Bloody Tainted Lies: A Dark Mafia

Romance Shae Ruby

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Bloody Tainted Lies Copyright © 2024 by Shae Ruby
All rights reserved.
No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,
recording or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any others means without
permission, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters, and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to people, living or
dead, and events is entirely coincidental.
ISBN: 979-8-9860000-8-4
Cover Design & Formatting by: Quirky Circe
Edited by:
Julia at entirely bonkerz (@entirelybonkerz)
Angie Ojeda Hazen (Lunar Rose Editing Services)
 Contents

Playlist
Trigger Warnings
National Suicide Prevention

Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Epilogue

What’s Next?
Afterword
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Shae Ruby
For all my people who believe in second chances,
this one is for you.
 Mine – Sleep Token
Meddle About – Chase Atlantic
Under the Influence – Chris Brown
Call Out My Name – The Weeknd
Stay – The Kid LAROI & Justin Bieber
I Wanna Be Your Slave – Maneskin
The Feels – Labrinth
Leave Before You Love Me – Marshmello & Jonas Brothers
Please – Omido & Ex Habit
Creepin' – Metro Boomin, The Weeknd & 21 Savage
Escapism – RAYE & 070 Shake
The Hills x Creepin x The Color Violet – pearl, fast forward >> & Tazzy
Chasing Lights – Alma
The Color Violet – Tory Lanez
OHMAMI – Chase Atlantic
Until the Day I Die – Story of the Year
Lying is the Most Fun a Girl Can Have Without Taking Her Clothes Off – Panic! At the Disco
Paper Thin Hymn – Anberlin
Cardigan – Taylor Swift
If You Want Love – NF
Waiting – The Red Jumpsuit Apparatus
With Me – Sum 41
Shut Up and Listen – Nicholas Bonnin & Angelicca
Loved You A Little – The Maine, Taking Back Sunday & Charlotte Sands
Shameless – Camilla Cabello
3:15 (Slowed Down & Reverb) – Russ
Die For You – The Weeknd
Nothing Is Forever – Haarper
Beautiful Things – Benson Boone
 Hello reader,

I write dark stories that can be disturbing to some. My books are not for the faint of heart, and my characters, many times, are
not redeemable. This book contains dark themes to include graphic sex scenes, consent non-consent/dubious consent, captivity,
breath play, water play, degradation, graphic murder, rape (not by main male character), somnophilia, grief, death of a brother,
suicidal thoughts, suicide attempt, voyeurism, drug use, body image struggles. I may be missing some triggers, so instead,
consider this a blanket trigger warning.

I trust you know your triggers before proceeding, and always remember to take care of your mental health.

For more things Shae Ruby, visit authorshaeruby.com

 If You Know Someone in Crisis:
Call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline (Lifeline) at 1-800-273-TALK (8255), or text the Crisis Text Line (text
HELLO to 741741). Both services are free and available 24 hours a day, seven days a week. All calls are confidential.
Contact social media outlets directly if you are concerned about a friend’s social media updates or dial 911 in an emergency.
T here’s an urgent knock at the door.
Knock, knock, knock, knock.
Pause.
The doorbell rings.
Knock, knock, knock, knock.
I run to the door, but when I open it no one is there. I hear gurgling sounds, and when I look down, there lies Andrea in a
pool of his own blood, choking on it. Even on his side, he’s drowning. There’s a hole on the back of his shirt, a huge one, and
when I move it aside, there’s a gaping fucking wound.
With shaking hands, I take my phone out of the back pocket of my shorts and dial 911.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“My brother’s been shot!” I yell into the phone, feeling the agony deep in my bones. “I don’t know what to fucking do!”
Desperation claws me from the inside out, and my hands shake as I put my phone on speaker and touch my brother with
trembling hands.
Andrea gurgles again, “Camilla.” He whispers between gurgles. “It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not okay!”
“I—” Gurgle. More drowning. “Love—” Again, with the sound that will haunt my nightmares forever. “You.” He chokes
again. “Help me.” The last word whooshes out and I hold him, feeling him take a breath, a deep one—a wet one. A guttural
rattle passes my brother’s vocal cords before he lets it out, and his chest ceases to rise. His last breath.
He had a last breath.
He’s not breathing.
My brother isn’t breathing, and I don’t know what to fucking do!
“Ma’am?” The woman on the phone reminds me she’s there. “Is he breathing?”
“No!” I scream, “Dre!” I slap his face, “Andrea, wake the fuck up! Don’t you dare do this to me.” I sob, shaking him, more
blood pouring from his back.
He can’t survive this.
“Put him flat on his back⁠—”
“He has a hole!”
“Put him flat on his back and do CPR.”
“I don’t know how!” I scream again, putting him flat on his back just like she said.
“Now interlace your fingers and put your palms on his chest between the pectoral muscles. Then pump on his chest.”
“Okay.” I begin to pump. “I’m doing it.”
“Good job!” the woman praises as if I’m a child, and it only makes me want to cry harder. That’s how I used to praise
Andrea. He was such a good kid. Is. Is. “The ambulance is coming. They’re almost there.”
As if on cue, the ambulance enters the street, and so do the police and fire truck. The sounds are so loud my head begins to
pound, and the bright lights are making me dizzy. But I still breathe through it, focusing on the chest compressions. There’s
blood all over my hands, and nausea takes over, but then the paramedics come to my side, and I snap out of it.
“They’re here.” I breathe out and hang up the phone as soon as someone shoves me aside.
After a few minutes of many paramedics working on him, he’s put in the ambulance, where I go in with him. My legs are
covered in dark red blood, still wet and dripping from me. My hands are soaked too, and I smear them on my shirt as I attempt
to dry them. Pretty sure my phone is still in a pool of blood on my front porch, and sudden panic grips my chest when I think of
losing pictures of him.
“Can I use your phone?” They both look at each other and the blood all over me and themselves. “Please, I don’t have to
hold it.”
One of the women nods, her dirty blonde hair up in a high bun and her blue eyes full of pity. She takes off one glove and
dials the number as I list it out for her. The line rings and rings, and just when I think it will go to voicemail, he answers.
“Hello?”
“Leo! Andrea has been shot. You’re on speaker phone. I’m in the ambulance right now.”
“What the fuck?” There’s rustling in the background, like he’s getting out of bed. “I’ll be there in a minute, babe.”
“Can you get my phone from the front porch?” I ask with a low voice, praying he takes pity on me. My lip trembles as I
await his response, and my breath catches in my throat when the paramedics look at me closely.
“Of course, tesoro mio,” he says and my breath whooshes out. “I’ll be right there.”
“Bye,” I whisper, watching the paramedics still working on my brother.
His chest is getting pumped, and I hear the crunch of ribs under unfamiliar hands. Hands that should never have touched
him.
He shouldn’t be here.
Andrea should be at home as always, with earbuds in, reading books in bed until he passes out. Not shot on the front porch.
Not dead. Not on the fucking front porch.
Who did this to him? Who shot him? Who fucking killed him?
I may not know the answers to who did this, but I will find out, and when I do…that person will pay too.
In blood.
My father will make sure of that.
W hen I was a teenager, I knew love was going to be painful. It’s a given, my mother said. Except I always thought I’d fall
in love with my fiancé, and instead, I fell for the wrong person. The enemy my parents always warned me about. The
big bad wolf. He was never that, though. He was sweet, gentle, even. Forbidden. But the heartbreak I experienced… I
don’t think I will ever feel again. Not with anyone but him. And now I’m forced to face him three times a week in my business
class.
Atlantic University in Seaside, Florida, is a college designed for mafia students. We’re sent here to assemble, to form and
foster relationships. The future of our families depends on alliances, and what we can do to create them. The students at this
school are not limited to Chicago. They’re the mafia kids of different families scattered across the United States. Chicago, New
York, Las Vegas, and Florida, to name a few places. This school's organizations include La Cosa Nostra, Bratva, Irish Mob,
and Polish Mob. There’s more than that—but those are the only ones that matter because they make up The Elite.
The Elite is a group of men who have come together to run everything. They’re bosses who have had the opportunity to
stake a claim in the school and are in charge of who is accepted, who isn’t, and everything that goes on in the college. There
are twelve of them in total, all from different locations. There are three Italian, Russian, Polish, and Irish members—the most
powerful family of each location. The main areas are Chicago, New York, and Las Vegas.
Not only are they in charge of who gets accepted into the school, but they also dole out punishments to the ones who step
out of line. Punishments are given based on the offense made. But there’s a loophole. Any murder or maiming that happens on
Atlantic University soil is not punishable by death because it’s neutral ground. That’s not to say that they won’t be punished,
though.
The school’s housing is also divided by countries to avoid conflict, considering that many of our families are enemies. The
Italians and Russians have their own houses on campus, similar to frat houses, and we all have our name for our groups, which
is also the name of our house. The Russians are D’yavolo, and that’s also the name of their house, and we, the Italians, are
Demoni. I personally don’t live in one of the houses, instead, my father bought a house at the edge of campus that is technically
still Atlantic U soil, just away from everyone else. My friends and I live there, thanks to Matteo DeLuca and his controlling
ways. He wants to know that I’m not drinking and partying anymore. I should care; in fact, I should be outraged that he’s trying
to control me to this level, but I honestly just don’t.
I checked out of caring six months ago when my little brother, Andrea, was killed. Now I just survive, put my head down,
and go about life. I get through it one day at a time. The only thing that saves me right now, that makes me feel alive, is dance.
And sometimes, on certain days, seeing Nikolai Pavlov in the crowd of students sitting in my business classroom.
My dream one day is to become a ballet teacher, maybe after being a Prima Ballerina for some time. But it’s important to
me to finish college first, as I never know what could happen. Ballerinas can have injuries, and I need something to fall back
on in the event that a tragedy happens. And it would be my bad luck, because tragedy has been following me around since I was
seventeen years old.
So, in the hopes of achieving all my dreams, I’ve taken up business to learn how to have my own. I want my own studio one
day, and the only way to make that happen is by having at least basic knowledge on how to run more than just the dance side of
it. I don’t expect to have any help from my family, although if I make my trust fund last, I could live off it for many decades to
come.
