Page 3 of Vice

2

Dele

“Miss Bianchi.”

It takes a few seconds to realize that I’m the one being called. But no one has to know that or could even figure it out. They’d probably just assume I didn’t hear him over the construction.

“What’s up?” I say, glancing at him out the corner of my eye without moving my head. Not that he’d be able to see that with my shades on.

He begins to go over some things that he needs me to sign off on. Some things that came up during the renovations that’s going to cost more than the original estimate. I frankly don’t care. Bella vouched for him, and he seems like an honest man who values his reputation. Still. I don’t interrupt him.

Finally, he stops talking and I fully turn to him, take the pen out his hands, and sign my name.

Addy Bianchi

Well, not really my name. But the identity I’m using so that I can more freely move around to take care of my business in New York City.

Addy Bianchi, the eccentric cousin of Isabella Uccello who came from Italy a few years ago with big dreams and a big pregnant belly. She gave birth to twins, insisted on being with them for their formative years, and, now that they’re in school, has started a luxury haircare line. That the haircare line is off the ground and doing well so far thanks to tapping the right celebrity influencers, including one Crescencia Ferro, the socialite girlfriend of the infamously reclusive Adrian Blake. And now, to expand her business, Addy Bianchi is opening a luxury hair salon where her business model is more than just for men and women to get their hair done. It’s for them to have an experience.

Or whatever the hell slogan the marketing firm I hired came up with.

That’s the story to the public, anyway.

The real story is that I’m Dele Martin. Currently MIA former member of the Soles, a notoriously famous group who positioned themselves as neutral arbiters to keep the most powerful criminal organizations from going to war. And when they failed, did everything to stop the war until Stephen Pray betrayed them, framed them for all the violence and as trying to position themselves as the rulers of the criminal underworld. A projection for his own crimes.

Not to say that the Soles were innocent, but who am I to judge anymore? No one when I’m a drug distributor using this luxury haircare line, this new salon, and a non-profit dedicated to donating high quality wigs to those who have lost their hair to launder my drug money. Maybe someone when I consider that the Soles betrayed me once before they were ever betrayed.

It doesn’t really matter anymore. Right now, everything I do is to take down Stephen Pray. The man who turned the man I love against me, tried to kill the other woman he loved, and will kill the children that woman left behind and who I now claim as my own.

Hence me standing here to take a peek at the construction of my luxury salon.

“Sounds good,” I say as I hand the contractor back the pen. “Keep up the good work.”

When I leave, I’m relieved to be outside where it’s much brighter and my shades actually help me for their designed purpose. Per my cover, Addy Bianchi is an eccentric soul and fashionista with her colorful and flashy dress and signature black shades. Really, the shades are to hide my features so no one will recognize me if I’m accidently caught on camera. That is, if they aren’t thrown off by the fashion taste.

Because back when it was more or less safe (relatively speaking) to be Dele Martin, I wouldn’t have been caught dead in stilettos, jewelry, hats, stylish, colorful dress suits, rompers, and jumpsuits. Stilettos were too hard to run in, jewelry was too loud, hats and stylish, colorful clothing too flashy and attention grabbing for a girl who’s job depended on blending in, not being seen, and not being heard at a moment’s notice.

But Addy Bianchi, with her blonde, beach wavy hair, is the exact opposite of Dele Martin. And, so far, being the exact opposite of who Dele Martin is has worked to keep people from recognizing me. Even amongst company that should. Hiding in plain sight, so to speak.

As I slide into the car waiting to take me to lunch with Bella, Bond, and the children, one of my phones ring. I reach into the inner pocket of my orange blazer and answer without looking at the ID. The ID would only be fake. But even so, there’s only one person who calls me from this phone.

Still, we take precautions.

“Are we still on for dinner?”Viper asks, just as I expect him to.

“Yep. I hear the place we’re going has this exclusive wine. Only make a few bottles a year. It’s best served cold.”

That’s code for everything is going as planned and expected and signals to him that I’m exactly who he expects me to be.

Viper, as usual, immediately gets down to business.

“You need to lay low.”

“Why?”

“Pray is onto you. Well. Not you. But Vicious.”

“What does he know?”

---