Page 12 of Sinister Devotion

We arrive home where I stand on the veranda of Blackwell Manor, taking in the majesty of the large house. Sprawling green lawns with spear-shaped pine trees patrol around the perimeter for privacy. A cobblestone driveway circles around a fountain with a grand entryway. The sound of lawn mowers reaches me and I realize there's staff on the property today.

Instead of heading inside, I make my way to the side of the house, where a massive garage holds a few of Julian's favorite cars and motorcycles. There's also equipment for the landscaping team to use when they come to tend the grounds. A huge truck with the company's logo sits inside as someone on their team leans against it, eating an apple.

He has to be close to my age with dark hair buzzed short and a shabby tank top that only looks like a tank top because he tore the sleeves off of it. There's a barb-wire tattoo snaking around his arm, and everything about him says danger. He's fucking hot, but not in a sophisticated way like Julian.

Dark brown eyes finally notice me staring. He holds his apple out toward me. "Want a bite, Princess?"

"Um, no, thanks. Who are you?" I ask him, taking a timid step closer.

He shrugs and takes another chomp of the fruit. The way he grins as he lets the juice of the apple run down the side of his mouth makes him look more ridiculous than cocky.

"Devon Shaughnessy, love." He winks at me before the sound of the radio on his hip chirps. He holds up a finger, urging me to keep quiet as he answers it. "Yeah, Tony?"

"Bring the truck around and don't drive over the grass, asshole." The radio chirps to end the relay.

"Duty calls, Princess," he smirks and walks around to the driver's side. I turn to head back into the house, grateful for someone else to think about other than Julian letting me feel him up before running away from me like I'm a love repellant.

The engine roars to life, but then something explodes through the late afternoon air. The screams escape me as I dive to the ground. Fear shakes my body from the inside out and has me trembling in a fetal position. The heat of the tears streaming down my cheeks are a stark reminder of why I live with Julian in the first place.

I can hear my father's voice from the darkness of my memories…

"Please, you can take the car. Just let me grab my daughter. She's asleep in the back seat. Please…"

The sobs of a man begging for the life of his child are silenced by three gunshots that jolt me to full alert inside the car. I can feel the angry grip of someone pulling me from the back seat and tossing me onto my father's bleeding body. His cold lifeless eyes stare at me as I hug him tight, begging for him to get up as someone speeds off in our car.

I don't know how long I'm stuck in my memories, but the moment I feel hands touching my shoulder, instincts kick in. Anger and a need to protect myself take over to replace my fears as I grab the hand and twist it at the wrist.

"Shit, for fuck and Christ, let go of me!" Devon shouts as I hurl him to the ground, and back away. He yells at me, grabbing his wrist with pain in his glare. "Who the fuck are you? The Transporter? What the fuck? It was just the truck backfiring. I'm sorry."

He puts his hands up to indicate he meant no harm as Bonnie comes running to my aid with her weapon drawn. Devon scoots further away with his palms in the air toward us.

"Listen, listen, I don't know what Kill Bill shit I walked in on, but I'm sorry. I was just trying to help her." Devon pleads with Bonnie as she glances at me.

"You okay, Claire?" Bonnie's voice helps calm me down, but my pulse is still racing.

"I'm good, just a little shook up, Bonnie." I tell her and look at Devon. "Shit, I'm sorry."

Bonnie holsters her gun and waits for Devon to get up. He tips his head toward us both. "It's cool. They just need me to bring the truck around back. Cool? Can I go do my job?"

Bonnie nods. "Yeah, get out of here. Come on, Claire. Let's get you inside."

I follow her into the house, where I can't stop shaking. She pulls me into her arms and allows me to cry my eyes out. Eventually I make it to my bedroom where the tears finally stop, but I need to see them, my parents. Inside a bureau with a stuffed lavender rabbit, that's no longer lavender, there's a tablet full of memories I only pull out in case of emergency.

Videos from days after my mother found out she was sick. Some have my father in it, but not as many because unlike her, he didn't know his time was coming. The sound of her voice is as soft as a morning breeze. It brings a different kind of tear to my eyes. Longing for what I never had. I only wish there was a way to capture the way her hugs felt. To be held in her arms so I can remember. I want to remember so badly, but I can't.

I peel myself out of my clothes and fall asleep crying to the sound of my mother telling me bedtime stories as she holds a tiny version of me in her arms. I’m jealous of me as a baby because that version of Claire gets a mother who loves her, cares about her, and today? Today I'm being told by someone else's mother to get out of their son's life.

6

JULIAN

Armande Marzano is only older than me by fifteen years or so. As my mother's younger brother, she looks after him like she would a son who didn't choose to stay with their father after the divorce.

In some ways, I envy Armande's ability to move in the shadows as Don Marzano. However, there's a point where he has to understand that simply because I'm the CEO of Nuvola Scura, I'm the very embodiment of what that name means. I move like a dark cloud because I'm close enough to my mob family, but my reputation is closer to my corporate life than the criminal side. No one wants the storm that comes with pissing me off, in business or otherwise.

"The businesses you're buying, not so discreetly, are shaking things up for me, Julian." There's a bite of anger in his voice, mixing with exhaustion and frustration. As a man in his fifties, Armande shouldn't be balding, but his life is stressful. The white strands remaining accompany the scars on his face and hands, illustrating a life of hard choices and cold decisions.

"I don't understand how that information is coming back to me." I tell him. "I have shell companies buying shell companies?—"

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