But now, as I sit here in my business class, taking out my notebook and pens—because I color code my notes—my biggest
nightmare steps in through the door and smiles at me. A smile so bright my heart nearly stops in my chest. As if the last time we
spoke hadn’t traumatized me. Like he didn’t break my heart beyond repair. And yet he has the audacity to walk right up to me
and plop down on the chair right next to mine. He puts up the little desk attached to the chair and looks at me. I feel his gaze
burning my face, but I don’t dare turn toward him. Instead, I keep my eyes forward and try to ignore him.
It’s difficult to ignore Nikolai Pavlov, though. His presence fills the room like nothing I’ve ever felt before, except maybe
through my entire teenage years, when he was everything to me. Now his scent taunts me, sandalwood and vanilla, filling my
nostrils until I want to cry from how much I miss it. Him.
Nikolai taps his pen against his desk, annoying me, and I huff. I glance over at him and roll my eyes, “Could you please
stop that?” I ask calmly, and he smirks. “You’re distracting me.”
“I’m sure that’s not the reason why you’re distracted.” His voice is deeper than I remember. His body is different too. He’s
broader, stronger. Built like a man, not the boy that I knew. Even his jaw looks stronger, more chiseled. His lips fuller. His eyes
prettier. Maybe I’m just imagining things. His black hair still falls over his eyes when he looks down, and his silver eyes still
have that black freckle on the right one.
“Why are you here, Nikolai?” I ask him with a shaky voice, trying not to cry, trying not to remember the last time we spoke.
The hurtful things he said. “We haven’t talked in three years.”
“I’m aware.” He says coolly. “You look like shit, Camilla.” My heart clenches in my chest briefly at the way he pronounces
my name, the way he always used to. I loved it so much. Now, it just hurts.
I know I look like shit, unfortunately. It’s kind of hard to care about my appearance lately, although I’m still making sure to
be presentable. But today? The one day he notices me? I’m just wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt with a messy bun on top of
my head. He should be used to it; this is exactly what I would wear after the dance studio when we met up, only now he’s using
it against me to make me feel bad about myself. Go figure. “Thanks. I guess that is what happens when your brother gets
killed.”
I look at him briefly, just quick enough to see his cringe and the hard set of his jaw. “I’m sorry.”
“You should be.” I raise my chin, “That was fucked up.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t⁠—”
“Look.” I sigh, “We were done, Nikolai.” He cringes again when I don’t call him by his nickname. “You don’t owe me
anything, so save your explanations. I didn’t expect you to call me or come to the services. Don’t worry.”
“I should’ve been there.”
You should’ve been there for a lot more, Nikki.
The professor walks in through the door, settling at the front of the room, and she begins to talk. “I need to pay attention.”
“Let me make it up to you, please.”
“What?”
“Not calling after your brother’s death.”
My eyes well up with tears. It’s not that it hurts that much that he didn’t call at first. I didn’t think about it until I had no one
to talk to about it. Until I wanted to tell him all about my feelings and pain. “And how will you do that?”
“Let me get you a present for your birthday.”
“I don’t want your gifts, Nikolai.”
“Fine.” He whispers. “Let me see you again. Just one more time.”
“Leo will actually murder me.” I snap. “Literally. And why now? Hmm?” Tears well up in my eyes and I look away.
“You’ve had all this time. Why now?”
“Because, Milla,” he replies, “Because I miss you? I don’t know why. I just need to—I don’t know. Get closure?”
“I don’t.” I gaze at the teacher, who is looking around the class like she’s trying to figure out who’s talking. I do my best to
keep a straight face and wipe my tears discreetly, like I’m scratching my face. On both sides. Ugh. “However, if you genuinely
need it that bad, then come to my party in a few days... On Saturday. I’m sure you know the house, yeah?”
I say the yeah just like he used to, and he smiles.
“I know where it is.”
“Alright.” I nod once, “Now let me pay attention.”
He doesn’t say another word through the lecture, and I kind of wish he hadn’t listened to me. I highly doubt he will show up
at the party. That’s just him pitying me, telling me something to make me feel better. He always did make me feel better about
everything.
When everyone starts getting up, I hastily gather my belongings and stuff them back in my bag, wanting to get out of here.
But when I get up to get going, Nikolai grabs my wrist in an iron grip. “Saturday?” He asks, his voice hoarse. “You’ll talk to
me?”
“Sure.”
With that, he lets me go, and I all but run to my car. Once inside, the dam breaks and my tears flow. I can’t believe him right
now, wanting to barge into my life like nothing ever happened. Like he wasn’t ripped from me, taken, blackmailed. We
shouldn’t even be conversing right now, much less at my party. Leonardo, my fiancé since we were kids, is going to flip the
fuck out.
 Leonardo is the kind of guy who used to be nice, sweet even. We got engaged in elementary school, and he was my friend
for a long time. One of my best ones, in fact. But that was a long time ago, and now he’s the devil incarnate. I’ve hated him for
four years, and I will continue to hate him until the day I die. Except ever since I lost my virginity to him, we’ve had an
understanding. If I ever have an urge to have sex… I come to him. It’s mainly because the last time he caught me with a boy, he
ruined my life, so now I either go to him or I have to be highly discreet. Everyone at Atlantic U knows we’re engaged, and he
would finish killing me if he ever found out I fucked someone else. And I have needs too sometimes, damn it.
So even through my hate, I relent and fuck him. At least sometimes, which only makes me hate myself more. Annie, my best
friend, hates him more than I do. If that’s even possible. And she doesn’t even know what he did to me. They’ve just always
had a thing where they can’t stand the sight of each other. Ever since we were children, they constantly fought.
I drive over to the studio with my windows down, letting the breeze hit my face and the smell of salt water permeate my
senses. I’ve always loved being by the beach, and with it being my Junior year, I only have this year and the next to enjoy it
before I have to get married. Needless to say, I’m making the best of it.
When I pull over to the dance studio, I flip down the visor and look in the mirror, patting my tears off and cleaning my nose.
I didn’t even wear makeup today, not that I do every day, but I do have bags under my eyes, and I look pale. It’s no wonder
Nikolai said something. It’s hard not to notice.
I change clothes in the car, struggling to put on my black tights and leotard, but I manage. I’m not in the mood to go inside
and talk to Annie about our day, which is what we usually do before dance practice. We’ve both been at the Academy together
since we got to Seaside, and having this time with her has been fun. Just like when we were kids. We’ve been dancing together
since we were three years old, and our mothers were also best friends. Although I’d say my mom was more of a parent to
Annie than Isabella.
Isabella is a woman focused on the needs of her husband—a dutiful Cosa Nostra wife. She doesn’t question what he does
or says, and it’s an easy way to gain his affection. Men love that shit, a wife who doesn’t ask questions and does as she’s told.
I’ll be damned if I’m one of those, even if Leo will be Don at some point, and I should probably get my shit together.
There are five important families in the Cosa Nostra—at least the ones who rule Chicago. The DeLuca family—which is
my family. Leonardo’s family, the Colombo’s. The Gambino family, which is Annie’s. The Marino’s and the Ricci’s. The
DeLuca family is the most powerful of these five Chicago families—with the most influence and businesses. That’s why my
father holds a seat with The Elite, or as they sometimes call it, The Table. The families of Giulia and Viviana—my friends and
roommates—the Rossi and Bianchi, hold the other two seats for the Italians.
I’m convinced Leo is only engaged to me due to my father’s influence and power, and I have yet to figure out what the
Colombos bring to the table in exchange. But it has to be something important, because my father doesn’t just give over his
assets with nothing in exchange. And I am an asset—at least my pussy is.
When I make it to the studio, Annie is doing barre warm-ups. I head straight to her and get behind her, taking my position.
We both stretch for a few minutes before she turns around and narrows her eyes at me.
“Why have you been crying?”
“I—” I consider lying to her. But she knows me better than anyone else at this point, so I don’t think I could pull it off. So
instead, I go with the truth. “Nikolai sat next to me in class…said he wants closure.”
“What does that even mean?” She asks with a raised eyebrow.
“I don’t know. He said he wants to talk.” I reply. “So I invited him to my party.”
“You did what?” she exclaims, looking around and seeing many eyes on us. She lowers her voice, “Are you out of your
mind? Leo is going to be there. Could you imagine if you got caught?”
“I’d die.” I nod. “But I need to know what he wants, Annie. My heart still hurts.”
“He was mean, Cam.” She sighs, her brown eyes hard. “He wasn’t just a little hurtful, he was an asshole. I still like him,
but he is an ass.”
“I know…”
“Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m here for you, babe.” She squeezes my arm and stretches again while facing me. “And if you need me to kill him, I’ll do
it.”
I laugh at that, my eyes tearing up again. I appreciate the gesture, but we both know she’ll never be able to kill Nikolai
Pavlov. He probably has a lot of experience killing people by now, and she doesn’t stand a chance. No, the only one he
wouldn’t hurt is me, that much I’m sure of, even if he hates me. I wonder how many girls he’s been with since we were together
last. How many has he given those three little words to? How many has he begged on his knees for? But something tells me the
number hasn’t grown. He probably learned how to have some pride after that.
“We both know that’s never going to happen, Annie.” I roll my eyes, “But it’s the thought that counts…”
“Right?” She chuckles, “But now it’s time to have fun, Cam. So forget all about him, and let’s race fouettés.”
“Alright,” I tell her with a chuckle.
 Ever since we were little girls, we would race fouettés. It was our friendly competition to prove who was better than the
other. We were usually an even match, but now I’m starting to beat her, and it’s become a little more competitive than it used to
be.
I get into the fourth position, bend my knees slightly, push up into the retiré position, and then turn. And then I do it again
and again. No one is counting for us, so this one is just for fun, no competition. She stops first though, and then I do too,
laughing. She narrows her eyes then rolls them.
“I guess I owe you lunch for this one.” It’s what we usually do for each other. Whoever loses pays for lunch.
“Fine, but you pick.” I grin. “I don’t think I can make good decisions today.”
“You’re not wrong.” She tuts. “But maybe it’s not so terrible to give him a chance to explain himself.”
“It’s just going to be really painful.”
And I don’t think I’m ready for more pain.
 14 Years Old

