Shadows of Deception Ch. 01

Mercer nodded and tapped away at the phone.

"Don't. Move."

He warned in a low growl then turned back to Jimmy and his two men. He didn't walk, no hestalked towards them placing a leather Italian shoe on Jimmy's bleeding gut. Jimmy half groaned, half yelped loudly but it came out watery and sick.

"Dealing for Finch in my own club..."

He ran a hand through his hair before holding his hand out to Mercer, and Mercer wordlessly gave him the gun back. She watched as he racked a round into the chamber and fired three shots in rapid succession. Jimmy stopped moving, the hand he'd extended out to Roman slowly fell to the ground as his muscles relaxed in death.

"I'm afraid it's not going to work out, Jimmy." He then fired two shots into each of the men at the door and once more he handed the gun back to Mercer. "Make the call."

"What about her?"

She was pale, eyes transfixed on the scene before her, somehow unable to move, too in shock to speak. She screwed her eyes shut, as if that would somehow save her. She just didn't want to see that gun again because she knew the next time she did, it would be aimed at her.

"Oh,"

Now he sounded like someone had told him he couldn't leave the table until his dinner was done. Like an annoyed teenager. She didn't scream which was probably the only reason she too didn't have a bullet in her head, or because he used them all on Jimmy and his friends. When she didn't hear another round racked, she chanced a glance. He looked around and shrugged before stepping forward taking off his rose-tinted glasses. He had the darkest eyes she'd ever seen, almost black, and he looked her up and down now. Those obsidian eyes of his were both leisurely and predatory at the same time, it gave her chills.

It seemed like he was making a mental list of pros and cons, then he began pacing back and forth. Mercer kept looking at her like a guard dog waiting to be let off his leash. She didn't need to be told that the only thing holding him back from turning her into confetti was the word from Roman.

"Fuck..." He groaned, "These decisions are always easier when they're ugly..." He complained to Mercer. Was that a compliment? Who the fuck cared?

His hand again, found its way combing through his hair and making a mess of the styled locks before straightening his suit collar then he finally turned to look at her.

"Clean-up crew is on the way, three or four?" Mercer asked without a hint of emotion. Just another Tuesday for this guy.

Roman looked hard at Belladonna, and quirked a brow before letting out a slow controlled breath.

"Three's plenty. Four's a crowd."

He stopped in front of her and held out his hand. She was shocked and for a second she didn't move, it took him opening and closing his hand and a dull snap of his fingers before she finally moved. It was amazing that her hand didn't shake when she took it, his fingers closed around hers and he pulled her to her feet. From his inner suit pocket, he pulled out a handkerchief, shook it out, and held it to her bleeding lip almost in a gentlemanly way.

"It's your lucky night, Angel."

She let out a breath of relief. It seemed like he didn't plan on killing her. Not yet anyway. His entire demeanor changed as flashed a smile that under normal circumstances would make her swoon. It was shocking, this sudden 180 he pulled. Jesus, if not for the dead bodies and the fact that she'd just seen him shoot three people she just might have let him buy her a drink.

Mercer leaned in as Roman muttered something to him. Then Roman nodded and Mercer walked away quickly, leaving the two of them alone.

Roman's dazzling smile stole the spotlight, almost convincing in its charm. "Well, Miss Black, you've had quite a night," he said, glancing from the bodies to her, silently suggesting she play it smart. His unspoken message hung in the air -- caution was the name of the game.

"Now, here's the deal," Roman continued, his charm taking on a darker edge. "Mercer will be your ride home, and I expect you to be on your best behavior. Keep that pretty mouth of yours shut about tonight. Not a word to anyone." His words, wrapped in allure but carrying a veiled threat, lingered, leaving an unsettling tension in the room.

"You're letting me go?"

Roman's smile twisted into something darker, a dangerous edge cutting through his words. "For now," he said, his thumb lingering on her lower lip as he smoothly stashed the handkerchief back into his pocket.

