Page 4 of Dragonfly

Well, no. I had plenty of other reasons to be awake well after lights out—the whispers, the worry, the quiet, all while praying my cellmate would fall asleep first…—but I distracted myself from my nightmares by plotting Damien’s downfall.

Damien… you’d think that I’d want to distance myself from the head of the Libellula Family by calling him by his last name. In the beginning, I did. Making him the target for my rage was inevitable since all I really want to do is take down the gang that cost Georgia her life. I’d go for Libellula himself, and like a house of fucking cards, his Family would topple down.

I’d cut the head off that snake. It doesn’t matter that he didn’t personally target me. Oh, no. He gave the orders, he runs the counterfeiting operation that gives his syndicate all the power, and he was the one I would use to get my revenge.

Would it be easy? No. But I need it. I craved vengeance more than my freedom, and while Georgia was no killer, Savannah would be.

Once out, I got to work—and almost immediately realized I underestimated how hard it would be. While the head Dragonfly himself isn’t a bogeyman like the Devil of Springfield, spoken of in whispers without having a visible presence around the city, just because I could see Libellula, that didn’t mean I could get close to him.

He has bodyguards. Plenty of ‘soldiers’ that seemed to flock to him wherever he goes. Cronies. Occasionally a woman, too, and since it’s always the same young blonde, I figure it has to be his trophy wife.

Figure because, for all of my research on the man, he’s as much a ghost as I am now.

Any and all information beyond his name and age is wiped. Unless you’re a Dragonfly yourself, involved with his tight-knit crime family, there’s nothing to learn about the man through simple online research.

Nope. If I wanted to get to know him enough to take him down, I had to do a little reconnaissance myself.

That was, at least, a little easier. Once the last of my assets were released to me, I used every last penny to get the ball rolling on my new identity. I might hate Portia for turning our cellie arrangement into something that benefitted her and her sense of entitlement, but she did pass along some of her contacts to me on the outside as a thank you for four years of being her bitch.

With the new identity and the last six hundred bucks I had, I bought the shittiest beater that still ran that I could before I managed to upgrade last month. The rideshare company wouldn’t hire an ex-con—even if it was only a misdemeanor on my record—but Savannah has a clean slate. No convictions. No traffic violations. I got the job, and have spent every free moment I have either driving customers around Springfield for a paycheck—or obsessively stalking Damien Libellula.

That’s when I started to call him Damien. From the shadows, from across the street, from the coffee shop opposite one of the gang-owned restaurants on the East End of Springfield, I watched him. I learned everything I could. I studied this man, and I began to think I knew him.

But I couldn’t get close enough. Instead, I had to satisfy my lust for his blood by promising myself soon.

Soon, I would take the gun I bought at the local pawn shop and aim it dead at him.

Soon, I would look him in his pale blue eyes and tell him that he deserves this for what he did to me.

Soon, I would make him realize that his fancy suits and his annoyingly distinguished features and handsome face won’t do a single fucking thing to sway me from my plan.

From my revenge.

Soon, I would kill him—and then, maybe, I can finally move on.

I have to. When it seemed so much easier to just eat a bullet myself, I pushed past the darkness and went to the Springfield Animal Shelter. It might not seem fair to put the weight of my shattered mental health on the back of a three-year-old rescue cat named Orion, but I need something to live for that isn’t just vengeance on a man who has no idea I ever existed.

Who still has no clue after four months of stalking him…

I refuse to hide in the shadows when I pull my trigger. I want him to know why I decided he was the one who needed to sacrifice his life for ruining mine. That’s easier said than done, though, especially since he’s always protected when he’s moving around the city.

And when he isn’t? Mr. Dragonfly is locked-up tight in a large three-floor manor that sits in the middle of a street full of overcrowded apartment buildings that stretch high to the sky. A white building that stands out against the brick and the grime, I know it’s on purpose, too. In the years I was in prison, he got even more powerful. Damien is untouchable, and the fact that he knocked down a complex that housed at least fifty families to build a manor for his own proves that.

It was his way of taunting any law enforcement in the city that might still be on the straight and narrow. A true ‘you can’t fucking get me’ gesture, and everything I’d discovered since I’ve been out only shows that, while he’s cocky, he’s also right.

And I hate that almost as much as I hate him.

I always know when I’m picking up a Dragonfly for a passenger.

It’s not the fact that they’re almost always these brash, blowhards who think they can treat me like shit because I’m a woman, and because I’m their driver. That helps—as does the visible dragonfly tattoo that every single member of the Libellula Family has on their forearms—but so does the vibe they give off.

Plus, you know, the fact that I’ve started to catalogue the ones I see having business with Damien… I’ve got a folder in my phone with names, pictures, every sort of intel that might help me get closer to the mafia leader.

I’ve seen this one around a lot, usually a few steps behind Damien. He’s big and beefy and tall, so tall that I can feel his knees dig into the back of my seat after he maneuvers his muscular body into my car. His hair is cut short to his scalp in a buzzcut that makes him seem ever more intimidating, though he has a deceptively gentle voice as he murmurs a greeting to me as he closes the door behind him.

I’m pretty sure his name is Vincent or Vinnie or something like that. I’ve overheard Damien calling him ‘Vin’, and if I had to guess, he’s one of Damien’s bodyguards.

Peering in my rearview mirror, I can catch a glimpse of the weapon on his hip as he adjusts his position, spreading his legs so that he’s not kneeing me any longer.

---