♱Recommended Song: Redbone by Childish Gambino♱
Safe to say I had every little girl's dream job.
Traveling to different cities just to be dressed in designer fabrics that you walk down a runway in. I might not be a princess but I was certainly treated like one.
This week's destination was Milan due to fashion week—an overrated fashion event that takes up one week of your calendar in late September.
Ironically enough, while everyone was running around like the earth was on fucking fire—my main job was to remain seated in the chair while my makeup and hair artist did their jobs.
Genuinely, the only downfall to my job was the early mornings and the eating disorder I suffer from.
The model world is shallower than a blow-up kiddie pool, so you better have the looks—or at least have the funds to buy them, and then on top of that a killer body.
Luckily, I checked the first requirement off with my lucky genetics, but the second one was only maintained by a strict diet and somehow growing accustomed to the pang of hunger that settled in my stomach at all times of the day.
But hey, look at where I am now.
One of the most sought-after models and I'm only twenty-two.
"That seems to cover tomorrow's agenda," the brunette woman said, remaining seated at the dining table of my penthouse as she clicked through her laptop for any itinerary updates.
I nodded as I sipped my water, which seemed to feel like my hundredth glass today.
"And we're not beginning hair and makeup until ten?" I questioned, knowing that I was definitely going to go out tonight.
The woman narrowed her emerald eyes, "Yes—but don't do too much, Lundy," my agent said, which was code for, Don't make me clean up your fuck-up again.
Truthfully, I couldn't control what I got into when I went out.
All I knew was that there was this unsatisfying feeling buried in my stomach, and I could never seem to fulfill it.
And trust me, I've tried it all.
Right now, I've just been hooking up with beautiful women, concluding that the feeling dims slightly once I've had a one-night stand.
The odd thing about it is I can't find myself getting remotely attached to anyone—which is also why I've never been in a relationship.
And my first fuck-up was repeating a one-night stand with one of the women on numerous occasions, leaving quite a mess for Lana—my agent—to clean up.
"I won't hook up with the same woman if that's what you're insinuating," I said, smirking slightly as I took a long sip of my water.
Lana laughed, "That's exactly what I'm insinuating," she deadpanned, shaking her head to herself.
I shrugged, "I learned my lesson from the last one, trust me," I emphasized, recalling how badly the woman was obsessed with me.
Lana closed her laptop and stood from her chair, "Do whatever you want, just don't be late tomor—"
But she was quickly cut off when two men covered from head to toe in black—swung into the windows on ropes, shattering the glass completely.
I didn't even have time to process Lana's horrified expression—Instead, I went straight into fight mode, sliding down onto my knees toward one of the masked men.
A grunt left his lips as I jerked his legs out from under him, sending him falling onto his back just as the other man made his way toward me.
I hopped onto both of my feet, ducking down when the man reached for me—only to send a punch straight to his nose.
"Fuck, I forgot how much that hurts," I hissed, shaking my aching hand as the man held his nose.
I lurched for him again, about to finish him off, but I was quickly halted when I heard his familiar voice.
"Let's not kill our own men now, Lundy."
I froze slightly, blinking to myself as I looked around the penthouse—Lana looked completely terrified as she remained stuck in her same stance, clearly taking in what just unfolded.
I probably should've informed her that I'm trained in boxing, kung-fu, military martial arts, and taekwondo—and that's just listing them off the top of my head.
One perk of being raised in a mafia-related family—you get trained from the moment you take your first steps.
"Jesus, Vince, you could've just said you needed me," I said, taking in my older brother's presence at the open doorway of my penthouse.
Vincent smiled, clearly happy to see me, however, his smile slightly dimmed when his dark eyes darted to Lana, "She has to be escorted out," he declared, forcing my brows to furrow.
Somethings wrong.
And it's definitely something involving the Saints.
A mafia that I was kept at arm's length from.
I crossed my arms over my chest, "She can walk," I said defensively.
My brother chuckled, easily making poor Lana flinch, "Of course, she can," he said, taking a step away from the open doorway.
Noticing Lana's clear hesitance, I nodded toward the door, "Trust me, he's a lover boy at heart. He won't hurt you," I assured her, earning a slow nod from my agent.
Vincent narrowed his eyes at me, "Saying things like that ruins my reputation, Lundy," he retorted, clearly not amused by the statement.
I smirked slightly, "Maybe it wouldn't ruin your reputation if you didn't act like one," I argued back. I've always loved good banter.
