Stolen Crown by S. Massery
Gemma
I parkin my father’s spot behind West Bar. A sensor light only flickers on after I’ve climbed out of the car. It buzzes softly, attracting bugs. I glance up at it, then quickly unlock the metal door and stride inside. I take two steps forward and touch the smooth counter of the small kitchen’s workspace, then feel my way into the main room.
The only glow out here comes from the neon signs on the walls that no one ever bothers to turn off. The closest one is the outline of a green beer bottle, and it allows me to navigate past the bar and to the hallway.
Up the stairs.
I draw the blackout curtains across the large window that overlooks the street, then click on the desktop lamp. I fall into the leather chair.
Despite practically living in here for most of the week, I’ve been unable to change anything. Dad had it a particular way—the sleek computer at an angle, the thin keyboard tucked away when he wasn’t using it. A framed photo of his family before it imploded. Pens collected in a World’s Best Dad mug.
He never did business with his enemies in here. That’s why he let pieces of himself shine through—the mug, the photo. The books lining the inset shelves along the far wall, even. Texts on philosophy of war, memoirs of war heroes and old, infamous gangsters of New York City. Back in the eighties, this city was run by five Mafia families.
There was a big crackdown, and now it’s just us and the DeSantises struggling for power.
I slide open the bottom drawer and stare down at the safe. I’ve been hesitant to try more than one code per night, and each one was unsuccessful. Not Mom’s birthday or their anniversary. Not Colin’s birthday—not mine, either. I reluctantly tried that the other day. The issue is, I can’t tell how many digits the code is supposed to be. It could be four or twelve or anything in between.
I bite my lip and tap my fingers along the edge of the desk, then on a whim, grab the photo and pull it closer. There’s a little layer of dust along the top that I swipe off with the pad of my finger. I lean forward to set it down, and something at the bottom catches my eye.
Mom’s bracelet.
Her arm is wrapped around my front, forearm pressed to my collarbone. Dad has both his hands on Colin’s shoulders. But it’s the gold bracelet that catches my eye. Have Faith. Mom’s name. I still remember the day Colin and I spotted it in a store on vacation. We pooled our money together to get it for her.
Tears well in my eyes, and I clutch the frame tighter.
It turned her wrist green after a few days of wearing it.
Where did we get that stupid thing? Some little hole-in-the-wall gift shop on Coney Island.
Coney Island.
There’s even the blurred out Ferris wheel in the background of the photo, because it was taken on the boardwalk before we left for the day. Could it be a sign?
What the hell—worth a shot, right?
The keypad has the letters beneath it, similar to a phone, so it makes translating the words easy. I don’t hold my breath.
But then the sensor flashes blue, and it lets me twist the handle and pull it up.
“Holy shit,” I breathe.
Files. A notebook. A handgun locked in its holster, a full magazine beside it. A ring of keys.
I go for the notebook first, flipping it open. It’s full of my father’s handwriting, and it chokes me up for a moment. I close it and clear my throat, then open to the first page. It’s dated a year and a half ago—before Mom died.
Nope.
Not ready for that heartache.
So instead, I do what any good sleuth would do… and skip to the last page of writing. He filled most of the notebook, but I have to trace back a few pages to actually get to the start of the last entry.
It’s a letter…
To me?
My stomach knots, and I bite my lip as I scan it. He congratulates me for figuring out the code, then goes on to list instructions. Who knows what, the people he trusts. Passwords and accounts and how to access them. There’s a folded piece of paper wedged between the pages.
I pull it out and gasp.
You’re not alone, Gem. Even if it feels that way.And below that, an address. The safe house for the women? I tense and set down the paper. Colin couldn’t tell me where they were. It was one of those things that Dad was apparently playing too close to the vest.
I type it into the maps app on my phone. It’s only a few hours away.