A nnie and I finish on stage, ending the recital with a pirouette. I grab her hand and haul her to the back, peering into the
crowd to try to spot my family and Leo, who I guess is like family too. At least my future husband and best friend. But
it’s hard to tell where anyone is with the bright lights shining in my eyes. I squint anyway and attempt it one more time,
to no avail. Oh well, it looks like I’m going to have to wait until they come looking for me.
Sure enough, as soon as I walk back toward the changing area, Leo awaits me with a bouquet of red roses. His brown hair
shines when the light hits it, and his dreamy light brown eyes twinkle when he sets them on me. Butterflies erupt in my stomach
the closer I walk toward him, and the only reason I remember Annie is with me is because she’s grabbing onto my arm for dear
life.
The smile I give him reaches all the way to my eyes; I can feel it, and when I’m close enough to touch him, he yanks me
from Annie’s grip and presses his soft, pillowy lips to mine. Every kiss with him is an experience. Sometimes gentle and
sweet, and other times passionate and mean, like he wants to eat me alive. Tonight, he’s behaving, and I get the sweetest kiss
from him. It makes me feel loved, cherished, as he always does.
“Cam,” He smiles against my lips, and I push away slightly so my parents don’t kill us. They know we’re together, but
we’re still expected to act a certain way in public and in front of them. Not that Annie would say anything. “You were perfect.”
“Thank you, Leo.” I grin, pulling away when I see my parents coming from the edge of my vision. “These are beautiful.”
I grab the flowers, smelling the sweet aroma for good measure, and then grab Annie’s hand.
“You were pretty great too, Annabella,” Leo tells her, and I smile at him for being nice to her when I know he’s not her
biggest fan. He says she’s a bad influence on me, and sometimes I’d have to agree. But she’s essentially the sister I’ve never
had, so I don’t care.
“There you are!” Mamma says, both her hands busy with bouquets of white peonies. My favorite. “My girls!”
“Mamma!” I exclaim when she gives me my bouquet, both my hands now full. “Thank you.”
“You were absolutely breathtaking, Camilla.” She whispers, kissing my cheek. “I am so proud of you, bambina mia.”
“Thank you, mamma.” I look at her dark hair, loose down her back, and her green eyes full of tears, and something inside of
me breaks, too. My eyes well up with my own tears, and unexpectedly, they begin to stream down my face.
I look past my mother to see him, my dad, standing to the side with his eyes fixed on his phone. He must feel my stare on
him because he looks up. Instead of acknowledging me he looks at me and rolls his eyes, then goes back to his phone.
Something inside of me withers and dies—hope, I think.
Mamma moves past me to hug Annie, whose parents aren’t here tonight because they don’t like ballet, leaving me to stand
alone. Before I can think of going back to Leo, my little—favorite—brother, runs up to me and throws his arms around me.
“You were so good, sissy!” Andrea wraps me into his tight hug.
My heart bursts and I grin, “Thank you, Dre.”
“Who wants to get ice cream?” My mom asks, “We can go to Mandy’s!” My favorite ice cream shop.
I smile, “I’d love some ice cream.” I murmur to her, holding my arms up with the flowers to tell her I don’t know what to
do with them. “Let’s go.”
“Hold on.” My mom replies with a smile, “Marcello will grab the flowers and take them to the car. We can walk to
Mandy’s from here.”
 “Yay!” Annie does a little jump up and down. “What are you going to get from there, Cam? Maybe we can share?” Sharing
has been our go-to always. Annie and I—and probably everyone else in this recital—are scared to gain too much weight and
not be able to get roles.
“Yeah,” I nod rapidly, “We can share.”
Leo comes to my side as Marcello grabs the bouquets from me and wraps a possessive arm around my waist. “You need to
go change.”
“Change? Why?”
“I don’t want anyone else to be looking at you, Camilla.” He rolls his eyes, and I tense, “You’re basically half-naked.”
My dad grunts from behind Leo, and I tense. Looking down at my body, I do a small perusal. I’m wearing a leotard and
tights, yes, but the tutu covers most of everything he doesn’t want me to show.
My mom huffs, “She’s fine, Leonardo. Everything is covered.” He tries to argue, but she holds her hand up, “We’re
leaving.”
After changing our shoes, Annie and I link arms and stride after my mother, and when she gets to my father he shakes his
head, disappointing me. He never spends time with me; I think it’s because I’m not one of his precious sons. They’re all he
cares about.
“I’ll wait in the car, bella.”
My mom nods slowly and pats his arm, a condescending gesture my father ignores, but I notice. She does it to me when I’m
being a brat or when she plain disagrees with whatever I say or want.
“Sure.” Is all she says as we walk away from him and out of the Performing Arts Center.
Annie’s arm is linked with mine on the right side, and Leo is holding my hand on the left. It’s perfect, really, and this is
what makes me happiest. Spending time with my favorite people. Well, they are all my favorite people, if I’m being honest, but
when it comes to most favorites—number one and two—Leo comes out at the top and Annie in second place. Not that I’d ever
admit to her that a boy is taking her spot.
Andrea and my mother walk ahead of us, leading the way. They’re lost in conversation, and I bask in the moment quietly,
admiring the scenery around us. Downtown Chicago is beautiful at night, with all its lights and tall buildings.
Finally, after five minutes, we walk up to Mandy’s and get in line to grab our ice creams. Annie and I opt for coconut and
Leo orders chocolate. Chocolate is my favorite, but unfortunately, Annie is allergic. So we compromised. And Leo doesn’t like
to share anything—not even with me.
Once mom is done paying, we go outside and find a table. It only has four chairs, but we grab one more from an empty
table. I sit next to Annie and Leo, and Andrea and Mamma sit across from us.
While Mamma and Andrea talk about the latest video game he wants for Christmas, I focus on eating my ice cream. The
coconut ice cream also has shredded coconut chunks as well, and I close my eyes and savor it. When I open them, Annie is
staring at me with a smile on her face. She then tilts her head and nods it toward another table.
My eyes follow a path to it, and a guy around our age sits there with his friends, speaking another language. It sounds rough,
raw. But I’m mostly paying attention to the way he looks. Dark hair, slightly longer on top and faded on the sides. It falls over
his forehead in an endearing way that makes me want to sweep it out of the way. I look at his full lips as they move in a
hypnotizing way, trapping me under a spell.
Annie squeezes my arm in what I think is a warning, yet I couldn’t look away if I wanted to. There’s something about him
that’s pulling me in, and when he looks up, our eyes meet. If I thought I got butterflies from Leo, I was very, very wrong.
Molten metal eyes meet my own, and my stomach swoops as if I’m on a rollercoaster ride. His smirk tips his lips up on the
right side, and I flush all over. The heat I’m feeling causes me to perspire, and the worst thing? He won’t look away.
“Cam,” Leo says in warning against my ear as I smile at the stranger and look away from him. Awkward. “Quit making eyes
at the enemy.”
“Eyes?”
“I saw the way you’re looking at him, which sucks because I’m sitting right next to you.” He huffs, “Do you not respect your
future husband?”
“I do!” I rush out, not meaning to hurt him, even though I can still feel the stranger’s eyes on me. “I’m sorry, the language
sounded strange.”
“They’re Bratva.”
Sweat rushes down my spine.
Bratva.
Our enemies.
Suddenly, the heat in my body turns into an uncomfortable cold that I can’t shake. “Sorry.”
But even as I apologize, I look back at him, wondering his name. Unfortunately, he looks back at me, too. With a smile so
bright, my heart threatens to stop. His stare doesn’t waver, and I can’t tear my eyes away from him. He’s positively
mesmerizing.
 With a small smile and goosebumps all over my body, I force myself to look away. And just like that, I carry on with Annie
and Leo, ignoring the beautiful boy who will absolutely haunt my dreams from now on.
W hen I was younger, and I was enforcing, killing was a requirement. My father would give me the jobs and I would be
the judge and executioner—literally. Now I’m just the executioner, as punishment for a crime I didn’t mean to commit.
Killing used to be a job, now it’s a chore, and it gets more annoying by the day. So here I am, on my forty-eighth kill in
the last six months, with only two left to fulfill my debt to the Elite. And I’m pissed off that I have to do it, so it’s probably
going to be quick anyway. This time I won’t have help for cleaning up though, so instead, it will be my responsibility to figure
it out.
The main problem is that my crime was against one of the sons of the Elite, and while they could not kill me because we
were on the neutral grounds of Atlantic University, I also couldn’t go unpunished. I tried explaining what happened, but
Leonardo Colombo is a fucking snake, and he wouldn’t admit to the truth in the first place. Because I was at fault for shooting,
no one considered what I said. This only intensified my hate for Leonardo. After all, this isn’t the only thing he’s taken from
me. But now I’m being forced to kill fifty people thanks to him, as if his taking the love of my life wasn’t enough.
The Elite are not forgiving men, and even though I didn’t mean to kill Andrea DeLuca, I can understand why I’m being
punished for it. If the roles were reversed I would not forgive it either, no matter how innocent the person who killed my son
claims to be. So I guess I should be counting my lucky stars that my crime was committed on neutral grounds, and this way they
cannot kill me. Not only did I shoot him on neutral grounds, but he made his way to his home on the edge of campus and died on
the fucking front porch.
I don’t even want to think about that right now—or her.
For this job, I’m meeting with a man at a warehouse under the guise of purchasing weapons, but what he doesn’t know is
that I don’t need them. I need him instead. Speak of the devil, he’s waiting for me in the back of the building with a garage open
like a good boy. It’s too bad that it’s all about to end for him, he actually looks like he could be a good soldier. It makes me
wonder what he did to deserve this, but I’m not in a position to ask questions. So I won’t. I need to get this job done so I can be
done with the Elite. They’re not the type of men you want to owe a debt to, and I know if I don’t keep up my end of the
punishment, I will die.
“Adrian.” I say politely, “You got everything?”
“Yes.” He nods, shaking my hand.
“Perfect.”
I wait until he turns around to show me the weapons, and shoot him in the back three times. It’s cheap, in my opinion, but I
don’t feel like getting into a gunfight tonight. Just not in the mood for bullshit.
“God, I’m so sick of doing this,” I mutter, grabbing the guy from the floor and dragging him all the way to the backseat of
the borrowed car. Thankfully I didn’t have to use mine because I don’t have backseats, so I was provided one. How generous.
I shut the car door and get in the driver’s side, closing it quickly and driving off at the speed limit. I don’t want to attract
any attention to myself, especially since I have quite the drive to the state line to bury him. The farther he is from Seaside, the
better. I don’t want any ties to him. Not that it matters; Elite business is untouchable, so that means I am, too.
An hour later, I’m pulling up to a deserted dirt road in the middle of a forest and park close to the wood line. I grab the
shovel and walk through the trees, finding the perfect spot and dropping the shovel next to it. Then I go back for Adrian,
carrying him over my shoulder and making the short trip to the area I picked. This is going to take a while.
I begin to shovel, the dirt pliable from the Florida heat, and soon enough I have half a hole dug out. As I wipe my forehead
with the back of my hand, I note that there needs to be at least three more feet of depth.
I swear this is getting old, but I can finally see the light at the end of the tunnel. When I’m done with this, I will take over
Chicago one business at a time. I don’t dare defy my father yet, but I will not be succeeding him. I want to be my own man, on
my own terms, and start a new family line. One that doesn’t involve him, not after what he did to my mother. I’ve already begun
to, technically. I purchased The Zebra Club last week, and it’s being handled by the soldiers who aren’t loyal to my father but
are loyal to me now. I’m not under the impression that they won’t betray me, either. Clearly, their loyalties are easily swayed.
For now though, I don’t care. I will take what I can get, and since I have a second in command, I think everything will be okay
for a while at least.
Still, I’m on the lookout for more businesses that I can buy with the money my club makes. Once I achieve that, I just have
to make sure to stay under the radar until I’m ready to announce it to my father. When I have enough businesses, I’ll be buying
him out of Chicago. He won’t have enough to be more powerful than me, which brings me immense joy. I’ll be damned if I’m
under my father’s thumb, the Elite’s too, for the rest of my life. No, I want a seat at the Elite table on my own terms, not just
because I’m Oleg Pavlov’s son. And I’m going to get it.
I dig the rest of the hole, then roll the man into it unceremoniously. I don’t even care about anything at this point. I feel
nothing after a kill anymore. There was a time about thirty kills ago when I felt sick to my stomach about how many murders I
was piling up, but now I see it as a necessary evil. Once I’ve paid my debt, maybe I can get back the only thing that matters to
me. Camilla.
I take off my shirt and throw it in the hole along with him, not having brought a bag like the dumbass I am, then go get the
tarp from the car. I wrap it up too and throw it on top, then cover him with dirt until it’s level with the ground, only a tiny
mound on top.
It’s not even night time right now. I’ve become more brave by the kill, not caring at all about the time of day. I usually
operate at night because of my school schedule, but I took a day off today. Unfortunately for me, that means that I don’t get to
see Camilla even from afar. Although we’ve been estranged for years, I haven’t been able to get her out of my head. Imagine
my surprise when I stumbled upon her in class. It’s been hell seeing her three times a week for months on end without talking to
her.
Although I know it wasn’t my best moment, I did mean what I said to her the other day. She looked like absolute shit. Her
eyes had deep, purple bags under them. And she was thinner than I’ve ever seen her. I know it’s all my fault, and that’s
probably why it makes me feel guiltier. She doesn’t deserve this pain.
That’s why I switch vehicles, change my clothes, and drive all the way to the restaurant she frequents with Annie. I’m not
even discreet about it, getting a table right behind them, and watching them.
The brunette waitress comes to my table, a wide smile on her face. “Welcome to Giovanni’s, my name is Rose. Can I get
you started with something to drink?”
“Just water, please.” She nods, “And I’m actually ready to order my food as well.”
About thirty minutes later, Camilla has a salmon salad in front of her, while Annie has chicken, rice, and asparagus. Me, on
the other hand? I have a juicy steak with mashed potatoes and a Caesar salad. You can tell they’re dancers by their eating
habits, always so clean to stay in the shape they need to. Except in my opinion, it’s okay to indulge occasionally. But she
doesn’t know how to do that. She was never the type to indulge in anything except for maybe us.
Annie is talking excitedly about something, using her hands a lot, and Camilla pretends to listen. I only know this because I
know what she looks like when she actually does listen. They’re talking about a recital—Swan Lake. Interesting. I always
thought ballet would be a phase for Camilla, even when she assured me it was her favorite thing to do. After all, most girls
grow out of that by the time they’re eighteen.
Annie stiffens when she sees me, and her hands drop. We’ve had a few classes over the years, and we’re actually friendly
with each other. But I guess I’m not forgiven for breaking Milla’s heart, even though she broke mine first. It’s quite unfair in my
opinion, and she deserved what I said. She betrayed me too.
Of course, due to Annie’s outburst Camilla turns around, and when our eyes meet, hers harden. I know I deserve that, but it
doesn’t hurt any less. How I can still hurt from something that happened when I was eighteen, is beyond me. But here I am, still
broken up over a girl who wouldn’t fight for us. Except she’s not a girl anymore, she’s a woman now.
Her dark brown, almost black hair is flowing all the way down to her lower back, her dress displaying it between peeks of
her dark strands. Camilla’s lips are set in a hard line as she stares at me, but her eyes? They look like they could catch on fire
at any moment. The orange flecks in them are glowing even from a few feet away, and that’s how I know she’s pissed. The only
other time they did this was the first time we got into a fight.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Camilla hisses, twisting her little body around on the chair.
I gesture to my food with my hand, “Eating.” I reply nonchalantly, like I’m not stalking her at all.
“How did you know I was here?”
“I know everything about you,” I smirk, and she rolls her eyes. She tries to object, but I raise my hand. “I always have.”
“Of course, you’d think so.” She smiles, and Annie’s eyes widen.
That bothers me, because I don’t know everything anymore and she knows I’m talking shit. But I know the things that matter.
“Why are you⁠—”
 “Pissed at you?” Camilla raises one eyebrow. “Have you forgotten what you said to me last?”
“Come sit with me.”
“Absolutely not.”
“We don’t have to wait until Saturday to talk.” I sigh, and she gets up from her chair with a huff and sits across from me.
“Thank you.”
“So talk.”
I look at Annie, who is still at the other table, looking down at her food like they’re about to have a conversation, then back
at Camilla. “I’m sorry,” I tell her with honesty. “I was hurt when you had sex with Leo—it hurt me. You did.”
She seems to think about this for a moment. “And you don’t think it hurt me?” Tears fill her eyes. “Did you think I wanted
it?”
“I don’t know, Camilla,” I say her name like I used to, with reverence. “But when I saw you go in that room with him—I
just knew I’d walk out of that house with a broken heart. And it did break, again.”
“I’m sorry too.”
“I know we can’t start over or even be friends, but I needed to apologize,” I tell her and she nods. “I should’ve never said
that to you.”
You’re disgusting.
I never want to see you again.
The words have played over and over in my head for years, mostly because they’re the only regret I’ve ever had—other
than letting her walk away.
“I accept your apology.” She replies, grabbing my hand.
But she doesn’t actually forgive me.
My skin feels like it’s on fire from a single touch, and I stay very still. I don’t dare even breathe for fear that she will take
her hand away from mine. But eventually she does and goes back to her table with Annie.
Leaving me behind.
Again.
 14 Years Old

