Page 11 of Sinister

Breakfast, the most important meal of the day and all I can stomach is coffee. I stare at the hot liquid in my mug and hear the elevator doors ping.

“Morning!” Rome pads across the room toward me in his gym gear. “This was left for you at reception.” He places a parcel on the table.

Eyeing it with curiosity, I look at the postage label and see it is from back home. Weird. Maybe Saskia sent a care package. Ripping it open, the smell nearly knocks me off my chair. “What the fuck is this?” I look into the box, not daring to touch anything in it.

“Pass it here?” Screwing up his face, Rome tentatively places his hand in the box and pulls the top layer of scrunched up plastic out, throwing it on the floor.

The smell intensifies and I sit back in my chair, afraid of what he’s going to pull out. Watching him carefully grab the outside of the box, he tips it to pour out whatever foul thing is in there.

“Oh my God!” Jumping off the chair, I trip over my own feet and land hard on my ass. The jolt of hitting the hard tiled floor wakes me up enough to know there’s something dead on the table. “What the fuck is it?”

Rome’s eyebrows are drawn together as he holds his t-shirt over his nose to try to deal with the stench. “No fucking idea but stay down there. Don’t come any closer.” Grabbing the spoon I had used to stir my coffee, I see him poking at the package contents.

Climbing back up off the floor, I use the chair as a sort of barrier between me and my smelly parcel. My gaze darts from Rome to the vacuum sealed thing and back. “Do you know what it is?” I lean over tentatively trying to get a better look.

Rome places the spoon under it and flips it over. Facing me is the severed head of Mr. Whiskers. “Holy fuck!” I shriek and scamper backward, hitting my back into the wall. I’m about to pass out when Papa V. comes racing in with his Glock in one hand and a taser in his other.

With wild eyes he scans the room, ensuring he stands in front of me in protection. “What’s going on?” His gruff voice booms through the apartment as he takes in the package on the table. “What the fuck is that smell?”

“Your cat’s head.” Rome waves his hand in front of his face to rid his nose of the smell.

Papa V. takes two large strides to the table, picks up the vacuumed sealed Mr. Whiskers and examines it. Turning it over in his hand, he doesn’t even so much as flinch at its contents or from the smell and I realize he probably deals with a lot more gruesome things in his line of work.

“Who sent this?” He tosses it onto the table without any emotion.

“No idea. It’s come from back home though.” Rome grabs the box Mr. Whiskers came in and pushes it to Papa V., all the while holding his nose.

I haven’t moved an inch as I stand against the wall for support. What kind of sick fuck would kill an innocent animal? I breathe through my mouth as I block my nose and try not to think about poor Mr. Whiskers suffering. Wetness pools in my eyes as I glance at his little head on the table.

Papa V. looks at the box and pauses for a moment. “This is addressed to you, Monroe.”

“Yes.” My voice shakes as I try to come to terms with the death of our family cat.

“What family meeting did I miss?” Sin stalks in fresh from a gym session, towel draped over his shoulders and covered in a sheen of perspiration.

My gaze roams over his tattoos and I spot a few new additions when my attention is snapped back to Papa V.

“Some sick fuck killed our cat and posted his fucking head to Monroe. Now, I know one of you knows what the fuck is going on and you’re going to spill it, or no one leaves this room until you do.” Murder and revenge roll off him in spades.

Raphael Vitiello has an air about him that screams don’t fuck with me. He dominates every room he enters. Being the Don of the Cosa Nostra in the New York chapter gives him many perks as well as many burdens. His loyal men give up their lives for him to rule their kingdom of corruption. I know this personally from the way I used to see my father devote his entire existence to this enigma of a man standing in front of me. His classic mobster looks define his very being, from his slicked back black hair with smattering of grays down to his Italian loafers. He oozes mafia without even trying.

My eyes dart between all three of them before finally resting on Rome, hoping my pleading stare makes him keep his mouth shut. He knows a few details of my stalker, but I’ve kept the information lighthearted and almost as though the whole thing is a big joke.

Sin stops in his tracks, eyes glued to the package on the table. Stalking forward slowly, his wild eyes remain on his dead, childhood cat’s head as he comes to a slow stop a few inches from the edge of the table. Nostrils flaring, his gaze zeroes in on the package, the movement of his jaw highlighting his brewing rage. Slowly he turns to glare at me, abhorrent hatred burning in his gaze. “This is your fucking fault.”

He takes an intimidating step toward me before Papa V. intercepts him. “Calm down. This isn’t anyone’s fault.” Papa V. places a firm hand on his son’s chest and pushes him back a few steps.

I want to slide down the wall and crawl away to go cry in the shower. Mr. Whiskers was my one friend when my parents died, he would curl up next to me and make sure some part of his body was touching mine to let me know he was there.

Rome walks around the table to me and pulls me into his arms. He knows how much that cat meant to me. “It’s okay.” Holding me against him tightly, his hand rubs my back in comfort, and it’s all that is keeping me from breaking down.

Burying my face in his chest, I do all I can not to cry in front of Sin. I’ve never let him see the vulnerable side of me, he doesn’t get the privilege of seeing me break. He would use it as ammunition for the next time he felt the need to torment me. “I fucking hate human beings,” I whisper into Rome’s shirt. I pull away from him and tuck myself under his arm, which now rests lazily over my shoulders. His fingers brush over my skin in gentle circles that almost tickle.

“What’s happening?” Chaser strolls in casually, dressed in his swim shorts and nothing else.

The way these boys treat this six star hotel is hilarious. Often they’ll roam around with no shoes on, shirtless and dripping wet from the pool as though this is their backyard at home. I suppose, when you’ve grown up here and spent many holidays running around as little kids, it would feel like an extension of your home. Especially when you don’t give a shit of what any of the other guests think of you.

“Oh good, the last Amigo has arrived. Step up here, son, we seem to have an issue with no one willing to talk.” Papa V. forces a smile on his face.

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