Page 2 of Death By Chocolate

“Stop,” I interrupt, knowing that anything that starts with “a long time ago” will not work in my favor. I don’t tell Mom about Oscar ‘cause she’ll say he’s too old, too dangerous. Or worse, I’m too young. Silvio is close to my age and a family friend. She likes him for me. But Oscar. Every girl in the city knows his reputation. To be on his arm is ev-ery-thang. “No stories about teenage love or how Daddy stole you away.”

Her hand clenches on the serrated knife handle. She keeps slicing baker’s chocolate, but her smile slips. I’m immediately sorry for mentioning a story she hates. Not that she told me, but I can tell. Mom never talks about how they met. But my father, huh? Luis Alonzo holds court with Fleur and me; she’s six and a half, so baby-ish, and me at his feet, soaking up details of how he stole my mother away from a life of desperation.

They’ve been acting funky with each other for months. Arguing behind closed double doors late into the night. My room is the farthest from the master suite wing, but screaming and cussing carry like smoke, spreading far and thick, choking every time I hear my name. Then, my mother’s cries deafen my father’s torrential downpour of profanity.

Mom points to the slanted wooden block loaded with white-handled cutlery. “Hand me a butcher’s knife.”

I nod, turning my back to do as she instructed. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a blade aimed at my face. In one smooth motion, I shift my body away while I block the serrated blade in my mother’s fist with my forearm. She’s taller, using her height as an advantage to drive me backward.

Relax, Dani, I tell myself.

Maintaining the high block, I stepped out, widening my stance, making it more difficult to take me down. The move throws Mom off balance. Her height and momentum worked to uproot her sure footing. But she still managed to drive her fist into my shoulder. The blow sent me staggering.

“Tap tap,” she says, indicating she’s hit her target—me.

“Ouch,” I screeched. “That hurt.”

“Good,” she shuffles back, giving me room to recover or possibly attack again. “You were distracted.”

Sweat has my t-shirt sticking to my armpits. Heat permeates the space, dampening my skin, the combined oven heat, and personal exertion. I roll my shoulder, then wince. “I’ll have a bruise.”

Mom shrugs. “Pain is a great motivator,” she says, standing taller, signaling an end to this session. “When you’re hurt, tired, or upset, you’ll fall back on your training. Neutralize the threat first. Then you relax.”

I sulk back to my seat, defeated and pouting. I flick a small pile of flour, the mass floats on a powdery cloud toward the closed windows and doors. Mom keeps our training sessions private, even from my sister.

“Why do you teach me all this stuff? Daddy keeps us safe.”

She grunts. “Your Daddy may keep you safe. What I teach you will keep you alive.”

“Duh, Mom,” I shake my head at the absurd comment. “If I’m safe, then I’m alive.”

My mom mutters something I can’t hear. It doesn’t matter. If not Daddy, then Oscar will rescue me. The Alonzo’s respect his business acumen and muscle. I’d overheard my father say as much a dozen times when Oscar and his men visited our estate. He’s twenty-seven with his own house—no, a fortress. His army would save me.

Mom didn’t ask any more questions the rest of the day.

That night, while my parents argued, my beloved took me from my bed. Once we were in flight, he slid his ring on my finger. I was his. Those were the words he whispered in my ear when he kissed me.

I never saw Mom again.

But I remembered her training five years later when I slid a knife across my husband’s throat and sprayed his blood over our white tiles with a smile on my face.

I neutralized the threat, but not the army.

My only options—kill or die trying. Until then, I run.

1

XENO

FIFTEEN YEAR LATER…WHOS MURDER ME BARBIE?

Iwipe my bloodied knuckles on a black towel resting on my desk. Athens’ weather leans temperate in October; the French doors at my back are open, welcoming in the cool breeze before sunrise. I look down at my prey. For him, it’s a final sunset.

“His balls are in the mail. I felt generous,” I say to the roundtable of men watching via secure video link as the life fades from the man bleeding out onto the polished Carrara white marble floor. Dried blood covers his naked body from head to feet. There are thousands of cuts, some shallow, others fileted, covering his skin. His tongue—pieces of—lie next to him, a pallid last meal of small fries that he’s choking on. Contrary to belief, talk is expensive, especially to the right buyer. Unfortunately for this deviant bastard, who accepts unsuspecting girls and women as currency, my price is gruesome death.

“And the flow?” Corso DeLuca, the owner of Washington DC’s premier criminal safe haven, The Governor Hotel, asks.

While I can’t guarantee what information about The Governor’s schematics and defense system has or has not beenreceived by the other families, I can assure there won’t be any more talk coming from the man gasping a final breath before his fall into the eternal abyss. Slow and precise, as I appreciate the art form of a contract kill, slaughtering the body from the soul shouldn’t be rushed. My father taught me that every day, I lived under his authority. The toll is heavy to miss a subtle movement from a downed man, a hidden weapon, or an underestimated opponent.

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