I descend the stairs to the basement slowly, quietly. I stop at the bottom step to watch the men at the table chatter amongst
themselves. They’re playing poker. Well, it’s more like teaching the boys to play. Leonardo sits closest to his father, and
Alessandro and Andrea—my brothers—sit closer to mine. They’re explaining the rules of the game, which sounds like
gibberish, but it’s not, and I sit on the steps to try to get the gist of what’s happening.
No one pays attention to me as I sit here, and I just watch as they sit around the table and exchange jokes, cards, and chips.
Even the boys seem like they’re having fun, flourishing under the attention of the men. It’s like watching a plant slowly grow,
the way these boys think the men are the sun. But they’re not—they may act nice to them, but they’re all snakes. I’ve seen it with
my own eyes. They’re influential people who are never satisfied with anything they have. They always want more and more
and more.
My father smiles at the boys, and it’s unnerving. My father rarely smiles; when he does, there’s always a meaning behind it.
It usually tells you he plans on doing something evil, like ruining a life. I imagine just how many people he has smiled at right
before he did that, and I shiver. Except this one seems genuine, and that’s scarier than the death smile.
The men in this room are all-powerful, with their suits and cufflinks, perfectly coiffed hair, and an air of grandiosity. They
don’t take crap from anyone, and everyone is scared of them. On the other hand, they’re scared of nothing, care for nothing. As
my father always says, caring is weakness, and he’s not weak. It’s no wonder he doesn’t bother with me, yet his sons are his
legacy, so he has to teach them his ways. Maybe if I stop being a pushover, he will see me as an equal to Alessandro and
Andrea.
I used to idolize my father, making him out to be this invincible man who would always take care of me. However, that was
never the case; now, he’s the big bad villain in all of my stories—rightfully so. My father couldn’t care less if I died, and now I
think I’m beginning to feel the same about him.
It’s Andrea’s turn to play, and everyone looks at him expectantly. For being only twelve, he fits right in with them. Except
he’s being forced to, which breaks my heart. He has always told me he doesn’t want to be like Papà or Alessandro, that he
wants to live a peaceful life where he doesn’t have to worry about the Bratva or other Mafia families.
I agree.
Why are we always fighting? Why can’t we all just live in peace? It’s starting to get so bad, this rivalry, that it even
determines who we’re friends with at school.
My nose tingles and my eyes water, so I press on the bridge of my nose to try to keep my allergies under control. That’s one
of the reasons I don’t come down here, and as if my body is mocking me, I sneeze.
Everyone—and I do mean every single person—in the basement turns to look at me. Leo narrows his eyes, Alessandro
stays neutral, and Andrea’s eyes almost bug out of his head. I imagine that’s what I look like right now as well.
I clear my throat and push up to stand, and my father holds up his hand before I can turn around and make a run for it. This
isn’t good, and I know it. My father isn’t the type of man to give me his attention so freely, to stop what he’s doing just to give
me the time of day.
“What are you doing here, Camilla?” My father asks me in a voice that I can only imagine as condescending, like I’m a bug
at the bottom of his shoe he just stepped on and killed. Like I’m not worth his time. He sounds annoyed.
“I—uh.” I clear my throat again. “I’d like to learn to play poker too.”
 My father sighs and shakes his head, and the rest of the men smirk and snicker under their breaths as if to imply it’s not my
place. I have a feeling my father will say the same, but I can’t just lie after I’m caught this way. Maybe Papà will feel bad for
me and make space at the table. Doubtful, though.
Matteo DeLuca is not a weak man, and he squares his shoulders and lifts his chin as he levels me with dark eyes. I want to
fold in on myself, to forget about his death stare right now. This is how I imagine he looks at people before slitting their throats,
and my first instinct is to cringe. Instead, I mimic him, lifting my chin and squaring my shoulders just like him. Years of ballet
make that come naturally anyway, and with barely a command, my back goes ramrod straight.
He tsks, “You know the basement is for the men—and so is poker.” In a moment of weakness, my eyes plead with him. “Am
I right, boys?”
The men all laugh, and so does he. A shiver runs down my spine when he levels me with his eyes again, and this time, I do
cower. I take a step back and get back on the stairs. “Papà, please.”
“It’s not your place to be with the men.” My father gestures to the back of the basement, where there’s a couch with three
women on it, something I hadn’t even noticed before he pointed it out. “Only the whores are with us. No, your place is upstairs,
where you will learn to be a wife to Leonardo.”
My eyes lock onto Leo’s, and although he’s done nothing wrong, his face turns white as a sheet of paper. I narrow my eyes
at him and he nods once. “I want to spend time with Leo,” I reply, like I didn’t just hear about his whores. “I’m bored.”
Leo shakes his head frantically at me, and I pout, taking that as his answer to wanting to spend time with me.
“Camilla.” My father sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, “Get the fuck upstairs. Now.”
I shake my head. “I don’t want to!”
He takes steps forward until he’s standing at my side, and my eyes fill with tears and a sob catches in my throat as he yanks
me by the arm and drags me up the stairs. “You’re being a fucking brat, Camilla. Don’t make me punish you.”
My father drops me by the kitchen island before storming back down to the basement, and all I can think of is seeking my
mother and the comfort her embrace brings me. Once he closes the basement door, I let myself break, sobbing uncontrollably on
the kitchen floor.
“Cam?” My mom asks, “Where are you?”
“Here.” I croak out. “On the floor.”
My mother comes around the island to find me sitting against it, and she kneels at my feet. “What happened?” Her voice is
soft, gentle, everything my father could never be for me.
“Papà kicked me out of the basement.”
Understanding shines in her eyes. I don’t even need to finish the story because she sits on the ground next to me and pulls
me toward her lap. Her long fingers get tangled in my hair, and she brushes the strands out.
“Our place is not down there with them, Camilla.” She says so softly I almost don’t hear her. “We are the ones who care for
the home and have everything they need in place. We take care of them when they come upstairs. But when they’re down there?
We don’t follow. Not unless you want to see things that will break you beyond repair.”
“What could possibly break me? They’re just playing poker.”
My mom’s fingers pause in my hair, “That’s not all they’re doing, sweetheart. One day, you will understand, and when the
day comes, you will know to never step foot in a basement again.”
I listen intently, wanting to learn more about this life I’m supposed to lead. Except none of it makes me happy anymore. The
closer I get to my wedding date with Leo, the less I want to do it. And now this? What if I don’t want to marry him anymore?
What if I fall out of love?
I t’s two days before my party, and my mother has arranged for all the preparations. I was thinking I wanted more of a house
party vibe—low-key—but I should’ve known they wouldn’t let me have that. Although they don’t live here and only visit
occasionally, they still have to manage my life one way or another. So my mother is taking the planning to extremes—as
always. It’s not surprising in the least, just a bit irritating.
There’s flowers and cocktail tables. Hors d’oeuvres planned. And now she wants to make it to where people have to wear
semi-formal attire too. At least they’ve decided not to stay for the party and let me have my twenty-first birthday to act
however I want. I feel like there has to be an ulterior motive, but maybe I’m just being suspicious. I don’t know though, it just
doesn’t feel like something my father would let me do.
What is more suspicious though, is this dinner right now. They haven’t arranged for us to have dinner together since Andrea
died six months ago, and I don’t want to be here. It’s obviously mandatory, though. Everything is where my father is involved.
Even my brother Alessandro doesn’t want to be here right now, as evidenced by the fact that we haven’t spoken since Dre
died. Being a few years older than me, he’s always been distant. We’ve never had a relationship. He’s always avoided me like
the plague, and now that there’s no buffer between us, he doesn’t even try to hide the fact that he wants nothing to do with me.
He’s only here because he has to be—because he’s forced to be.
My parents have offered him this house time and time again, or at least a room in it, and he has always turned them down.
Currently, he lives off-campus, in his own apartment somewhere. I couldn’t figure out if I tried because I didn’t have the
privilege to have that knowledge. The only thing I know about him now is that he’s a postgraduate student pursuing his Masters
in Business Administration. And the fact that my understanding of him is so limited hurts, but not more than the fact that he
literally won’t interact with me unless forced to. Does he somehow blame me for Andrea’s death?
Alessandro accidentally bumps his soup bowl with the spoon and looks around at us. It’s been the only sound since we
started eating, and both my parents look up from their food.
This is awkward.
We shouldn’t be doing it.
“Andrea should be here.” I finally burst out, because someone needed to say it. “He should be here. This is so unfair.” My
eyes water and tears spill down my cheeks, making my chest tight with emotion. My throat closes up as a sob makes its way up,
and my father slams his fist down on the table, making all the china rattle.
“Stop, Camilla.” He says.
“It’s not a family dinner without him!” I look at my brother briefly, and he keeps his eyes down as I say all of this, not
wanting to make eye contact with our father.
“Shut the fuck up.” Matteo DeLuca growls because, at this moment, he’s not my dad. He’s someone else in a familiar body.
He hates talking about Andrea, but someone has to. Mamma starts crying now too, her body rocking with her sobs. “Stop
crying, Camilla.” He tells me as I sniffle. “Move on. I have, why can’t you?”
“Because he was my baby brother!” I scream at him.
I recoil when he comes around the table and stands in front of me, rearing his hand back and slapping my face. I should’ve
seen it coming, should’ve known he’d lose his cool. But I don’t even care right now because I’m going to keep Dre’s memory
alive if it’s the last thing I do.
My head snaps to the side, towards Alessandro, and he cringes. My lip stings, and when I touch it, my hand comes back
with a small amount of blood. My mother stops crying immediately and, instead, narrows her eyes at my father. Then she comes
to stand by my side.
 “Back. Off.” She raises her chin defiantly like I always do, “Don’t you dare hit her again for saying my son’s name.”
Before my father can reply, I push my chair back and run out of the dining room. I’m running up the grand staircase, down a
hallway, and finally to my room. I lock the door behind me, not wanting to be bothered. I’m waiting until they all leave so I can
also leave the house, so I get my phone out to text my best friend.
CAMILLA
What are we doing tonight?

