's entire person darkens, his eyes blazing with pain, terror, fear. "Just open the fucking box," he spits. "Now."
"What is taking so long?" one of the men calls out. "We are in rush."
Oh God... They're not his friends. Or associates. Or employees. They're—
"The box," he breathes, a hint of desperation in his voice.
"Mhmm," I hum as I grip the key between my fingers and slide it into the safety deposit box, uncertain of what to do. What the fuck do I do? Do I tell him? I should tell him. Or maybe not...
"It's not real," I blurt out as the lock clicks open and I peer up at Mr. Smith through my thick eyelashes. Shit. Maybe I shouldn't have said anything.
"What?" he asks, his lip twitching, leaning his body towards me, his face an inch from mine, so close I could count the faded freckles on his nose "What did you say?"
"The bomb—" I swallow, my gaze darting over his wide shoulders. They're staring at us. "It's not real."
"How do you know?" he asks in a low hum, expertly controlling his body language. "Tell me."
"I- I understand Russian," I explain, forcing a smile in case his apparent kidnappers are sensing that something is wrong. "They said it's not real."
A devilish gleam of relief flashes in his eyes. "You are confident that is what they said?" I press my lips into a thin. Why am I telling him this?! Fuck! "Answer my question."
"Mhmm," I hum my response, unable to lie, unable to tear my eyes away from his full lips. What am I doing?! I should just let them leave and call the fucking police. Idiot.
His eyes harden, clearly not satisfied with my reply. "Yes or no, Kiara?"
"Yes," I breathe, licking my lips, my name rolling off of his smooth tongue acting like a damn sedative. "I'm confident."
Double idiot.
"I see," he whispers, fear dissipating from his frigid eyes, his shoulders relaxing, hardening, like he's reenergized, reborn. He nods towards the box, a ghost of a smile on his scheming face. "Open it."
I hesitate. Why is he—
"I said open the box."
"Okay," I whimper, my knees weak as I lift the metal lid.
Before I have time to react, Mr. Smith reaches inside the container and pulls out a black pistol with a cylindrical attachment on the barrel, a knowing smirk sprawled across his menacing face.
"Grazie, Kiara."
What the fuck?!
He whips his entire body around, his arm extended, firm, as he states in an unwavering tone, "Per mio fratello."
And without hesitation, he fires two soundless shots; both Russian men collapsing on the ground like dominoes, blood gushing from the holes in their foreheads.
"Oh my God!" I shriek, covering my mouth, frozen, unable to move as thick crimson liquid flows over their open eyes and onto the marble floor.
He killed them. They're... They're dead.
Mr. Smith points the gun at the security camera in the corner of the room and fires another shot, grabbing a USB stick out of the deposit box before coiling his murderous fingers around my forearm and tugging me towards the door.
"Exit. Now," he commands, pushing me out of the vault, stepping over the lifeless bodies, and leading me down the hallway towards the emergency exits, the barrel of his pistol pointed against my back.
Oh, I fucked up. I fucked up bad.
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ZOMG. OKAY. If you've read my other books, you know this is NOT my usual vibe. BUT EEP.
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