Page 3 of Nine of Swords
Running my palms down the side of my black pencil skirt, I push away the adrenaline-fueled knot in my gut and get to work neatening up the mess they made of my spilled purse contents when they tried to attack me in the alleyway behind my office building. Of course, they were no match for me and the switchblade I tucked under the sleeve of my blouse since I noticed one of them tracking me.
I took a moment to stop and give some scheduling instructions to my assistant, Elise, before leaving for the evening. She was her typical chatty self, her chestnut brown ponytail swinging and her light gray eyes wide as she cheerily went on about her dinner plans. I didn’t mind, because it gave me time to subtly assess this stranger now waiting at the elevator bays close to Elise’s desk. I’d never seen him before, yet he emerged from the telecommuting office next to mine with a briefcase in one hand and his cellphone at his ear, seeming to fit right in around here. But he didn’t, and I noticed him right away. Which was why I waited for him to step onto an elevator before I got onto one myself. Like a real amateur, he was hovering around the main floor lobby when I got there, joined by two men, all of them trying to look inconspicuous.
At that point, being outnumbered, I knew it was best to face off with them here instead of giving them a chance to split up and blindside me while they followed me home. I left the building using the more private back exit. There were less cameras out back, each with a narrower range as well as blind spots big enough for me to fight, stab and kick my way out of their grasps when they came at me. Two of them stumbled off supporting the third when I drew blood with my blade, catching him just below his ribcage. They were armed to the tooth, but there’s a difference between packing a weapon and actually using it against a five-foot-one woman who doesn’t seem like much of a threat. Unless their instructions were to keep an eye on me.
I shove the items back into my Coach bag, making a mental tally of every item to be sure I gather them all up. I hail the first available cab I see passing by and head home, ready to take on anyone who tries to make a move on me. When I walk through my condo’s main floor foyer and step onto the elevator, I’m slightly more amped up than usual, but by the time I get to my unit’s private foyer on the thirty-second floor, just one level below the penthouse, I’m back to my usual self. I have no reason to be afraid or angry. I know they’re not the first or the last to come looking for me. Plus, I have no time for emotions. Feelings are for the weak. They’re for those fortunate men and women who have the luxury of time to explore every emotion they experience, because they’re safe and secure. Because they’re not running or hiding or fighting or surviving.
I am not like them. Well, maybe I have some comfort in being as prepared as I can be for every possible thing that can come at me wherever I am.
Either way, my attackers tried. They were crafty sons of bitches, and must’ve paid off some janitorial or facility staff to gain access to my office floor, but they didn’t make it further than one door down my office. So far, no one has ever made it into my home, or to my floor. Which is probably a good thing for them, considering the slew of defensive shit waiting to inflict bodily harm on anyone who makes the mistake of breaking in.
As it’s a Friday night, I set down my purse after locking my front door and open the double doors of my entryway closet, sticking to my weekly routine of unpacking and repacking my GO-bag. Everything is exactly where I left it. As I catch sight of the delicate white gold locket hanging from an inside pocket of the bag, my heart clenches. It doesn’t happen often, but once in a while, I choke up on seeing the little piece of jewelry that holds a tiny photograph of my parents when they were newlyweds.
I can still remember the day Dad presented Mom with this gift at dinner on their anniversary. They opted for an evening in that year. I helped Mom make Dad’s favorite meal, a thick New York sirloin steak with garlic potatoes, steamed asparagus and freshly chopped braised tomatoes. She was bringing out a homemade chocolate cake with fudge frosting for dessert when Dad held out the open red velvet jewelry box that contained the unlatched locket, gleaming as it displayed their wedding photo. Mom was so overcome that she almost dropped the cake from her hands. Then, on instinct, Dad reached forward to stop the impending accident, and the locket flew out of the jewelry box and landed right on top of the cake. My lips quirk into a soft smile as I remember how hard they laughed, and how hard Mom worked to get all the icing off the photo and out of the grooves in the locket’s embellishments. To this day, when I look closely at the slot holding the photo, I can still see the slight imperfections where Mom slid the tip of a safety pin to clear out the frosting.