ANNIE
Let’s go dancing.

CAMILLA
Where?

ANNIE
Bar? Club?

CAMILLA
I’m in.

I get dressed in record time, wearing a little black dress with stilettos. My makeup is done—a glam look. I’m rocking a
smoky eye with winged eyeliner and red lipstick. I usually don’t wear much makeup unless there’s a special occasion, but
tonight, I need to feel something. I’ll probably get drunk at the club with Annabella, and if I’m being truthful, I’ll more than
likely have more than alcohol. Maybe.
Within the hour, the house is eerily quiet. I know Annie is home getting ready too, but she must have heard the commotion
because she hasn’t come out of her room. The other girls are clearly not here yet, though. I’m not sure if we’re all going out
together or if it’s a two-person ordeal, but I don’t actually care.
I open the door quietly, but it still creaks. Well, that’s annoying. Thankfully, the house is so quiet I’m sure everyone left.
Annie’s door is open, and she stands in front of her mirror, touching up her hair. It looks beautiful, but she is obsessed with it,
so she probably will repeat this three to four times before we get to the club.
“It looks fine, Annie.” I sigh, and she rolls her eyes. “How much longer do you need?”
“Two more minutes?”
I sit on her made-up bed, “Alright.” Annie applies a purple lipstick that goes well with her pale complexion, and smacks
her lips together. “When are you getting laid again? Tonight?”
Annie just broke up with her boyfriend of seven years, Josh, about four months ago, and she’s been sulking for at least three
of those four months. I think she’s finally turning a corner, and I’d go as far as saying tonight would be the best opportunity to
get back out there. Even if I have to Uber home on my own.
Josh and Annie had been together since middle school, but he was never attentive. He was distant, always wanting to do
things with his friends instead of her, and he was always mean to her. Even the sex was subpar, according to her, which I guess
makes sense if he didn’t know what he was doing. I don’t know how they lasted so long, but I’m glad they’re done. Finally. It
was painful how this dragged out.
“I’m not ready,” she replies.
“You had shitty sex for a long time,” I tell her with a smirk. “Go find some good sex, girl.”
“Maybe soon.”
Annie finishes fixing her hair and looking over her makeup, and then grabs a little purse off her bed right next to me. She
turns off the light on her way out of the room, and I follow after her, all but sprinting down the stairs just in case my parents are
still here. As I pass the dining room though, I notice everything is cleaned up and the house is empty.
Thankfully.
Around fifteen minutes later we’re standing outside of a club called Winx, one of the nicest clubs in the area. We usually
don’t come here; it’s for the stuck-up rich people. The mafia kids, like us. Except we don’t usually socialize with them. This is
a spot where people forget their alliances and rivalries, and just act their age and enjoy themselves. They can be whoever they
want for the night, uncaring of affiliations.
By the time we’ve cleared the line, there are about fifty people behind us. Holy crap. There’s a lot of people in this club.
We step in, following a line to the VIP section and sitting on the lounge chairs. The music is loud, the bass thumping, and I
close my eyes to get lost in it. A dainty hand touches my forearm and I open my eyes.
Annie gets closer to me so I can hear her, “Do you want to dance?”
“I do!” I reply excitedly, “But first, let’s get a drink.”
Or four.
We go to the bar, which is packed, but the guys make room for us when they see us, eyeing us appreciatively. Their gazes
roam down our bodies, our legs especially. I’m used to people telling me my legs are nice since I’m a dancer, but it's an even
bigger compliment when guys look at them that way. Not that I care; they’re not getting lucky. But maybe Annie will give one of
them a chance, so I can’t shut them down yet.
I order three shots of Jameson—the bartender winks at me and doesn’t even card me—and Annie’s eyes about bulge out of
her head, then she orders one shot of tequila. I need the alcohol more than she does, and I know she can tell because she’s now
acting like nothing is out of the ordinary, like I do this every time we come out. I don’t. But I’m on edge after that dinner, and
more than that, I’m on edge about Nikolai coming to my party on Saturday. Not that I expect him to, but the possibility is there,
and it’s making me nervous.
What was I thinking, inviting him? Am I a masochist? The pain I felt all those years ago is coming back in full force,
preventing me from sleeping and being a fully functional person. It’s as if I’ve lost him all over again, as if I’m suffering the
pain I inflicted upon us anew. Fucking Leonardo.
I should’ve never talked to Nikolai at lunch the other day. It made the pain even more fresh. He looked so genuinely
regretful for the things he said the last time we spoke, that now I don’t even care about what he said. I was hung up on it for
years, as if I didn’t fuck him over first. Maybe he had the right to feel the way he did. Who am I kidding? I know he had the
right to.
After downing all the shots of Jameson, there’s a burning sensation settling in my throat, down my esophagus, and in my
belly. Just what I’ve been needing. So I grab Annie’s hand and lead her to the dance floor. Under the Influence by Chris Brown
is playing, and we both begin to dance immediately, swaying our hips to the music seductively. I feel eyes on us, except maybe
it’s all in my imagination. This place is packed.
There’s a person behind me, getting closer, not grinding on me but definitely uncomfortably against me. Annie’s face turns
ashen as she looks behind me, and I tense. When I look, Ilya is the one swaying to the music too, plastered to my back. Why is
he here? And why did that affect my best friend so much?
Ilya grabs my face roughly and squeezes my cheeks together, “Who hit you, darling? Do I have to go beat someone’s ass?”
“Why do you care, Ilya?” I roll my eyes and he releases me. “You haven’t talked to me in years. Where’s your friend?”
Annie gets closer to us, standing next to Ilya to be able to hear our conversation. She’s not even being discreet about it;
she’s not the kind of person that pretends. “Nik⁠—”
“No.” I smile. “Dmitri.”
“Oh, he’s here.” He grins, wagging his eyebrows, and Annie’s face heats. Interesting. “With Nik.”
“Don’t call him that,” I reply through gritted teeth. That’s my nickname for him.
“Hit a nerve?” He grins, then sucks his lip piercing into his mouth.
There used to be a time when Ilya, Dmitri, Nik, and I hung out. It was fun while it lasted, but just as everything…
forbidden…so it came to an end. We became close for a while, though. It was something even Annie did not know about. Ilya
and Dmitri. I only ever told her about Nik.
I smile. “Never.”
“So, who did it? Because if Nikolai sees you like this, he will be murderous.”
“I don’t see why.” We look at each other for a moment. We both know Nikolai doesn’t owe me anything. He shouldn’t even
care what happens to me anymore. What’s done is done, and I can never take it back. Not this, anyway. “We’re done.”
“You know him.” Ilya leads me off the dance floor and to the lounge area where we were sitting earlier. “Much better.” He
says. I can hear him better now that we don’t have to raise our voices as much. It’s a secluded area. “He’s never going to be
done with you.”
“He seemed pretty done for years now.” And he did. “He never once attempted contact again.”
“He knew what was at stake⁠—”
“What is still at stake.”
“He doesn’t care anymore.”
“I do.”
Ilya huffs, puffing his chest momentarily before taking another deep breath and looking at me. “Whatever, Camilla. If you
don’t want him anymore, that’s up to you. But he will never stop.”
“I don’t care.” I lie through my teeth. “It’s never going to happen again.”
I look around the club, then stop in my tracks at the sight of Nikolai. Broad back, big shoulders, trim waist. As if he can
sense me, he turns around and makes eye contact. Heat courses through my body, and just as I mean to look away, he starts
walking toward me with purpose.
So I stand up.
And I run away.
 15 Years Old

