Page 6 of Dragonfly

Right, and if he keeps digging, odds are he might notice my gun sooner or later. “I’m sure. Thanks anyway. Besides, look. The light’s green now and your destination is only two blocks away.”

As I turn and start moving the car forward, he straightens up in his seat for a moment before I see him lean down again. Figuring he’s the type of guy who can’t leave well enough alone, he adjusts my purse so that it’s not on its side anymore. Probably so nothing else falls out.

He never returns to his phone call. He must’ve disconnected it when I almost crashed, or maybe the other caller is just waiting for him to get back on the line. Either way, the rest of the car ride is silent until I pull up in front of his destination.

I’m not surprised when he climbs out of the car without even a ‘take care’. Honestly, so long as he pays for the ride, it doesn’t matter. I’m annoyed with myself for the near-accident, and even more frustrated when the big guy goes inside of the building with no sign that Damien Libellula is near.

Just in case, I decide to take a spin around the block. There’s a parking lot behind the large building. Damien’s flashy red car—with the vanity plate DRGNFLY—is unmistakable. I’ll feel better if I check to see if it’s there.

And if it is…

Once I’ve turned the first corner, giving me a line into the lot, I pull over again. Reaching into the back, I gather up my purse. Part of me wants to go through it just to organize it after my passenger threw everything back in, while the other part won’t feel at ease until I know I have my gun in case the opportunity to take out Damien reveals itself.

I now own an inky black Glock G43X. It’s a subcompact gun, a real pocket pistol perfect for concealed carry. I don’t have a permit for it, obviously, and I got it for two hundred bucks at a pawn shop that only cared if I had the cash for it. It weighs about a pound and a half loaded and usually sinks to the bottom of my purse.

That’s why I’m not too worried when I don’t see it right away. Beneath the mountain of receipts, scraps of paper with notes, my sunglasses, some tampons, my wallet, and the loose cough drops I keep in my bag, it could be buried all the way at the bottom. Only… it’s not.

Panic wells up in me. Dumping every single thing out of my purse onto the passenger seat, I go through it all, searching for the gun.

Nothing.

Okay. Calm down. My shit spilled. I almost rear-ended that SUV. Maybe my gun went under the seat. I unfasten the seatbelt before diving into the back, frantically shoving my hands under the passenger seat.

When I don’t find it, I grab my phone. Using the flashlight, I hope it’ll wink off the dark enclosure.

Still nothing, and I have to admit what I knew from the moment I emptied my bag.

My gun is gone.

THREE

MINE

DAMIEN

Something I’ve learned over the years is how easily a perfectly cooked rib-eye steak and a nice Malbec can blunt the murderous edges of even the most ruthless of gangsters.

My Family owns Il Sogno, an upscale ristorante in the heart of Dragonfly territory on the East End. Whenever I meet with the head of the Sinners Syndicate, we alternate between his turf and mine. Tonight it was my turn to host, and the staff didn’t disappoint. Dinner was delicious as usual.

Company was better than I expected, too.

Lincoln leans back into his seat, legs spread as one hand sprawls out lazily on the tabletop. The other is hidden beneath it, no doubt on the Sig Sauer that is his constant companion. His dark eyes aren’t as narrowed and suspicious as they usually are, though I’m not fooled. The Devil of Springfield will never be truly relaxed when he’s the only Sinner visiting his old friend turned years-long rival.

Smart man.

Technically speaking, we have a truce. My counterpart on the West Side agreed to it last summer, nearly nine months ago, but we’re both very aware that he was manipulated into giving me what I wanted.

Holding his beloved bride at gunpoint while I suggested the Sinners Syndicate join up with my Family might have been a little… much, but when the safety of my family was on the line, there isn’t any length I won’t go to to protect those I care about. Proving that my old friend still thought similarly enough to me, Lincoln gave me what I wanted in order to save his wife.

Ava Crewes was never in any danger. I might be jealous of what Lincoln found in his Saint Ava—the woman he was willing to sacrifice everything for—but she was just another pawn in the game of chess I’ve been playing for more than a decade now.

From the moment I formed the Libellula Family, marking the East End of this seedy city as our turf, there’s only one thing I’ve ever wanted: security and safety for anyone who shares my surname. Money provided that. So did loyalty from every soul branded with a dragonfly. Joining up with Lincoln and his aptly-named Sinners? To combine our might and block any threats to our power and control, I’d do worse than rekindle the friendship we once had.

So long as I never forget for a moment that he’s visualizing hacking my head off the stump of my neck before twisting it off with his bare hands as he slices into his steak, that is… and since it’s been nine months and Lincoln isn’t any closer to forgiving me for using his wife as leverage to get what I want, I haven’t.

Still, we fake it. Because if I’m fanatical about protecting those under my care, that’s at least one thing I still have in common with Lincoln. Especially now that Ava is only months away from giving birth to Lincoln’s child, nothing will keep him from stamping out any and all threats. If he really thought I’d go after his family, I’d be eating his Sig Sauer right now instead of dipping my spoon into the tiramisu set down in front of me as Lincoln watches me enjoy my dessert.

He snorts. “Any day now, Damien. I get why you insist on these monthly meets to check in, but I’d like to get back home to my wife before my kid’s in fucking college.”

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