It wasn’t long after that night that the men came and took their lives as I watched. Lifting the locket out of the bag, I open the clasp, bring the cool metal to my lips, and kiss their picture, hoping for some comfort. Like all the times before, all I feel is the loss. I hear the four popping handgun blasts that stopped their heartbeats and ended their brain activity. They each got a bullet to the temple and one through the chest, both at point blank range. I can still see the blood draining from their gunshot wounds and pooling around their bodies like a barrier keeping me away from them, just out of their reach. Not that the blood stopped me. Once the men left I tucked myself in between their lifeless bodies, begging them to come back to me until paramedics came in with two police officers and pried me away.
I keep the locket at my lips for another few moments, then return it to its spot, refusing to dwell too long on what I lost that night.
4
Sydney
Giving my head a sobering shake,I return the GO-bag to the closet and stand. They were caught off guard, but I won’t be. That night taught me that no one is safe, not even in their home. And I’ll do everything I can to be ready for anyone that comes through my front door looking to end me.
I clear my throat to move the thick lump forming there as I head through my dark living room and kitchen to pour myself some water from the dispenser on the fridge door. But before I can grab a glass from the cupboard, I stop short. The hairs at the back of my neck stand on edge and every muscle along my back stiffen up.
Someone is here.
But how?
Parking the analysis, I use the partial reflection of the metallic refrigerator door to size up what’s out of place behind me. I can only make out the faintest shadow in the corner, but I want to kick myself for letting my guard down and finding myself in this potential disaster. I should’ve turned the lights on. I should’ve been systematic and done a sweep of each room. Hell, I should’ve taken my goddamned shoes off so there’d be a chance he didn’t hear me stomping through my place. But I didn’t. And now, there’s someone standing behind me, possibly with a weapon trained at my back or the back of my skull, ready and able to finish me if I make the wrong move. Hoping for a miracle, I gently allow the switchblade still in the hem of my sleeve to slip down the inside of my forearm past my wrist, gripping the handle. I decide to take the glass out of the cupboard under the guise of acting like I haven’t yet seen him. Maybe that will buy me some time to at least face my attacker while I’m filling the water.
I don’t plan on dying today, but if that’s my fate, so be it. I just want to do some damage and take out whoever is here for me. A tinge of rage mixed in with frustration crawls up my back at the thought. I made a mistake, not checking things out, but this person has no right to be here, camped out in my kitchen, lurking in a corner as he waits for me. He has no business breaching past all the security measures I installed or manually put in place for anyone brave enough to invade my home. But he’s here, and I shirk off the emotion and return to my level-headed state so I can get myself out of this mess.
Except, it may be too late for that. As I pull the cupboard open and lift my hand to grip the first glass I see, I sense movement. This man is here to finish a job that could’ve been done years ago. All because of who I am.
Rowan blood flows through my veins.
I’m the last of a multi-generational family of Irish gangsters, and for that, I’ll be a target until my dying day. No amount of changing my name or moving across state lines will ever change who I am or stop these people from coming after me. My grandfather and great grandfather did wrong all around Chicago, several not so greats before them crossed others in the mother country, and my parents paid for it, even though they had no part in that mayhem-ridden underground life of crime. No, they went to college and found knowledge jobs in the banking sector. But that didn’t stop them from having to pay a part of that karmic debt owed because they had the Rowan name.
Now, the rest of their debt is on my head.
And that’s why my life is fucked.
That’s the reason I will more than likely die a bloody death like a stray dog in the streets.
My heart should be racing, but it seems to slow down. I will fight tooth and nail to survive this day, but I’m calm as I accept my fate. At least I had a decade with my parents and fourteen more years. I got an education and started a career with promise. I made a few friends, kissed a lot of frogs, and had a couple of decent boyfriends along the way. I didn’t fall in love though. That’s one regret. And none of the boys I dated gave me butterflies. It would’ve been nice to feel what that’s like.
But one thing I don’t regret is bringing another Rowan in to this world.
No one else will have this tainted, cursed blood running through their veins, or be forced to always watch their backs or have their lives snuffed out the way mine eventually will be.
I am the last.
There are no other targets.
After me, all debts will be settled.