“I said no, Alessandro!” A girl that can’t be much younger than me screams. Her waist-length dark hair is blown sideways
by the wind, and her short dress ripples too. The blue scrap of fabric is laughable, and the little daisies scattered around
the dress are cute.
I smile.
“Cazzo!” She huffs, and my skin prickles.
I’m all alone tonight, and the thought of getting caught up with Italians by myself and getting fucked up drives me to walk
away as fast as possible. I know Alessandro DeLuca. He’s a few years older than me, and ruthless. So is his father. Definitely
not what I need tonight in the middle of the night when no one will know where to find me. They won’t even know where to
start looking for me.
She turns around and makes eye contact with me, and my stomach drops. She’s the girl from a few months ago—the one
smiling at me from the table at Mandy’s. Her green eyes narrow for a moment when they meet mine, and then she laughs, but it’s
not at anything I said—it’s at her brother.
Before she can say anything or do something stupid like blow my cover, I turn around and walk away, hurrying toward my
safe sanctuary: the playground at Garry Park.
I climb up until I’m at the top of the playground and get in the longest slide, but instead of going, I just put my feet against
the walls to prevent myself from sliding to the bottom. Especially now that I hear the crunching of mulch under a pair of shoes.
I hold my breath and wait. I’m only fifteen, and if the Italians come here armed and ready, I’ll be dead in less time than it takes
to take in a breath.
“I know you’re in there!” A soft voice calls out, taunting me. “Come out, come out, wherever you are!”
I smile at no one, amused by her. I could either go down this slide and face her, or stay up here and not make myself known.
What if she’s with her brother?
“Don’t be a pussy.” She scoffs, “I’m all alone. Just a small girl.”
I chuckle and let go, letting myself slide down fast. When I get to the bottom, I slam against a small, soft body.
“Stronzo!” She yells as she falls to the ground on her ass, and I laugh harder at her.
I tower over her, smirking as she looks up at me. “Has anyone ever told you that you have a potty mouth?” She says
something unintelligible under her breath, not even bothering to answer me. More like cussing me out, I assume. “You also have
beautiful eyes. Anyone told you that?” I don’t even know why I said that just now, but I can’t take it back anymore.
Those big hazel eyes narrow at me. “Are you going to help me up or not?”
“It depends.” I shrug. “Are you going to get off my playground after?”
“Your playground?” She rolls her eyes, “Where is your name on it?”
I laugh. This girl is feisty and cute. What a combination. “My name doesn’t need to be on it, princess. I’m here every night,
and no one comes until you, I guess.”
“Don’t call me princess.”
“That’s what you got from this?” I ask her with a smile. It’s as if her eyes are permanently narrowed, and her little nostrils
flare. “You need to go.”
“Why? Because I’m Italian?”
 I nod, “Precisely.”
“Well, maybe I don’t want to go!” She yells at me, finally getting up from the ground. She’s brave, I’ll give her that.
Because instead of stepping back, she steps forward. Toward me. “I don’t care that you’re Russian.”
“That makes one of us,” I tell her seriously.
“Why is everyone always fighting with you and your friends? Why can’t we all just get along?”
She really, really doesn’t get it. I stay rooted to the spot even as she gets so close that she has to look up at me. I get even
closer, until her sandals are touching my sneakers, her pink toenails right against the edge of them. Her feet look battered and
bruised, parts of toenails missing, bandaids on random toes. Wow.
The girl shrinks a little when my eyes linger on her feet, and she looks nervous when my eyes meet hers again. “One word:
Power.” She doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even breathe. “We all want it.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s just how it works in the mafia, princess.” She rolls her eyes at my nickname. “But I’ll make an exception
for you. I’m Nikolai.”
“Camilla.” She sighs, stepping back. “But my friends call me Cam.”
“I don’t like that.” Camilla scrunches up her nose as I say it. “Milla sounds better.”
And that’s what I’m calling her from now on: Milla. Mee-lah.
“Milla is different.” She says slowly, “But I guess it’s alright.”
“Well, you shouldn’t be here, Camilla.” I turn around and go back to the end of the slide, then sit on it. “Go back to your
brother.”
“Nah.” She shrugs, sitting back down on the mulch, flashing me her panties on the way down. I look away, trying to be
respectful. “I want to talk to you.”
“Oh?” I ask her, “And what do you want to talk about?”
She grins. “Power.”
And then, she proceeds to ask me twenty-one questions about the mafia and why we hate each other.
T here’s a swarm of bodies invading my home. Sweaty college students move to the beat of the music, most of whom I’ve
never met, let alone seen before. There’s not one visible square foot of the downstairs area that’s unoccupied. In fact, I
can’t even see the hardwood floors from where I’m standing on the grand staircase.
I grab the banister, mainly because I don’t want to trip and fall down the steps with my new red bottoms that I haven’t
gotten the chance to break in yet. I descend and become one with the crowd.
When my brother told me that Papà approved this party at what they call just another vacation home, I already knew it was
too good to be true. They have this house in my college town so they can come to keep an eye on me whenever they want…
I’ve always been shielded, protected, and controlled. It all comes with being a sheltered mafia princess. I am still trying to
figure out their ulterior motives. They wouldn’t just let me have fun for the sake of it. Matteo DeLuca only cares about
himself… So, how does this benefit him?
It’s probably so he can shove Leo down my throat some more. Since graduation is approaching in a year, my father wants
us closer than ever before our wedding. It’s never going to happen. Even though Leo and I have an understanding, there’s still
underlying hate on my part. He hurt me more than anyone. And I won’t ever forgive him for it. Him, on the other hand? He
doesn’t care, but he’s also not nice to me. Not often, anyway. Back in high school, we were the best of friends for a while. As I
got older though, I began to understand what being forced into marriage meant for me. I’d be nothing but an object to him to use,
abuse, discard. As the Don, Leo will never hurt for women. In fact, they would throw themselves at him. And that makes him
the kind of person who has been influenced by the men in our families. They’ve taught him how to treat a wife, how they all
have treated their own. I swear they treat their whores better. And that’s why I could never love him, and I know in return, he
would never care about me again.
My little white dress rides up my thighs, and I pull it down discreetly while searching for Annie. Everyone else is dressed
similarly since my mother’s invitation said semi-formal/cocktail party. So, I’m thankfully blending in.
I finally spot Annie and begin walking over to her, bumping into a few friends and acquaintances who all wish me happy
birthday, which only delays me further. It’s not like my best friend cares about how long it takes me to reach her. She’s a little
busy at the moment. Deep in conversation with Ilya—looking ripped as fuck even in a button-down—who keeps smiling at her
in a way that makes me weak in the knees. God, she’s so fucking lucky. But when did this happen? Just two days ago, they
would barely look at each other in that club. Now they look like they’re in some kind of heated argument by the way she starts
waving her hands.
Annie is thriving here, that’s all I know. She loves drinking and partying, at least ever since she and Josh broke up. She’s
been a wild card since then, going to the clubs almost every weekend and getting drunk to forget about her pain. The last month
has been better, though. Instead, she has focused more on ballet with me, wanting the role of Odile and Odette just as much as I
do. But the weekends are still crazy. As far as I know, she hasn’t had sex with anyone.
She is the kind of girl who gets a lot of attention yet doesn’t usually return it. But something is different tonight. I can see
her observing Ilya appreciatively. Her eyes roam from his face all the way to his shoes in a way that makes me blush for him.
Something’s changed between them since I last saw him, and I want to know what it is. Just maybe not right now.
Fortunately for her, I’m not going to need her company tonight. So she’s free to make love eyes at that boy all night. It’s time
for me to get fucking wasted, maybe even bump a line, to help me forget the fact that I’m going to marry a monster, and that said
person is going to literally kill me when he sees that Nikolai has shown up to my party. If Ilya is here, then so is Nik.
No one would bat an eyelash if Leo showed up with someone, but I’d probably get murdered—or worse—if I fucked
someone else. That’s why I need to get it all out of the way before I’m tied down to him, forever. I haven’t done it yet, but I
want to.
The only reason I wanted this party in the first place was to use it as a distraction for my true purpose. With the number of
people present and taking over every inch of this house, no one will bat an eyelash when they can’t find me. They probably
won’t even notice I’m missing from my own festivities. I do have a time limit, though. I’m not wilding-out that damn much. If I
make it too obvious and my family finds out, I could mess a lot of things up for myself. Like my freedom.
I head to Annie’s side, bringing my arm around her waist to pull her in and smile at Ilya. It takes him a minute to return the
smile, except it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Honestly, I don’t care. She pinches my side, and I stiffen. This little bitch.
“Fancy seeing you again,” I say with a grin, not bothering to hide how I’m checking him out. Maybe I can convince Annie to
have a threesome. Probably not. “Why are you acting like an asshole to me? It’s my birthday.”
“You’re off limits tonight.” He smirks. “I’d get killed if I so much as smile at you.”
“And why is that?”
Ilya looks away, seemingly done with me. “Annabella,” Ilya says with a Russian accent, tipping his head. “I’ll see you
later.”
My friend looks on the verge of tears, but why? “Wait!” She grabs his hand, stopping him. “I’m not done talking.” Ilya
searches her face, focusing on her tear-filled eyes, and his jaw clenches. She still hasn’t let go of his hand, and my confusion
grows when he interlaces their fingers. Are they together? She’s my best friend, and she never mentioned this to me? When I’m
about to ask her what the fuck is happening, we’re interrupted. But of course, not by just any person. No, my life can’t be that
easy.
A hand slides from my lower back to cup my ass, and the scent of Leo—cinnamon—invades my nostrils. I would know
because no matter how much I hate him, I haven’t always. The truth is, no matter how much I don’t want to marry him, he’s
damn good at eating pussy. I’ve been fucking him regardless of how I feel. So yeah, there’s that.
I peer up at him, but just as I’m about to smirk and say something to piss him off, he already looks like he wants to rip
someone’s head off. And that expression is directed right at the tall, blond, muscular guy across from us. Not that Leo is any
less blessed in that department.
“What the fuck is D’yavolo doing here?” Leo’s honey-brown eyes grow dark with fury, and he pushes me behind him. I
knew this wasn’t going to go well. Fuck. Papà would have a field day if he heard about this, undoubtedly the bloody kind.
Even still, I feel like pissing him off a little, so I come to his side and grab his arm.
“Leo,” I say softly, and he turns to look at me. To be honest, it’s scary how his eyes soften for me, especially with what I’m
about to do. Now I feel a little bad for being a bitch. But no, he rubs women in my face all the time. I’m not going to be weak.
He hates me too.
Just as I’m about to talk, though, an equally tall man shows up at Ilya’s side. Only this guy is the complete opposite. Dark,
brooding, with silver eyes that are looking right into mine. Nikolai. I don’t like how they narrow at me. In fact, I want him to
look away. He seems poised for a fight, with his arms crossed over his chest and his body tense. “I invited them.”
Leo’s eyes turn to slits as they take me in from head to toe. He closes the space between us quicker than a flash. His hand
comes to my jaw, gripping tightly, painfully. “What are you talking about, tesoro mio?” My sweetheart. I roll my eyes and
smile through the pain, goading him on.
I can see the brooding, dark-haired man walking closer, and Leo smiles. I know that psychotic smile means he’s ready to
inflict pain, and I try to shake my head at Nik, but the grip on my jaw prevents me from moving my head.
“Let her go.” His voice is deep, and tingles erupt over my body. “Or this is going to get fucking ugly.”
Leo grins, shaking his head. Nikolai’s hand squeezes Leo’s arm roughly, and I know he’s made a mistake. “Get your filthy
hand off me before it’s no longer part of your body.”
“I’m not scared of you, Demoni.” Nikolai chuckles. “Get your hands off her.”
“She,” Leo firmly flexes his fingers against my face once more, which I’m fairly sure will have bruises tomorrow, and
smirks, “is mine. I’m sure you still remember that, though.”
Nik’s jaw clenches, but he ignores Leo’s jab. “Yet you treat her like she’s garbage.”
Why does he even care? I hurt him.
However, Nikolai and Leo’s rivalry goes beyond what happened between the three of us. It goes deeper, a hatred instilled
in us since before we met, knowing we were already enemies as mafia families. As Cosa Nostra and Bratva.
The D’yavolo and Demoni are similar to societies at Atlantic University, and, of course, we hate each other for those
reasons as well. Only I don’t hate them. Not really.
“Leo, you’re hurting me.” I gasp out. My eyes do sting from the tears that spring to them, and I blink them repeatedly, not
wanting to show him more weakness than this. “Per favore,” I whisper.
Leonardo brings his lips to my ear, and I shiver reflexively. “I will fucking skin him alive, Camilla.” I believe him, which
probably makes me a bad person because I don’t care. “But if that’s what you want, by all means, go ahead.”
“I don’t think you care that much.” We make eye contact as he pulls back, and a traitorous tear escapes me as Leo brushes it
away with his thumb.
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 THE BOBO RAPIDS.

