The Belladonna Game

Aliyah's p.o.v

I pulled my shawl tighter around my shoulders as the winter breeze slithered through the tiny gap between the restaurant's glass doors, prickling my skin. The expensive place looked warm enough from the outside, but inside, the draft still found ways to crawl under clothes and into bones.

I should have been at home,curled up in bed, maybe with something hot to eat but peace of mind wasn't going to come to me there. Not tonight. Not when I needed to be here.

"Miss, are you ready to order?" The blonde waitress appeared again, her tone polite but her smile paper-thin. It was the fifth time she'd asked, and I could almost hear the unspoken warning in her voice: Order something or leave.

I forced a small smile and nodded. "Yes. A glass of dry gin."

Something to dull the ache in my chest, to quiet the restless pounding in my veins.

She returned quickly, setting the drink in front of me along with the bill,already printed. Her brittle smile didn't reach her eyes as she lingered a second too long beside my table. I picked up the glass, the clear liquid trembling just slightly in my grip.

I knew exactly what this was. She'd already decided someone dressed like me couldn't possibly afford to sit here, let alone pay the inflated price for a drink.

If it weren't for the need to keep my composure and the satisfaction of not letting her believe she'd rattled me.I might have spat the gin back into the glass and told her exactly what I thought.

Instead, I let a small, sarcastic chuckle slip. "No biggie," I muttered under my breath, even as my savings winced in protest. She nodded, satisfied, and drifted back to the bar.

"Bitch," I whispered to myself.

The glass door slid open again, letting in a fresh burst of icy air along with the sound of expensive heels and the faint clink of jewelry. From the corner of my eye, I saw the waitress transformed practically sprinting toward the newcomers, her smile suddenly radiant.

Designer coats. Polished shoes. A bag that probably cost more than my rent.

The Marinos.

Othello Marino, with his sharp, calculating eyes. His wife Sabri, dripping in understated wealth. Allegra, their perfectly groomed daughter with a viper's smile. And Brown Marino, Othello's brother...just as polished, just as dangerous.

They were ushered to a table directly beside mine, the waitress nearly bowing in reverence as she took their orders.

I swallowed a mouthful of gin, feeling it scorch a path down my throat, the heat clashing with the cold in my veins. My pulse was racing, but I forced myself to settle. To listen.

I couldn't afford to let anger cloud me, not when I'd waited two months for this chance.

Two months of watching. Waiting. Following the trail of whispers and shadows that surrounded them.

The Marinos were murderers. I knew it as surely as I knew my own name. Michaelo wasn't