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What is her endgame? No matter how things unfold, it’s clear: Vera’s the most interesting thing that’s happened to me in years.
“There are handcuffs in the side drawer—” I meant to give her an option, but she interrupts.
“Were you going to kill me?”
“Not last night. Not today. Not as long as you proved interesting.”
“Thank you for your honesty.” She nods. She’s come to a decision. “It’s nothing personal.”
Something bites me in the gut a second before my ears register the crack of a gunshot.
Lula
By the time I make it to Three Diner, I’m limping in my high heels. Walking ten blocks from Victor’s building was enough to give me blisters.
I replayed shooting Victor the whole time. His pained grunt was the only sound to escape his gritted teeth, but his eyes drove needles of ice my way. I didn’t stay and wait for the blood to well up from the wound in his naked chest, but in my mind’s eye, the movie plays on. The rich, wine-colored stain spreads on the white sheets to the soundtrack of the big man’s labored breathing.
Victor is the first person I’ve shot, but he won’t be the last. He was a pit stop on my road to vengeance, and I’m done with him. There’s no turning back.
I’ll just have to ignore the way my body aches from the orgasms he gave me.
My destination is a long, low building on the edge of Unitatem University. It looks like a trailer and an Airstream had a baby, and the result is this silver-sided diner. The pink neon “3” sign has marked its spot for over fifty years.
I slap my palm on the door frame and walk in, Victor’s trench coat fluttering around my stocking-clad calves. I’m bare-assed underneath, like a call girl catering to her client’s specific fantasy. Only my stockings, shoes, and garter belt survived Victor’s blade, and this morning, I didn’t spend any time rifling through Victor’s drawers for clothes. I grabbed a coat and his burner phone, shot him, and left.
My aim is good—years of going to the range with my father’s men ensured that. I could’ve targeted the T-zone, the spot between the eyebrows. A bullet there means instant death. Clean and quick. Too good for a cold-blooded murderer like Victor.
But something stayed my hand.
I shot him in the stomach. Gut wounds lead to a slow and painful death. But if he can drag himself to a phone and get to a doctor in time. . . I’d put his survival rate at fifty/fifty.
I refuse to feel guilty. Victor would feel no regret about cutting me down. There’s no reason I should spare him a second thought. I only knew him for one night.
But. . . oh, what a night.
The diner is dark inside, with most of the light coming from the freezer chest to my right, illuminating racks and racks of fluffy-topped lemon meringue pies. The diner decor is straight out of the 1950s because that’s the last time this place was renovated. Faded red leather booths and metal tables line the window side. A long bar with red-topped metal stools line the other. The walls are painted teal and surprisingly clean. The air is pure eau de pomme frites. If they could bottle it into a perfume, I’d wear it every day.
“Party of one?” The waitress grabs a plastic menu without looking at me. The servers here are notoriously rude, but no customer would dare say anything about it. “Booth or bar?” She’s got the rasp of a seventy-year-old smoker, and her pink and white short-sleeved uniform shows off the dark tattoos whorling up both arms.
“Booth, please.” Just because the service here is rude doesn’t mean I get to be.
The waitress hustles away without checking to make sure that I follow. I clip-clop after her in my stupid heels. The place is empty save for an old timer at the bar who hasn’t left his spot in four decades and two workmen in a nearby booth. The two men glance up at me as I pass and instantly look away. I must have my ice-princess face back on. Either that, or they know not to look at customers of Three Diner too closely.
“Coffee?” the waitress asks, slapping the menu in front of me.
“Please. And the special, when you get a chance. Number three.”
Her fake lashes don’t flicker as I give the code. She nods at the menu and walks off.
I drum my nails on the metal table top. The scent of scrambled eggs and homestyle fries makes my mouth water, but if I eat now, I’ll fall asleep. I check the lapels of Victor’s coat to make sure it hasn’t gaped open to give those workmen a peep show.
Three Diner has three owners. I don’t know who I’ll get today. The eldest, the younger sister, or the daughter they adopted together.
In less than five minutes, a young, redheaded woman in dark glasses glides into the booth opposite me. She’s pale and tall, her arms too thin in the pink and white uniform. The waitress swings by to serve us both cups of coffee, and the young woman waits until she leaves to speak.
“Lucrezia Romano,” she says in a melodious tone. Her hair clashes with the pink in her uniform but frames her face perfectly. She’s startlingly lovely, but none of the workmen give her so much as a glance. Not that she noticed them. She’s blind under those dark, round John Lennon glasses.
“You asked for the special?” Her voice rings like a bell across a city square.
