Page 1 of Shield and Savior

Prologue

Izzy

Ten Years Ago

My dad is always prepared. He keeps fifteen thousand in cash in the inner lining of the jacket he wears no matter what the weather. Every night, he cleans his gun before going to bed. Oh, and there’s a body bag in the trunk of his car.

I discovered it when I was nine and looking for my soccer cleats. Some other kid might’ve been shocked to their core, needing years of therapy. I was just glad my shoes didn’t have blood on them.

Again.

Nothing fazes him, until now.

On the steps of St. Paul’s Cathedral, below a stained glass of Jesus surrounded by lambs, all my family dresses in black, with guns holstered. None of them are safe, even in a house of God.

My aunt Rita’s tsking lips feel like smacks across my face. “We had such high hopes for you.” She dips her head, leaning in to invade my space. “A woman in this family is only good for one thing.” I want to flinch, but eyes would see any sudden moves. She hisses, “Our future is destroyed because you couldn’t keep your legs shut.”

See, attacks can come from anywhere. Especially family.

My baby is the size of an apple now, and I instinctively put my hand over my stomach, like I can protect its little ears from Rita’s verbal abuse. I’m pretty sure my baby is safe from the rancid gin on her breath. It can’t get fetal alcohol poisoning through air, can it?

As the daughter of a mafia boss who’s a leader in the Four Families Criminal Enterprise, I am powerless. The family has already held extensive meetings concerning what to do aboutthe Izzy Problem. Instead of waiting for them to come up with a solution that means hurting me or my baby—or worse, marrying the loser who caused this crisis to begin with—I’m gonna bounce. I sold some jewelry I got for my confirmation and packed last night.

If it wasn’t for Babushka’s funeral, I would’ve been on the road by now. I need to make it through the next three hours, grab some food at the wake, and vanish into the literal sunset.

“Rita?” my cousin Waverly says in her sugary sweet voice that makes even the hardest of gangsters swoon. She’s my travel companion until I can get to my mom’s family in Alabama.

Aunt Rita smiles at Waverly because she’s the picture of mafia perfection—unassuming, quiet and lovely. “Yes, my dear?”

For the record, Rita has never called me dear in my life.

“Go fuck yourself with a hot curling iron,” Waverly says. Her smile is too bright, too proud for a funeral. Um, okay, this is the first time I’ve ever heard her curse.

Rita presses her hand to her chest. Her tattooed eyebrows shoot as far up as her Botoxed skin allows. “How dare you! In God’s house.”

Waverly pushes the stray strawberry-blond hair that didn’t make it into her braid off her face. She turns her head from side to side then leans in slightly. “I think this is God’s lawn.” She taps her chin as her eyes drift upward, “I mean He’s God, isn’t the whole earth his house? I don’t see why this spot should be special.”

The organ starts, and we walk toward the church. Rita lingers one second longer and spits, “The death of this family will be on your hands,” before she hurries off to go sit with one of her sons.

I wish I had some witty comeback, but Waverly and I walk in silence to our pew.

After “Ava Maria” is finished, our fathers and uncles carry the casket down the aisle. There are a few obligatory sniffles and sobs, watching these hardened men keep their gaze forward, trying not to show any emotion. My dad’s eyes catch mine. He turns away, his mask of an emotionless male exchanged for a rage-filled and disappointed father.

Waverly squeezes my hand again.

As funerals go, Babushka’s is very memorable, but maybe it will etch itself in my memory because I know it’s my last one. Whatever the future holds for our family, I know they don’t want me to be a part of it. Looks like it’s time for me to forge my own future.

ChapterOne

Lance

Present Day

One look at him, and I can feel Delta’s anger in my bones. This isn’t the normal sort of pissed off he walks around with. This time it feels homicidal. He doesn’t have a chip on his shoulder, he has an iceberg. And as coworkers go, he fucking sucks. Delta’s rude to the clients and steals my lunch. Bro, get your own damn yogurt. He’s a hemorrhoid—makes getting shit done painful.

I’m catching the tail end of whatever the hell he’s ranting about, maintaining a safe distance by hovering between the boss’s door and the hallway.

“She’s such a fucking bitch,” he barks as he stalks out of our boss’s office. “She’s got no business being here.”

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