Page 3 of His Deadly Lies

“It’s a skill,” I correct Sherry. “It’s a lot of practice.”

She isn’t prying. She was complimenting me. But I make a mental note to be more careful calling out the pricks who hit on me here, at least for a little bit.

“It’s a skill I’m going to need you to teach me.” Sherry adjusts the jaunty set of the black bowtie Uncle Henry forces his employees to wear at Meridian. “It’s hard to know the fakes from the good guys. We don’t get a lot of real bad dudes here, but there’s always a few in a crowd, you know?”

“Oh, that’s easy.” I wave her away. “You assume there are no good guys.”

I’m a pretty face, which has won me more than the wit inside my skull. The intelligence and practice allow me to monitor body language, look for clues over lies. The inside of my head is a constantly churning machine, and the machine can only work when I’m able to take people by surprise. Otherwise, no one pays me any mind.

Papa’s empire benefits from the deadly combination. At least, it does when the lowlifes aren’t trying to push my skirt up to my hips.

It’s the same one I’ll inherit one day if I can keep stomaching dealing with the assholes who want to claw their way up from the bottom. Ones with ambition or money or good, old-fashioned charm.

They want what the Balestra family has, and one way to do it is by getting to me.

The one with the microdick? Hard to say where his motivations really lie.

I raise my finger to Sherry to get her attention and reach into the small clutch on my lap, drawing out a hundred, making sure she sees me slip the bill under my too-soon empty glass. I have a two-drink maximum each time I’m dispatched to the club.

Two, max, like I’m some kind of fucking child.

Sherry nods and starts to make my third after covertly slipping the hundie into her cleavage.

I figure that buying her with tips may gain me a small shred of loyalty, all for my own, and she’ll keep her mouth shut. I’ll nurse the third drink until I get the text that it’s time to check the shipment, quickly, and leave.

Home.

Crawl into comfortable clothes and out of the beyond-impressive dress painted over my body. I drag the dagger back into its holster with a sigh.

My mother’s body, I think in distant disgust. It’s all thanks to her that I’m built the way I am, and she never lets me forget it, either.

Nicola Balestra is still a beauty, fifty-two years old, with the blood of old Italy in her veins keeping her skin youthful and mostly wrinkle-free.

She’s made me into a mirror of her from her younger days, all long black hair, gold skin, and makeup. Most of the time, when I’m sent to Uncle Henry’s club, I don’t mind the task. Tonight it irks me. Tonight the sensation of eyes on me is nothing but ants crawling over my skin as I take a sip from my fresh martini.

Sherry sure does know how to make them.

No one here has the skill she has.

Even though she’s paid to be kind to me.

To kiss my ass, the same way that everyone here is required to kiss my ass.

I take that one single sip before the phone in my clutch buzzes. I drag it out to a message with a single text.

SOS. Dead on Arrival.

I roll my eyes. “Sorry about this.” I drink the rest of the martini in two gulps. I'm not sure whether I’m apologizing to Sherry for guzzling the drink like a teen or to myself for having to rush out instead of enjoying it.

So much for nursing the drink.

It’s time to get to work.

I flash Sherry an apologetic smile before smoothing my mask back in place, the icy queen who rules over this place. The walk-in cooler in the kitchen disguises a long, well-lit hallway toward the real base of operations here at the Vanguard.

Then it’s time to make my mark.

The two men standing in front of the unmarked wooden crate start to visibly shake at the sound of my sky-high heels tapping against the floor. I see both of them clearly through the small square plexiglass window taking up the top third of the door. My driver Rafel, who has been with me for years, steps ahead of me and holds the door open for me to waltz through into the back room.

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