Page 22 of One Kill

“Yeah, I need you to give me undeniable proof so I can get what I need from Gallanos.” A yapping Polo comes running into the office, sliding across the floor and almost knocking himself out against the bookshelf as he side paddles in an effort to correct his trajectory. With a yelp, he shakes his fur out and just as quickly as he arrived, he’s in Marco’s arms getting his full attention like a tiny baby human.

The head of the Mancini mob, who not only orders some gruesome jobs but executes them just the same, is standing here with a tiny ball of fur cuddled against his neck. I don’t get it.

“Polo!” River Mancini walks in like she’s owning a catwalk, her slick, dark gray skirt hugs every curve of her body like a forties pin-up girl while her light salmon blouse gives away just enough cleavage to make my boss lose his grip on sanity.

This is my cue to get the fuck out.

“All right, Boss. I’ll look into the thing and…” He’s barely paying attention to me. Actually, by the way he’s staring at his wife and having some sort of silent conversation with her, I’m guessing he’s forgotten I’m even here.

“Later, Boss.” I don’t bother to say more except when I pass River and smirk. “Good luck with that.” And bythat, I mean, getting out of that office without her clothes getting ripped to pieces.

“My evil plan works every time.” River’s answer makes me chuckle. I fucking love this woman.

“Heard that. Come here.” Speed walking out of his office, I make sure I’m nowhere within ear shot before they start making porn music on his desk.

I guess I’ll be seeing more of Zavier than I had planned.

“Hi! I’m Sophie, I’ll be working with you today and the appointment said to have two stations next to each other, so Carrie will be at the station next to me. First off, do you have a color in mind?” Hallie looks at me expectantly, like my answer to this woman will solve world hunger. Ask me how to dismantle a gun or how to pack a body up into a square box without giving anything away and we’re golden. Nail polish color? Who the fuck knows?

“Black.” It’s brief, but I see it. The woman’s nose ticks up just enough to show me her snob and I resist the urge to punch her in the throat.

“Me too!” That’s right, lady. I’m cool while you’re just a cunt.

“Your dad’s gonna kill me, you know that right? I thought thirteen-year old’s were into pink and purple.” The lady walks over to the middle of the salon where a revolving tower full of nail polish takes up a good chunk of the space. I’m watching her pick out not one but three different black nail polish bottles before she makes her way to the sink and washes her hands.

“Mom, that’s your inner misogyny speaking. Girls don’t have to wear pink or purple, we can wear whatever color we want.” Inner misogyny? What the actual fuck is happening right now? I’ve defied the odds of sexism, fought—literally—my way up the ranks in the fucking mafia and lived to talk about it. I’ve cut off the balls of men groping me without my consent and ripped out the guts—intestines and all—of an asshole who thought I owed him and wanted to collect his loot between my legs.

The color of nail polish doesn’t even make the top one hundred list of what I consider misogyny but… sure, I’ll play the game.

“It’s not about the color, Kid. It’s about the perception of optimism. At thirteen, everything should be seen through rose-colored glasses. Black is reserved for reality and the truth is…” I lean in to whisper in her ear so the other pearl-clutching housewives don’t shit an offended brick. “Reality sucks.”

Sophie comes back with her coworker—Carrie, I assume. They couldn’t be more different. Where Sophie holds a certain type of presence, like she’s used to doing manicures for the Queen of England and not in a mall located next to one of our concrete dump sites, Carrie looks like she’s not a minute older than fifteen. Sitting across the narrow table from Hallie, she pops her gum as she greets my daughter and I swear to fuck, I want to rip her tongue out for her unprofessionalism.

“Sorry.” I didn’t miss Sophie kicking Carrie on the side of her foot, prompting a mumbled apology.

“Okay, so before we begin I’ll need to ask a couple of questions.”

My back immediately straightens. I don’t like questions. I don’t fucking answer questions.

I raise a brow at Sophie, who recoils just enough for me to notice.

“Oh, come on, Mom. It’ll be fun, I promise.” There isn’t a doubt in my mind that I’m going to regret this later.

“What are your questions?” Here we go. I’m not excluding the possibility of lying through my teeth.

Sophie takes a little card from inside the middle drawer of her station and clicks a pen, looking at me with wide eyes like a deer watching the bullet coming straight at her.

“Name and date of birth?” Fuck. Simple questions for anyone else, but a death warrant for me.

“Meaghan Bachmeier. June fifteenth, nineteen eighty-nine.” She wants to ask me questions? Well, I’m not making it easy on her.

“Um, how do you spell that?” Slowly, I spell out my fake name, Hallie’s wide eyes burning a hole in my profile. I’m afraid to face her, not exactly proud of this moment.

“Okay, so an email or telephone number so we can reach you?” Why the fuck would they need to reach me?

“Why? Are you going to call me to make sure my nails aren’t chipped?” I’m snappy, I can’t help it. I hate disappointing Hallie with secrets and lies this early on in our relationship.

“Um, no. It’s just… standard… but… um, okay, we skip that.” Smart girl. “Do you have any medical conditions or allergies we should know about?”

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