His tone shifted, "Let's not get it twisted, sweetheart. You've been a naughty girl, poking around where you shouldn't. I should just end it with a bullet to your head, and toss you into the Bay," he spat out the last bit with venom, and she instinctively pulled back, though his grip on her hand held firm.

Yet, in a bizarre turn, he feigned generosity. "But, tonight, I'm feeling downright charitable. Your nosiness exposed a disloyal rat." Leaning in, he got closer, his words brushing against her. "So, let's be crystal clear. Spill a word, to anyone, even your cat and Mercer will have a blast stringing you up, carving up that pretty face like a discount Halloween mask. Got it?"

Her nod was shaky, and he pressed for more. "Say the words, Angel." The charm evaporated, revealing the true menace beneath.

"Got it." Her voice trembled a bit.

"Are you gonna be a good girl for me?" he asked.

"Yes," she replied, but her voice came out weaker than she intended. It felt like she was tiptoeing on a glass bridge, scared it might break with one wrong move.

"That's my girl. Now, let's get you home, angel, it's past your bedtime." he said, giving her a wink that felt like it accompanied a pep talk and then he led her out of the room, leaving the three cooling bodies behind.

People should have warning signs around their necks, warning the public of their idiotic behavior. Belladonna's would read: 'Do not allow to ingest tequila.'

Vodka left her feeling light and floaty, gin reminded her of seltzer water; annoyingly bland. And rum of course brought out her inner stripper, like it did for most women, everyone has a drink that does that to them. Tequila was the one that left her feeling like she'd gone five rounds in a boxing ring. Laying in her bed, with sunlight streaming through her window, she groaned and pulled the pillow over her head and immediately regretted it. The back of her head was throbbing, odd, Tequila usually left her with an all-over headache, not one specific spot. Her hand threaded through her hair to ease the ache and froze when it found a considerable lump on the back of her head, she shot up in bed, another mistake, sunlight be damned, and felt that cold feeling again. She didn't drink last night.

Then last night drifted into her memory, the smell of sulfur and blood, the sound of gunshots, and the feeling of being trapped. Black leather gloves. Roman Aurelius. She felt like throwing up.

Then she did. Barely made it to the trashcan in time.

She didn't really have much to throw up, but the dry heaving went on for a few minutes.

Her apartment was blissfully empty and nothing seemed out of place. The cold water she guzzled did little to get rid of the taste of bile in her mouth, so the first order was brushing her teeth and then maybe some more panic.

She hadn't had anything to drink last night but she still felt hungover, could a traumatic experience do that? A quick Google search suggested it wasn't impossible and that if she felt sick then to treat it as such, but a quick inventory of her medicine cabinet found that she was seriously lacking in aspirin and Dramamine. If she wasn't drunk last night, she had every intention of drinking herself stupid tonight.

But she didn't want to leave her apartment, not after what happened. She found herself pacing her living room for the better part of the morning, uncertain of what to do. She remembered Roman's cold warning.

"Spill a word, to anyone, even your cat, and Mercer will have a blast stringing you up, carving up that pretty face like a discount Halloween mask. Got it?"

The silver lining? She didn't have a cat to talk to.

In between replaying the night's events and Romans words over and over in her head, she wondered why she didn't just do what most women her age did; stay in, drink wine, and watch violent slashers. Her stomach churned, maybe not a slasher, but she didn't like romcoms, right, so documentaries it was. The urge to throw up wasn't far behind, but there was nothing left to throw up.

A quick check of her phone saw the time creeping up close to eleven, she remembered Mercer dropping her off at her apartment around three but she wasn't sure how long the whole thing behind the club had taken. Shit. He knew where she lived. Wait. Had she only been asleep eight hours? Could that be right? Her phone had no text messages or missed calls and the date told her it was only Saturday, so it wasn't like she'd slept all day. Christ.

Her head was pounding.