To-morrow we should pass Dunga where Amadu himself lived,

and I determined that our boats should look their best, so I had
everything put ship-shape on board. Our masts, which had been
lowered, as they gave too much purchase to the wind, were raised
again, and from them floated the tricolour flag of France. We were off
again now in fine style.
Our friend Hugo, however, was no friend to demonstrations of any
kind, and said to us, “What are you going to do on the left bank?
Can’t you follow me on the right where there is nothing to fear? It
won’t help your voyage much to be received with musket-shots, will
it? Besides, if you don’t follow me carefully, who will guide you
amongst the rocks?”
He had told us the evening before that there were no rocks
between Dunga and Say, so we let him go down his right bank all
alone, whilst we filed past Dunga, about a hundred yards from the
land.
 A group of some twenty horsemen had been following us ever
since the morning, and they halted at the landing-place of the village,
unsaddled their steeds and let them drink. On a height on which the
village is perched a square battalion of something like a thousand
warriors was drawn up.
All remained perfectly still, and not a cry or threat broke the
silence. We passed very slowly, our barges swept on by the current,
whilst we on deck looked about us proudly. Our enemies on their
side acquitted themselves bravely, and with considerable dignity,
though it must be confessed they reminded us rather of china dogs
glaring at each other.
When all is said and done, however, I think I may claim the credit
of having fairly challenged the Toucouleurs, leaving them to take up
my glove or to leave it alone as they chose. This may have seemed
like bravado, and perhaps there was a little of that in my attitude, but
as an old warrior of the Sudan myself, and a fellow-worker though a
humble one of the Gallieni and the Archinards, I would rather have
run any risk than have had our historic enemies the Toucouleurs
think I was afraid of them. The tone I took up too gave us an
ascendency later which we sorely needed.
After going about twenty-two miles further down the river, we
anchored near enough to Say to make out the trees surrounding it,
and the next day we reached the town itself, which had for so long
been the object of our desires.
Say is a comparatively big place, but not nearly as important as it
is often made out to be. It is made up of straw huts with pointed
roofs, and is surrounded by palisades also of straw. Only one house
is built of mud, and that forms the entrance sacred to the chief.
The river flows on the east of the town, and on the west is a low-
lying tract of what are meadows in the dry season, but mere swamps
in the winter.
We anchored at once, but the stench from the rubbish on the
banks of the river was so great that we soon moved to the southern
extremity of the village, where the shore was cleaner.
 Our passengers meanwhile had gone to announce our arrival,
and old Abdu, who is in command of the prisoners of the chief of
Say, soon came to see us. Baud and Vermesch had had some
dealings with him, and had spoken well of him to us, while Monteil
also alludes to him. He seemed a very worthy sort of fellow.
After the customary exchange of compliments, I asked to be
permitted to pay a visit to his master, Amadu Saturu, generally
known under the name of Modibo, or the savant, and Abdu went off
to make my request known at once, but we waited and waited a very
long time before any answer was vouchsafed.
We were simply consumed with impatience, and I augured ill from
the delay. I remembered of course that Modibo had signed treaty
after treaty with Baud, Decœur, and Toutée, only I could not help
also remembering how little a diplomatic document such as a so-
called treaty really ever binds a negro, and that made me hesitate to
trust him.
Most Mussulmans, at least most of the Mahommedan chiefs and
marabouts, are liars and deceivers. They have a hundred ways, not
to speak of mental reservation, of swearing by the Koran, without
feeling themselves bound by their oath. If they respected a promise
given as they ought to do, would their prophet have taught that four
days’ fasting expiated the violation of an oath?
If they cheat like this when they know what they are about, how
are they likely to behave when everything is strange to them? and
they attach no moral value to the terms of an agreement, especially
of an agreement of many clauses such as is the fashion for the
French to make with native chiefs.
To pass the time whilst waiting for the return of our messenger we
chatted with a Kurteye marabout, who came to give us a greeting.
He read Madidu’s letter with some difficulty, but great interest. I
asked him whether Modibo generally kept his visitors waiting like
this, and he replied, “Yes, it makes him seem more important, but
you will see him when it gets cooler.”
 So we waited with what patience we could, and at about five
o’clock Amadu Saturu sent for me. Oh, what a series of preliminaries
we still had to go through!
According to my usual custom I went to see the chief unarmed,
accompanied only by Suleyman and Tierno Abdulaye.
First we had to wait in the ante-chamber—I mean the mud hut
referred to above—the walls of which were pierced with niches
making it look like a pigeon-cote.
At last his majesty condescended to admit us to his presence.
The king of Say could not be called handsome, sympathetic, or
clean. He was a big, blear-eyed man, with a furtive expression, a
regular typical fat negro. He was crouching rather than sitting on a
bed of palm-leaves, wearing a native costume, the original colour of
which it was impossible to tell, so coated was it with filth. He was
surrounded by some thirty armed men. On his left stood the chief of
the captives, Abdu, with an old dried-up looking man, who I was told
was the cadi of the village, and, to my great and disagreeable
surprise, quite a large number of Toucouleurs. Suleyman and
Abdulaye, who recognized what this meant, exchanged anxious
glances with me. I now realized that my apprehensions had been
well founded. Still I took my seat quietly, without betraying any
emotion, on a wooden mortar, and begun my speech.
 VIEW OF SAY.

“The Sultan of the French greets you, the chief of the Sudan
greets you, etc. We come from Timbuktu. We passed peacefully
everywhere. We are now tired, the river is low, and in conformity with
the conventions you have made with the French we have come to
demand your hospitality that we may rest and repair the damage
done to our boats by the rocks. We also want a courier to go and tell
our relations at Bandiagara that we have arrived here safely. All we
need to support us during our stay will be paid for at prices agreed
on beforehand between us. Lastly, I wish to go and see Ibrahim
Galadjo, your friend and ours.”
“Impossible,” replied Modibo. “Galadjo is not now at his capital, he
is collecting a column; besides, you will not have time for the journey
to him.”
“Why not, pray?”
“Because you, like those who have preceded you, must not stop
here more than four or five days longer. That is the custom of the
country.”
 If I still cherished any illusions this speech finally dispersed them.
The groups about the chief moreover left me in no doubt as to his
sentiments, or as to whom we had to thank for those sentiments.
The Toucouleurs grinned, and waved their muskets above their
heads in a hostile manner. Abdu alone tried to speak on our behalf,
but Modibo ordered him to be silent, and the cadi joined in the
chorus against us. A griot then began a song, the few words of which
I caught were certainly not in our praise. Everything seemed to be
going wrong.
What was I to do? As I had said, we were all tired out, the river
was half dried up, the boats were terribly knocked about. Still it was
not altogether impossible to go, for after leading the life of the
Wandering Jew for so long, a little more or less travelling could not
matter much. We might perhaps have managed to do another fifty
miles or so, and try to find rest in a more hospitable district, where
we could pass the rainy season not so very far from Bussa, which
was to be our final goal.
One thing decided me to act as I did, and I can at least claim that I
made up my mind quickly. I was determined to fulfil to the letter, with
true military obedience, the last instructions I had received before
starting. These were my instructions—
“Bamako de Saint-Louis, Number 5074. Received on November
23, at half-past four in the afternoon—Will arrange for you to receive
supplementary instructions at Say. In case unforeseen
circumstances prevent those instructions being there before your
arrival, wait for them.”
This, as will be observed, is clear and precise enough. Of course
such orders would not have been sent but for the ignorance in
France of the state of things at Say. They would otherwise have
been simply ridiculous. However, an order cannot be considered
binding unless he who gives that order understands exactly what will
be the position when he receives it, of the person to whom it is sent,
and who is expected to execute it.
Still those instructions might arrive; rarely had such a thing
happened in French colonial policy, but it was just possible that our
presence at Say was part of a plan of operations at the mouth of the
Niger or in Dahomey. I need hardly add that it turned out not to be
so, but I was quite justified in my idea that it might have been, and in
any case I had no right to conclude to the contrary.
So I decided in spite of everything and everybody to remain.
Oh, if we had but started a little earlier; if M. Grodet had not
stopped us and kept us in the Sudan as he did! If we could but have
joined the Decœur-Baud, or even the Toutée expedition at Say, how
different everything would have been!
If only the promised instructions had really been sent us, as they
could have been, had any one wanted to send them! If only a small
column either from Dahomey or from Bandiagara had, as it might so
easily have been, commissioned to bring us those instructions, I am
convinced that Amadu Saturu would at this moment be a fugitive like
Amadu Cheiku, and that the Niger districts near Say would be
purged from the presence of slave-dealers. For all these robbers of
men, who are as cowardly as they are cruel and dishonest, would
have fled at the first rumour of an advance of the French upon their
haunts.
It ought to have been otherwise, that is all. It is not the time for
recrimination, but I shall count myself fortunate if what happened to
me serves as an example to others, and prevents the sending out of
expeditions only to abandon them to their fate, without instructions,
in the heart of Africa. For, as a rule, these expeditions seem to be
completely forgotten until the news arrives that they have managed
to get back to civilized districts after a struggle more glorious than
fruitful of results, or that, as sometimes happens, all the white men
have perished somewhere amongst the blacks.
To decide to remain at Say was, however, one thing, to be able to
do so was another.
There were just twenty-nine of us, five white men and twenty-four
black, with three children, the servants of Bluzet, Father Hacquart
and Taburet, and the Toucouleur Suleyman, on whom, by the way,
we did not feel we could altogether rely, a small party truly against
the 500 warriors of Amadu and his Toucouleurs or Foutankés, as
they are often called, not to speak of the people of Say and all who
were more or less dependent on Modibo.
I sometimes play, as no doubt my readers do too, at the game
called poker.
We all know that skill consists in making your adversary believe
when you have a bad hand that you have a very good one. This is
what is known as bluff. To make up for my purse having sometimes
suffered in this American game, it put me up to a dodge or two in
politics, notably on the present occasion.

CANOES AT SAY.

So I played poker as energetically as I could.

If ever a man went to his dinner after listening to a lot of
nonsense, it was Modibo on this 7th of April when I had my interview
with him.
I said amongst other things—“I have lived amongst the negroes
now for seven years; I know the river which flows past your village
from the spot where it comes from the ground. I have been in many
countries. I have known Amadu Cheiku, who is a great liar” (here the
Toucouleurs all nodded their heads in acquiescence), “and his son
Madani, who is no better than he is.
“I must, however, confess that never, in the course of my
experience, have I seen anything to equal what I see here to-day.
“Relations of ours have been here, some alone, others with
soldiers, all of whom have loaded you with presents. You promised,
nay more, you made alliance with us French, but now you break your
word. Very well! My Sultan, who is a true Sultan and not a bad chief
like you, who lolls about in a dirty hut on a moth-eaten coverlid, has
done you too much honour. You are viler than the unclean animals
whose flesh your prophet forbids you to eat. Now listen to me. My
chief has ordered me to stop here, and here I shall stop, a day if I
choose, a year if I choose, ten years if I choose. We are only thirty,
and you are as numerous as the grains of sand of the desert; but try
and drive us away if you can. I do not mean to begin making war,
because my chief has forbidden me to do so; you will have to begin,
and you will see what will happen. We have God on our side, who
punishes perjurers. He is enough for me; I am not afraid of you.
Adieu! We are going to seek a place for our camp where there are
none but the beasts of the field, for in this country they are better
than the men. Collect your column and come and drive us away!—
that is to say, if you can!”
Suleyman was a first-rate interpreter when he had this sort of
harangue to translate. The good fellow, who was of anything but a
conciliatory disposition, would drop out all flattering expressions or
cut them very short, but when he had such a task as I had set him
just now, he went at it with hearty goodwill. He was more likely to
add to than to omit anything I had said.
After this vehement address Modibo and his attendants seemed
quite dumfounded. What grisgris, what fetiches must these infidels,
these accursed white men have, if they could dare to speak in such
a bold fashion as this when they were alone in a strange country with
not more than thirty muskets at the most.
 It was very important not to give our unfriendly host time to
recover from his stupor. We filed out therefore in truly British style,
and I think we did well not to loiter. It was not without a certain
satisfaction that after traversing the two or three hundred yards
between us and the river I saw our flags floating above our boats.
Imagine, however, the feelings of my people when I burst in upon
their preparations for a meal in the tents already pitched, with the
order, “Pick all that up, and be on your guard, ready to be off at any
moment.”
Farewell to our good cheer, farewell to what we thought was to be
a safe and comfortable camp. We had to place sentinels and be
constantly on the alert. Our coolies, too, who had already made
advances to some of the belles of Say, were bitterly disappointed,
but we had no choice, and they had to fall in with our wishes or
rather commands, that all intercourse with the natives should be
broken off.
The next night we had to be all eyes and ears, and I at least did
not sleep a wink, so absorbed was I in thinking what had better be
done. I was determined to remain at Say at whatever cost, and it
struck me that the best plan would be to lead a kind of aquatic life,
enlarging the decks of our boats, so to speak, which really were
rather too small for us and our goods. An island would be the thing
for us. So we resolved that we would go and look for a suitable one
the next day.
On the morning of the 8th, Abdu tried to bring about a
reconciliation, but the poor devil only wasted his time and his breath.
He was the only man at Say who in his heart of hearts had the least
real sympathy for us, and he gave ample proof of this, for he never
took any part in the intrigues against us, which were the worry of our
lives for five months and a half. We never saw him again; he never
came to beg for a present like the false and covetous marabouts
who form the sham court of his chief. In a word, the slave was
superior to his master.
At noon on the 8th, mentally calling down on Say all the
maledictions she deserved for disappointing all our hopes, I gave the
word of command to weigh anchor, and once more we were being
carried along by the waters of the Niger.