Vincent only rolled his eyes, knowing it was best to just drop the disagreement given that I would legitimately go back and forth with him for hours.
He walked toward a practically trembling Lana, "My apologies for the scare—you know us Spades love our entrances," he said to her, referring to us by our last name.
I laughed slightly, realizing he was only scaring her further, "Lana, you can leave—this is just sibling business," I said, finally giving her verbal acknowledgment to leave.
Lana quickly grabbed her leather tote bag, "I'll um see you tomorrow," she forced out, quickly walking past Vincent and through the open doorway.
Vincent chuckled to himself as he sat on top of the long dining room table, "I'm a lover boy yet women run the opposite direction of me at any chance they get?" he retorted.
I raised a brow, "That's because you do dumb shit—like sending your crew through my expensive penthouse windows during a meeting," I pointed out, shaking my head as I grabbed the dish towel from the kitchen that was a few feet away, wiping the blood from my bruised knuckles.
The two men that I previously targeted seemed to be completely quiet as they guarded the two broken windows, but it was clear by their sunken posture that I had injured them.
I threw the dish towel onto the marble counters, "What's this about, Vince?" I asked, knowing that something was up.
Vincent grabbed the glass of water that I was just drinking from prior to the violent entrance, "There's a threat against the Saints," he said, casually sipping the water.
I furrowed my brows, "And? Isn't there always a threat?" I pointed out. There's no way he just physically broke into my penthouse to tell me this.
"No, this is an older threat that resurfaced with a mafia that we originally thought was extinct," he corrected me with a sharp brow.
I lazily raised my brows, "That's tough I guess... you couldn't have told me this over the phone?" I said, clearly not taking this seriously.
Vincent rolled his eyes, "Yeah, let me just talk about sensitive information over a phone call that could be monitored—that makes complete sense," he said sarcastically.
"Okay smartass, you got your point across. I've been warned—now if you'll excuse me, I have to get ready," I said, clearly wanting to cut this conversation short.
Vincent nodded, "Of course, the chopper is waiting for us above," he said.
I felt my eyes visibly widen, shaking my head as if I heard him incorrectly.
"Us?" I asked carefully.
There's no way I'm fucking leaving—not with the first day of fashion week beginning tomorrow. That would practically diminish my reputation as a model.
"Yes us—there's a threat against the Saints, which means there's a price on your head," Vincent pointed out, officially taking the stance of my older protective brother.
I narrowed my eyes, "But there's always a threat—no one gives a fuck about me," I said, knowing I'd been fine before, besides I'm highly trained to take care of myself.
Vincent sighed, "Again, this threat is different and much bigger," he said, standing from the dining room table as he straightened out his black button-down, "I'm the boss's right-hand man, so my younger sister is surely not off limits when it comes to a war."
War?
He didn't mention a fucking mafia war prior to all of this—and by the look on his face, it's clear that he wasn't supposed to release that information to me.
I walked toward him, "A war?" I clarified, realizing that there hasn't been a war since... well, before I was born.
Vincent was only two and I was still in the womb, but he still recalls small details of the tragic day.
Vincent took a few steps toward me, meeting me halfway, "Lundy we have to go," he urged impatiently.
I shook my head a few times, "No, fashion week starts tomorrow, I can't—"
"It's handled. Your reputation is ensured to remain intact," Vincent said, and I wasn't even the slightest bit surprised to find out my reputation would be untouched.
The Saints had that kind of power—and I don't just mean money power, especially given that they had excused me from fashion week without any issues. Fashion Houses don't need money, but luckily, the Saints had respect and power that stuck to their name like dried glue.
It was the main reason why they were called the Saints with a reputation of the Holy One.
They were the only ones that people considered to hold the same hand as God—that's how much control they held, especially over someone's life.
"But I can take care of myself," I argued, clearly not wanting to up and leave Milan just to head back to New Orleans.
Talk about a downgrade.
Vincent breathed in a sharp breath, clearly not in the mood for my antics, "Are we going to have to do this the hard way?" he asked, skipping past the argument I was so clearly set on starting.
I narrowed my eyes, looking over to the muscular men standing by the windows, whose posture was no longer slouched, and instead on high alert for my next moves.
I smirked, knowing that I loved a good fight—it was entirely thrilling.
"We both know the hard way is the only way," I said, allowing my smirk to grow.
And with that, the two men pounced toward me just as I met them halfway with a strength of my own.