Page 3 of Once Upon A Sale

Appearances are definitely deceiving, because my innocence was ripped away when I was eight-years-old and I realized my father was not the man I thought I knew. It was a few years after that, I figured out why my mom was always miserable, why she never came on vacations or days out. I had thought it was because she didn’t want to, because I was a disappointment to her, but in reality, it was because my father wouldn’t allow her to.

He owned her. She was his literal slave after he bought her from the trafficking ring the girls and I are after. And the day I was due to leave for college is the day she finally committed suicide. The note she left me explained a little about her situation, but it didn’t go into great detail. Basically, she didn’t want to live in his house without me. She had endured my father’s punishments and use of her body in hopes he would continue to treat me like a princess, and because she wanted to see me grow up.

When I realized what was happening, at around the age of eleven, I began investing in myself. In my fighting and weapons abilities. My father was all too happy to fund everything I needed, as long as I was his good little princess for dinners and gatherings. Which, of course, I was. I couldn’t afford to lose out on my inheritance, and I explained my new obsession with fighting as something that a girl like me would need.

The corporate world is generally a man’s playground, and my father agreed that if I was able to handle myself in a fight situation, then I’d be more likely to stand up for myself in a business setting. Lucky for me, he wanted me to be a strong, independent woman.

Unlucky for him, that ultimately led to his death at my hands when I found my mom cowering in the corner of the kitchen after another beating.

I met Caliope—A.K.A. Opie—at college, and after a drunken conversation one night we discovered we had a lot in common. Her uncle had been involved in trafficking and she barely got away from him after her parents died and left her in his custody. We had a mutual hatred, and with her tech skills and my fighting skills, combined with my newly acquired inheritance, we were the perfect team for the first year.

Finding actual traffickers is difficult. I mean, of course it is or the authorities wouldn’t have such a hard time taking them down. But over the years, we’ve worked our way into dangerous circles to gain experience and information, all while I maintain the façade of the life my father left behind. Marco Mancini is one such dangerous acquaintance. He’s the Don of the New York mafia, and has been impressed with my unaliving skills. The head of one of his crews offered Tabby and me a place with them, but we agreed neither of us wants to be tied to someone else’s rules.

Tabatha, on the other hand, was due to be sold to her new master around eight years ago. Opie and I came across her by pure accident when I was doing a job that required my practically undetectable skill set for the Mancinis. She had been beaten, abused, and was severely malnourished. Since then, she’s been one of us.

With three separate homes on my huge property, two of which we built when we decided that proximity was synonymous to safety, we’ve got the best of both worlds: privacy and security. To the outside world, we’re just three friends living our best lives, but in reality, this arrangement is perfect for planning and executing our missions.

I know I’ve spent too long up here reminiscing when I hear shouts from below yelling, “Up on the roof!”

Fuck,I flinch backward, my body tensing as my brain works a million miles a minute. I should’ve left before now instead ofwatching one of the security team members trying to desperately scrub the blood from the sidewalk. I take another peek over the rooftop to see what’s happening on the street below, and as I do, the tallest and bulkiest of the security guards is looking up in my direction. Shit, shit, shit! I need to get out of here.

I know better than this. With all my training and experience, I know to leave as soon as the kill is confirmed. Peeling off my gloves, I grab the empty shell from the ground and quickly dismantle my rifle. After putting it away in the case, I rush toward the exit and head into the apartment building. Two flights down, I go straight to the door facing the elevator, which I can see is on its way up.

This is exactly why the girls and I took a lease out on this apartment when we knew where Roland was going to be. He’s been using the offices opposite this building for about a month now, which is how Opie was finally able to track him down. The exact how is a bit of a blur to me, but once Opie gets her teeth into something, she doesn’t let go. She doesn’t just fall down the rabbit holes, she dives right in, and the one that led her to tonight’s antics was apparently huge.

After unlocking the door, I quickly enter, closing it quietly behind me and carefully placing my rifle case on the floor. It’s highly likely the security guards are using the stairs as well as the elevator, if they’re well trained, that is, so any noise out in the hall could alert them to where the killer they’re searching for has gone.

I’m not getting caught today, though, fuckwads.

Once inside, I remove my black wig and rough up my own blonde hair so it’s not sticking to my head anymore. I’m staying here for the night because it’s far easier than trying to navigate the streets around all the security guys hanging around the building now.

My first task is to set up my small handgun to automatically go off on anyone walking through the door. Making sure the silencer is on, I position a small side-table in front of the entrance and set up my clamps and string to hold it all in place. Once the gun and door are connected, I take a moment to look around.

It’s a furnished one-bedroom apartment, with the living area and kitchen as one open-plan space. There’s a gray three-seater sofa in the center of this room with pine tables to either side, a matching pine coffee table in front of it, and a large TV on the wall.

It’s not the lap of luxury, but it’s actually really nice. Minimal.

After I’ve checked the bedroom and bathroom are clear, I finally relax on the sofa and pull out my cell, heading straight into our group chat.

Me:All settled in. Call you both in the morning.

Opie:When you say morning…

Tabby:Love you, girl.

Opie:Make it after nine and I won’t steal all your coffee before you get home.

Me:Touch my coffee and I’ll disown you. Love you both.

I won’t sleep tonight. Not because I’m scared of being caught, but because the adrenaline pumping through my veins won’t allow it.

I just need to stay here until morning, when I can casually leave with the work commuters disguised by the suit hanging in the closet.

The murder clothes I’m still wearing—as Tabatha calls them—would not help me blend in at all, as much as I wish they would. My black hoodie, black jeans, and heeled Doc Martens would be my outfit every day if I could.

However, living in the heat of Miami is just one of the obstacles in the way of my comfy clothes.

There are shuffles and footsteps outside the door but, luckily, I’ve kept the lights in the apartment off so I don't draw any attention, my eyes having adjusted enough to the dark to do what I need.

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