OUR GUIDES’ CANOE.

THE ‘AUBE’ AT FORT ARCHINARD.
 CHAPTER VII

STAY AT SAY

We soon came in sight, as we rounded a bend of the stream, of a

thicket of trees on an island which seemed made on purpose for us.
We landed and pitched our tents.
The most important characteristic of an island is that it should be
completely surrounded with water. Well, our island fulfilled this
condition, for the time being at least. On the left, looking down
stream we could see the principal arm of the Niger, the deepest part
of the river, in which, however, the rocks of the bed were already
beginning to emerge, whilst on the right was a narrower channel
barred at the end by a rapid, beyond which the water disappeared
entirely underground. Yet further away in the same direction we
could see a little branch of the broken-up river with a very strong
current hastening on its way to join the main stream, where I could
not tell.
Our island was about 218 yards long by 328 broad. At one end,
that looking up-stream, was a rocky bank, whilst the other, looking
down-stream, consisted of low-lying alluvial soil, often of course
submerged, dotted here, there, and everywhere with the mounds of
the termites, and at this time of year completely deserted. A few fine
and lofty tamarinds and other trees with large trunks but little foliage
formed a regular wood, and afforded us a grateful shade; but the
island as a whole, with its ant-hills, its twisted, tortuous, and leafless
trunks, and its ground strewn with sharp and broken flints, presented
a very wild and desolate appearance when we first landed.
Its situation, however, was really far from unpleasing, for on the
deserted left bank the inundations are never very deep, and near to
it rise wooded hills, with here and there perpendicular cliffs rising
straight up from the river. Nearly opposite to us was one of these
cliffs, white with guano or with lime, which looked to me very well
suited for a permanent post. Being quite bare of vegetation, this cliff
stands out against the verdure of the woods, and from the evening to
the morning, from twilight to sunrise, great troops of big black
monkeys assemble in it, and hold a regular palaver just as the
negroes do. Often at night their cries quite alarm us, and keep the
sentries constantly on the qui vive.
The whole of the riverside districts on the left bank, from Kibtachi
to the Toucouleur villages up-stream, are completely deserted and of
bad fame. Now and then we saw men armed with bows and arrows
prowling about on a slave hunt, or deer came down to drink. The
right bank is far less dreary. Opposite to us is Talibia, a little
agricultural village, tributary to Say. We can make out the gables of
the pointed huts surrounded by palisades and sanies or fences
made of mats. When the millet is full grown these pointed huts are
quite hidden by it, and the scene is one of great beauty, giving an
impression of considerable prosperity. Women come down to the
beach to fetch water, and bathe in the arm of the stream. On market
day at Say—that is to say, on Friday—there is great excitement at
Talibia, men, women, and children trooping to market with their
wares as they do in France, carrying their butter, their mats—in a
word, all the produce of the week’s work on their heads.
Above Talibia and the confluence of the third arm of the river the
wood becomes dense and impenetrable. A little path follows the
river-bank through the tall grass, and during our long stay in the
island it was the daily morning occupation to watch from the top of
the island who should come along this path, for by it alone could
king’s ambassadors, marabouts, market-women or any one else
approach us.
 VIEW OF OUR ISLAND AND OF THE SMALL ARM OF THE
RIVER.

Our island was quite deserted by the natives, for though the
people of Talibia grew millet on it before our arrival, they would never
live on it, or even sleep on it for one night, for it had a very bad
reputation, and was supposed to be haunted by devils, horrible
devils, who took the form of big fantastic-looking monkeys, and after
sunset climbed upon the ant-hills and held a fiendish sabbat.
Without calling in the aid of the supernatural to account for it,
there is no doubt that people belated on the left bank were never
seen again. Perhaps they are taken captive by the robber
Djermankobes, or fall victims to lions or hyænas.
However that may be, the Talibia devils, as were those of Wuro
and Geba later, were propitious to us. All these spirits, whether of
Kolikoro, of Debo, or of Pontoise, are really cousins-german. Ours
were the spirits of the Niger, and the negroes explained our immunity
from their attacks by saying, “They can do nothing against an
expedition, the leader of which is the friend of Somanguru, the great
demon of Kolikoro, and who knows the river at its source, where it
comes out of the earth, where no one else has ever seen it.”
I imagine that since our departure the natives of Talibia have still
avoided the island. Our residence on it was not enough to
rehabilitate it, and probably now many rumours are current about the
spirit which haunts the ruins of our camp.
It was really a great thing to be on an island. We were safe there
from hyænas at least, and all we had to do was to put our camp in a
state of defence against the Toucouleurs and their friends.
The first fortification we put up was a moral one, for we baptized
our camp Fort Archinard, in token of our gratitude to the Colonel of
that name, and it was worth many an abattis. The name of Archinard
was in fact a kind of double fetich, for it gave confidence to our own
men, and it inspired the Toucouleurs with superstitious terror. In the
French Sudan there is not a marabout, a soldier, or a sofa of
Samory, not a talibé of Amadu, not a friend nor an enemy of the
French who does not retain deeply graven upon his memory the
name of Colonel Archinard, for the present General will always be
the Colonel in Africa, the great Colonel whom, according to tradition,
no village ever resisted for a whole day.
So we managed that the news of the baptism of our Camp should
be spread far and near, and passed on from mouth to mouth till it
reached the ear of Amadu himself. No doubt he had some bad
dreams in consequence.
This moral defence, however, required to be supplemented by a
material one. Two hundred and twenty by forty-three yards is not a
very wide area for thirty-five people to live in, but it is far too big a
space to have to defend efficiently.
We felt it would be prudent to restrict the camp, properly so called,
to the northern point of the island, and taking six termitaries as points
of support, we placed abattis between them. Everything was ready to
our hands, branches, logs, brushwood, thorns, etc. We cut down the
trees at the lower end of the island, which cleared our firing range,
though it also rather spoiled the look of the landscape. We levelled
the site of our camp, razed many of the ant-hills to the ground, and
mounted our two guns, one pointing up-stream, on a huge trunk
which seemed to have been placed where it was on purpose, which
commanded the bank almost as far as Say itself, whilst the other
was placed on a big trunk which we drove firmly into the ground, and
would keep the people on the banks down-stream in awe. At each
gun sentries were always on guard. Then the unfortunate Aube was
unloaded, patched up somehow, provided with sixteen oars, and
armed with the machine-gun belonging to the Davoust, all ready to
advance to the attack or the defence whether to Say or to Dunga.
In a word, the urgent preliminary work was rapidly accomplished
in a very few days, and then in comparative security we began
building what the natives call the tata, that is to say, an earthwork
such as surrounds sedentary villages, or a fortified redoubt serving
as the residence of a chief.
Even if you had not been brought up a mason, you would very
soon become one in the Sudan; at least you will learn to build as the
negroes do. There are neither stones, lime, nor sand, nothing but
water and more or less argillaceous soil. With that you must make
bricks, mortar, and the mixture for graining, if graining you mean to
have. The clay is kneaded with the feet, and when it is ready, what
are called tufas are made of it, that is to say, flat or cylindrical bricks,
which the mason or baré places horizontally between two layers of
mortar. The baré sits astride on the wall he is building and chants the
same tune over and over again, whilst his assistants silently pass up
the tufas to him. I have noticed that all over the world masons and
tile-makers are as light-hearted as birds.
Our best mason in this case was a big Sarracolais named Samba
Demba, who generally acted as groom to our bicycle Suzanne.
When he was at work on the wall it grew apace, and we too grew
gay as we saw it rise, for with it increased our sense of security.
When the building went on well, we felt that everything else would
go well too.
Our tata was a triangular wall, each of the three sides being from
about eleven to sixteen yards long. It was thick enough to protect us
from treacherous shots from old-fashioned rifles, and indeed also
from the quick-firing weapons which the English had sold some time
ago to our enemy Samory. At a height of about six feet and a half
some forty loopholes were made, distributed about equally over the
three sides of the triangle formed by our wall. Inside, the walls were
supported by buttresses about three feet thick, which served alike as
seats and places in which to store our ammunition. The building
seemed likely to last well unless it should be disintegrated and
washed away in a tornado some day; breaches will of course be
made in it, parts of it will fall, but I expect, for a long time hence, its
ruins will bear witness to the stay here of the French expedition, and
to our effective occupation of the site.

FORT ARCHINARD.

I forget what king of Sego it was who rendered his tata

impregnable by making human corpses its foundation. In default of
such a precaution as this, which we refrained from taking, a few
determined men might at any moment have carried Fort Archinard
by assault, but they would have paid dearly for their success.
 On the summit of an ant-hill, at the top of the longest bamboo
stem we could find, we hoisted the French flag.
And in this remote island of Archinard, more than two hundred
leagues from any other European, we with our coolies lived for five
months, and made the French name, beneath the protection of the
French flag, respected in spite of old Amadu, in spite of the chief of
Say, and of all their intrigues against us; yes, in spite of all hostile
coalitions, in spite of the dreary rainy season, and of the home
sickness which consumed us,—in a word, in spite of everything.
The tata once constructed, we were now free to consider our
comfort a little, as we had really nothing better to do. Bluzet, who
had already acted as architect of the fort, undertook the building of
our huts. We each had our own palace, but what a simple palace! A
circular hollow rick of straw some 12 feet in diameter, upheld by a
central stake, interlaced stalks forming the framework of the roof,
whilst ropes were woven in and out of the straw, forming with it a
kind of net-work pattern. One little window was contrived in each hut,
a mere porthole just big enough to let in air and light but not rain,
whilst a low doorway was made on the opposite side to that from
which we might expect tornadoes.
Lastly, to protect us from stray bullets, a little earthen wall, some
19 inches high, was erected inside our huts, so that it just covered us
when we were lying full length at night. We each did our best to
make our own particular niche cosy and ship-shape; but in justice it
must be said that Baudry and I were the most successful, for we
achieved quite a brilliant result. Baudry’s straw walls were a perfect
museum of watches, instruments, medicines, patterns, objects for
exchange, and strangest of all—toads!
Father Hacquart’s hut was very soberly decorated. Sacred images
were nailed to the central stake, and in the little wall—I very nearly
said in a corner—was a cornet-à-piston, which was later the joy of
the chief of Bussa, but of which I own with the deepest regret we
never heard a single note.
 FORT ARCHINARD.

With Bluzet the keynote of the decorations was art. He had

draperies of velvet, a little faded and frayed perhaps, at nine-pence
or so a yard, with others of native manufacture. Dr. Taburet’s
speciality was medicine-bottles, with a horrible smell of iodoform, or,
to be more accurate, of all the disinfectants known to science, and
carefully protected in a tin case set on a what-not, a souvenir he
never parted with, and often gazed upon, the portrait of the lady he
was to marry on his return home.
Fili Kanté, a boy in the service of Bluzet, who was not only cook
but blacksmith and clown to the expedition, concocted a cocked hat
for each of our pointed huts, which after a few tornadoes had passed
over them were worn, so to speak, over one ear!
The huts of the men were all very much alike, but two on the side
of the longest wall were of course rather larger than the others, and
of a rectangular shape. Lastly, we had a big watertight store made, in
which we stowed away all our valuables. The canvas sail of the
foremast of the Aube fastened to the ground served as a kind of