I shoot a text and set my phone back down, then grab the key ring. Very few are labeled. There’s a house key to both the Brooklyn house and the one in Manhattan. One has a piece of tape on it that reads Hell’s Kitchen Office. But there are at least ten that I can’t place.
My phone chimes.
Frustrated at that dead end, I drop the keys back into the safe, along with the notebook. I keep the piece of paper with the address, and on a whim grab Dad’s gun. Better safe than sorry, right? Especially since I don’t know what’s waiting for me. I find a hoodie on the back of the door and stash the gun in its pocket.
Once the office is shut down and locked, I slip back out the back door.
Amelie leans against the hood of my car. She pats it. “Cute little thing.”
I roll my eyes. “Sure.”
It’s not exactly new, but it’s paid off and it’s mine. I eye the Porsche that Aiden and I once rode in. Actually, it was the car we took to meet my father and Jameson…
“So, what’s the nine-one-one? You’re lucky Luca seemed to be out with Aiden.”
“Following me, no doubt.”
She frowns.
I sigh and join her, kicking my legs out in front of me. “I need to go on a trip, but I think he might be tracking me somehow.”
“DeSantis men will do crazy things and call it love,” she says.
I elbow her. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what, Gemma? Say he loves you?”
I glare at my shoes. “He doesn’t love me. Will you help me, though? It’s important.” And I need to get back sooner rather than later, before the family chooses a new leader. At that thought, nausea rolls through me. I’ve only been in charge for a week, and I want to cling to it.
“Of course I’ll help you.” Amelie eyes me. “You want my car?”
“For starters.”
Her brow lifts.
“I also want you to take my phone and car. If you lead Aiden and Luca on a wild goose chase—”
“Wait,” she interrupts. “We’re talking tonight? How do you know they’ll follow me?”
“Because Aiden found me there,” I mutter. “And if he didn’t physically trail me, I’m sure he’s somehow keeping an eye out.” He’s possessive enough to do that.
“Men.” She laughs. “Yeah, I’m down.” She takes my stuff and tosses it into the passenger seat of my car, then lifts my keys from my fingers. She hands me hers and grins. “I can’t wait to see the look on his face when he discovers me instead of you.”
I snort. “Take a picture, would you?”
She winks.
I slide in her car and adjust the settings, then type in the address. We’re a similar height, so the mirrors and seat are okay. Amelie leans down in the window and points out some specifics, to which I nod, then she lets me go.
I inch down the alley, my headlights off. If Aiden has followed me, and he sees me in Amelie’s car?
Game over.
He’d probably recognize it, too. He’s good with cars and seemed familiar with hers. There’s no way he’d think it’s just another Porsche—not at this time of night.
But then Amelie backs my car out of the spot and goes the other way, zooming onto the street without a backward glance. The engine revs and echoes. It draws attention, that’s for sure.
My heart is in my throat, watching her taillights disappear.
And then another car, parallel parked on the street, pulls out of its spot.
“Holy shit,” I breathe.
The bastard was following me.
But now I have no phone, and no way to warn Amelie. Hopefully she’ll lead him on a merry chase.
As soon as his car is gone, I take my cue and flick my lights on. And then I get the hell out of dodge.
Paranoia winds through me the farther away from the city I get. I make it an hour, then turn into a rest area off the highway. I pick a spot outside the ring of lights, by a patch of trees, and back myself in so I can see anyone approaching. Then I lock my doors and let out a long sigh. I crack the passenger-side window and kill the engine, letting the rush of wind and following silence soothe me.
I’m bone-tired and itching to just hit the gas—but I can’t. If someone is following me, they’ll make themselves known.
So I force myself to keep my eyes open and scan the deserted parking area.
Again.
And again.
I remove the gun from the hoodie I had taken from the office, then slide the warm material over my head. I draw the hood up, letting it cover most of my face. The shadows will protect me.
A few cars filter in and out, and I try to note anything about them that will help me remember. Color, make, bits of license plates. But soon my eyes are sandpaper, and I can’t help but close them.
