I knew I was different from other girls that growing up with the Satan’s Knights set me apart and put me in a box all by myself. What I didn’t know is that it made me just like them. Something I didn’t realize until I was face to face with Satan himself.
He didn’t have horns.
There were no flames climbing up his feet.
In fact, if I had seen him on the street I probably wouldn’t have paid much mind to him. Well, except maybe for his shoes. I would’ve noticed his shiny loafers just as I did the moment he barged into my uncle’s house.
Standing in the living room, cleaning the mess the lockdown left behind, I turned when I heard the door open. There was no intrusion, the man simply turned the knob and let himself in. At first, I thought it was Linc or maybe my uncle. It could’ve been anyone of my cousins too.
But, it was the man with the polished shoes. The shoes that shined like a mirror, displaying his reflection clear as day. Two men followed him inside the house. One made his way up the stairs while the other headed straight toward the kitchen.
“Where is he?” he questioned.
It was the thick accent that gave him away.
“Where is who?” I asked, calmly.
Another girl would’ve frozen. She may have even cried and begged for a pardon. I continued to pick up empty cans of soda. Collecting the trash and recovering lost toys the kids had left behind. I fluffed the pillows on the couch and straightened the picture frames on the end table.
“All clear,” the man upstairs called.
“One more time, where is he?”
Lifting my head, I narrowed my eyes as I tied the ends of the garbage bag.
“You’re going to have to be more specific,” I deadpanned. There was not a hint of fear in my voice. I was calm, cool and collected. A seasoned member of the Satan’s Knights motorcycle club. I had seen men like him before. I had stood beside the graves of victims like his. I knew never to breach the code of brotherhood.
Death before dishonor.
“Where is Cain’s son?” the Russian sneered.
“I don’t know who you’re talking about,” the lie drifts past my lips like a rehearsed script.
Smooth and convincing.
On the outside, I was holding my own.
On the inside, I was dying.
A song played far in the distance.
Another tragic chord.
A pair of footsteps sounded behind Satan and again, my eyes drifted to the floor. Joining the shiny loafers was a pair of Jordan’s. Fresh out of the box, the laces tucked behind the tongue.
Nico.
“What the fuck is this?” he barked, staring into Satan’s eyes.
The control slipped.
My perfect mask fell from my face as the devil reached into his suit jacket.
My feet moved.
They didn’t fail me like the rest of my body.
Running toward him, I lifted the lamp from the end table as Yankovich produced his gun and aimed it at Nico.
The familiar sound of gunfire echoed off the walls of my uncle’s house. But, it wasn’t Yankovich’s gun that was smoking. The bullet flew from the top of the stairs, piercing Nico’s chest. The lamp fell from my hand, shattering against the floor as Nico’s eyes widened. Instinctively, he lifted his hands to his chest and stared at the blood staining his fingers.
“Grab her,” Yankovich ordered as my poor cousin fell to his knees.
My voice died as an arm wrapped around my neck and pulled my back against a hard chest. Expensive cologne assaulted my senses as the scream sat idle in the back of my throat—the script changed.
“What are we going to do with her, Igor?” the man choking me asked. “Vladimir wants the son.”
“And, the son he shall get,” Igor crooned, stepping closer to me. “Have you ever heard of Shakespeare?” he questioned, meeting the eyes of the man holding me. “It’s time to set the altar for Romeo and Juliet’s final act.”
The lights dimmed.
The curtain fell closed.
The last scene.
The final act.
The altar was set.
My tomb sat in the solarium of Vladimir Yankovich’s mansion.
Naked and bound to a diving board, I wait for my Romeo to arrive.