Page 2 of The Devil Can Be Kind

My father, even to me, was an imposing man with a short stocky build. His greying black hair was always perfectly slicked back into his preferred style, and he rarely wore anything other than a designer suit.

“How are my ladies doing?” he asked in his deep, gravelly voice before tucking into his food.

“Great, dear,” my mother responded bitterly, clicking away on the laptop still. She was long since past pretending to enjoy her family’s company.

“Adalyn, how was work?”

“It was fine.” I smiled and gulped down another mouthful of spaghetti.

He nodded and continued eating.

“Papa, I was thinking… Maybe I could work at one of our other businesses now that I have more experience. I was thinking maybe one of the casinos? Doing something less admin related maybe…” I looked over at my father who was still chewing his food.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he dismissed. “Instead of working, your efforts should be focused on learning how to keep your own home and how to cook.”

“It is a blight on this family to be as unskilled as you are,” my mother remarked sharply. “It has certainly done you no favours in attracting a husband so far.” Her piercing gaze settled on me with a dissatisfied grimace.

My father waved his hand absentmindedly, “We will have Mabel teach her the basics.”

“And if that doesn’t work? What husband would want her then?” my mother sneered at him. “Perhaps we send her to a proper cooking school. I told you giving her that job was a waste of her time.”

It wasn’t within my power to protest, so I tuned their bickering out as I continued eating instead. Any hope I’d had of attaining a proper career had long since been snuffed out.

It wasn’t my place to want control over my life. I was a woman… and women in the Cosa Nostra had no power. We were meant to be docile, submissive characters performing in a drama of violence directed by men. Nothing more. And while the rest of civilization had inevitably marched on with the times,our little corner of society had remained stagnant in the name of tradition.

My father’s phone began to ring and after looking at the caller ID, he picked up his plate and answered, marching off to his study. I gritted my teeth in quiet frustration.

“Stop frowning, Adalyn. You look ugly.” Mother muttered, taking a gulp of her wine.

“Thank you, Mamma.” I sneered.

“Right, I’m off,” She suddenly jumped up and slammed her laptop lid down.

“Going anywhere interesting?”

“There’s a new bar in town, so Sally and I are going.” She stalked off to the hallway to grab her handbag, heels clicking on the marble floor. “Goodbye!” she called before leaving.

My mother has always been about as motherly as a block of ice.

I quickly finished my food alone and went back upstairs to wait for April to arrive.

Thankfully, she arrived only half an hour later, armed with more than half of her closet in order to get ready for the evening.

April and I became instant best friends back in high school, what with her fast quips and devil-may-care attitude. She was stunningly beautiful with bright green eyes and a tall willowy frame, my absolute opposite in every way.

“I cannot believe it! How the fuck did Bonnie get us into The Venetian Prince?” she gushed while dumping her stuff in my room.

“I know, she’s a gem. She had to sleep with that guy Brad, though, to get us in.” I took a seat at my dresser and began priming my face.

“Brad, the bartender guy? Wow.” She took a seat on the floor and got out her makeup bag.

“I know, I think they are dating now though, so it worked out for the best.” We chuckled at the unlikely love story.

“Let’s hope to God he has some hot-ass friends then,” April cheered.

We spent the next couple of hours getting glammed up, dancing to shamelessly loud music and sinking a few pre-drinks. April had selected a short emerald dress, while I’d slipped on the thin satin number I’d chosen earlier. I threw on my shoes, grabbed a golden clutch bag and declared myself decent.

We walked arm in arm to the car waiting for us in the driveway. To April’s unassuming eyes, it would have seemed like a normal rented chauffeur car, but in reality, it was one of our security cars complete with tinted ballistic windows. She didn’t even take note of the gun tucked into the driver’s waistband as we sang horribly along to the music. People outside of the Cosa Nostra rarely did look too closely in my experience. They were always more trusting.

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