Page 2 of Pretty Little Threats

Strangers are dangerous.

“No, baby, you won’t have to have one.”

And I know it’s true. My daddy always keeps his promises.

Always.

“I love you,” I tell him around a yawn.

“Time for you to go back to bed. Tomorrow, I’ll teach you how to conquer that fear.”

My eyes grow heavy. I sleepily watch him walk to the door, smiling at him as he reaches for the light. “Thanks for protecting me.”

one

ROSE

There’ssomething cathartic about my pencil scraping over the drawing paper. Maybe it’s because the steady scratch of lead gives me a sense of purpose. Here, in my element, where every shape is formed at my command, I’m in control.

I can’t say the same about my life as the daughter of the chair of the board to the largest financial conglomerate in the United States. My destiny has always been in the hands of another, devoted to something bigger than my own desires. I know I’m lucky, but sometimes, the possibilities of who I could have been, had I strayed from my designated path, creates a hollowness inside of me.

A void that board meetings, moving up the corporate ladder, and approving pats on the back from my dad can’t fill.

I’ve accomplished so much. Things people in my world would say are the bare minimums to success—a master’s degree, a nice house, a job with potential if only I work hardenough. I should feel proud, and in a way, I am, but a bit of pride doesn’t prevent the terrible sadness that looms over the moments I have to myself. Almost as if the storm knows to wait until I’m vulnerable to unleash its full strength, forcing me to weather the feelings I bottle up every other second of the day.

Drawing helps. It gives me what I wouldn’t otherwise have—something of my own to look forward to. I can lose myself in my creations, and the portrait of a woman standing stagnant in a crowd of blurred figures rushing by is my latest escape.

Pausing, I study the piece.

How many other people in the world feel this way? Like they’re present and accounted for, but never quite seen or understood in the way that really matters. They’re known for their work and how dedicated they are, but not for the way they catch the light just right in their drawings or the way they smile when the sunrise catches the ripple of clouds and turns them pink. No. Most of society doesn’t have time for stuff like that.

So, I take my little moments, embracing the part of myself I haven’t lost to work and the dream my dad built.

A waitress stops by my table and refills my coffee, the rich and bitter aroma wrapping around me in a comforting hug. Sadness aside, it’s a perfectly relaxing morning. The bakery air is thick with a blend of freshly baked bread, coffee, and vanilla.

The scene is peaceful, which is perfect for my creativity. I reposition my pencil on the paper, but the bell on the door jingles before I can get lost in the drawing again, and I glance up. The six-foot-tall tattooed man prowling through the door ruins any chance of tranquility. With blond hair ruffled by the wind, a perfect jawline,strong nose, and eyes that shimmer with violence, Darian Richardson paints a fearsome picture.

As if sensing the predator in its midst, the atmosphere charges, crackling over my skin as he scans the bakery, taking in each worn table and patron until he finds me at the table tucked in the corner.

A chill runs down my spine, and I suck in a sharp breath. Holding his gaze is like staring a starving wolf in the eye. It’s not a good idea. Even though I’m probably in more danger than I realize, I can’t look away. My stomach clenches under his scrutiny, my hackles rising. His brown irises are dark and cold, but that’s to be expected.

The Beast of NYC has no heart to speak of.

The status of his soul is up for debate.

Some say he sold it to the devil in exchange for power. Those fantastical tales are silly. I think he lost it the day he murdered his parents and took control of their company. Either way, he’s a terror, and his favorite pastime is pissing off my dad. Be it buying up every share of my family’s company that he can get his hands on, throwing board votes, or disrupting smaller businesses within the conglomerate that is JD Miller & Co, he’s caused more trouble in the last few years than should be allowed. But we haven’t found a way to push him out.

It’s why I’m here.

The private investigator I hired spent close to a year following Darian, searching for any sign of weakness. I know where he lives—in Hudson Yards—how often he fucks—oddly enough, not a lot—and where his spare house is located—tucked away in the Adirondacks. But none of that helped me. It took a year of waiting and watching. Now, I finally know what’ll tame the Beast of NYC.

Frank’s Bakery, a staple storefront located in the UpperWest Side, is the kryptonite I’ve been searching for. The thing I don’t understand is what this place means to Darian. Why he’s carrying the business. Why he cares about anything, when he killed three men in cold blood last year.

At least, that’s what the rumor mills claim. The police couldn’t find any evidence. I don’t know how he gets away with it every time, but like Dad always says, money can buy you a lot of things, like loyalty from New York’s finest, high-powered lawyers, or freedom from the law.

How does Darian sleep at night with such bloody hands?

There’s no point in trying to understand a monster like him.

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