There was a bodega a block away from her place, she could run in, grab some aspirin, bagels, something to drink, and be good until Monday when she had work. The guy who ran the bodega was a nice old man who she was fairly certain only spoke Korean, either way, all her past interactions suggested that he wasn't likely to start chatting with her over hangover remedies. She nodded slowly to herself. Simple as that, she'd grab some things, be done with it, and get home. No harm, no foul.

Yeah, she could do this.

She grabbed her purse and slipped on some ripped jeans, a plain white t-shirt, and some old sneakers. Throwing her hair into a messy bun and grabbing a cropped leather jacket, she didn't mean to look like she was going to start a girl rock revolution but figured she'd blend in and be just another face in the Saturday crowd. She locked her door behind her and tried to stay focused on getting to the bodega and back again without incident.

It was all fine and well until she hit the street, then the sounds of the city hit her like finding out she left the volume turned up on her headphones. She jumped as a taxi rushed past her like some kind of tourist, cringe. Then she remembered her headphones were actually in her jacket pocket, she wasn't planning on listening to any music, but just to use them to drown out the ambient noise that she usually loved.

It was a quick brisk walk over to the shop, oddly called Ernies, even though the guy who owned it was Korean, or Vietnamese, she wasn't sure. But today was not the day to find out. Belladonna had been, at one point comfortable enough in this city to walk barefoot in it but now, every movement startled her, every car backfiring sounded like a gunshot and every person casually looking her way put her on edge. Several times she could have sworn she saw Roman Aurelius or Mercer watching her but they always turned out to be just some Wall Street guy in a suit or some random buff guy in a wifebeater. They smiled and winked at her which she never returned on a good day, but it was oddly comforting this time, as she didn't think Mercer or Roman to be the smiling and winking type.

The familiar ding of the bell above the door wrapped her in a cozy embrace as she strolled into the bodega. It was like stepping into a comforting hug. Her attention quickly gravitated to the hot bar, a treasure trove of tempting treats. Hot dogs and Asian finger foods, all crispy with tempura goodness and coated in mouthwatering panko breadcrumbs, were there to make her taste buds dance. They were new to her, and the irresistible smells made her almost forget why she'd walked in.

The aspirin was a fleeting memory as she got lost in the culinary wonderland. It wasn't until she absentmindedly scratched her head that she snapped back to reality. Right, aspirin.

Fifteen minutes later she had a basket with a few drinks, aspirin, fresh bagels, and a bag of M&M's. She decided to pass on the bottle of wine. Look at her, she could make good decisions.

She jumped when someone spoke over her shoulder, and she tried not to panic when she saw two police officers in the shop anti-theft mirror. Coldness washed over her with their sudden presence and she felt as though they were watching her, but that was stupid. They were just two cops out on patrol, stopping for a snack. Nothing could be more innocent.

"Man, I love these things!"

"What the hell are they?"

"They're called bao, like a steamed bun with beef and onions inside. I could eat a hundred of them!"

They weren't talking to her, just talking around her, but the information and her current situation gave her the push to try something new. She asked for two of them while the cops behind her continued on with their conversation about what was superior; foreign food or good old-fashioned American hot dogs.

The friendly old man who ran the shop gave her his usual wordless smile and she left with her two reusable bags. No conversation, no questions, no comments, and she was a ten-minute walk from the safety of her loft.

The sounds of the traffic had died down enough or she had calmed herself to the degree that they didn't startle her anymore. She was herself again within the span of that short walk. She'd even reached into one of her bags for the fresh hot bao she'd just purchased, its smell calling to her empty stomach. It didn't last two minutes, she hadn't eaten much since getting home last night and she was suddenly wishing she'd bought a dozen of them.

It was savory and hot and hit a spot she didn't know she'd had, and by the time she got to her building, she was even smiling.

Her door was still locked as she had left it but her sense of relief vaporized in an instant when on her coffee table she saw something that made her stomach turn. Something that hadn't been there.

A pair of scuffed black high heels. The ones she'd been wearing last night and the headless stem of a rose.