AMARA
I've been invisible for three years.
Working as a waitress in a small town was never a part of my plan. But, when your house burns down with your entire family inside, you have no choice but to disappear. I couldn't be sure of whether it was an accident or a hit on us. If it was the latter, I was a target.
So, I moved. I changed my name and my appearance, and went on the run. I move every year, doing my best not to stay in one place for too long. I don't make friends so there are no connections if I ever slipped and someone found me.
As far as the world knows, the Valenti line died that night. It was all over the news, and journalists reported that I must have died in the fire as well, although my body was the only one never found. I would've been stupid that whoever assassinated my family would believe that, so I ran.
I wake up in a cold sweat, my hand immediately reaching for the dagger under my pillow. It takes me a minute to catch my breath as I try to convince myself that it was only a nightmare. There is no one in my apartment. No one is looking for me, and no one is going to find me.
It doesn't work. Because I know that somewhere out there, someone is trying to find the only living member of the Valenti family. My efforts to stay under the radar have been excellent. It takes a lot to change the way I look, and my name, every year.
Letting go of the dagger, I push myself out of my bed, heading to the bathroom. My heart still races and my hands tremble as I grip the porcelain sink. I meet my own eyes in the mirror, taking in my disheleved expression and the fear on my face.
God, is this ever going to stop? Will I ever be able to live a normal life without having to look over my shoulder every few seconds? Will I ever be able to have friends? Can I ever go back home without fearing for my life?
The answer to all of those questions is a resounding no. No one can ever know my true identity, and no one can ever know that I'm alive.
I rince my face and start getting ready for work. I make sure my backpack is packed with my uniform, some cash, and my dagger. This might be a small town, but I am still a woman working shitty hours at a night restaurant.
My shift consists of making small talk with old people, flirting with younger men who tend to leave bigger tips if I do, and dealing with a very handsy manager. If my brother were here to witness it, he'd have put a bullet through his head a long time ago. And if I were still living my old live, I would have too.
"Lynn," someone shouts as I top off a customer's coffee.
I turn my head, responding to this year's alias. "Yes?" I ask, looking at one of the other waitresses.
She smiles at me. "Booth at the front is all yours,"
"Thanks,"
I set the coffee pot down on the counter before making my way over to the booth at the front. I pull out my notepad and smile at the man in the booth.
"Hi, I'm Lynn, and I'll be your server tonight,"
"Hi," he says back, his smile a little off.
"Are you ready to order, or can I get you a drink to start with?"
He looks at the menu for a split second before looking back at me. "What would you recommend?"
"Our burgers are really popular. The pasta, too,"
"I think a plate of pasta will do," he says in Spanish, his eyes boring into mine.
My brows furrow. "I'm sorry. I don't speak Spanish. Do you mind repeating that in English?"
"You don't speak Spanish?" he asks with a chuckle. "You look like you do,"
"I'm sorry?"
"You look like you have a little Italian in you,"
My heart races. "I don't, I'm sorry,"
"Are you sure?" he asks, fixing the collar of his black leather jacket. "You don't look like your name could be Lynn,"
What?
"Uh, well, I'm sorry to disappoint, but I can assure you it is,"
He nods, not seeming convinced. "Have you ever been in New York, Lynn?"
"Nope. I've only been around Mississippi,"
"Hmm," he hums. "You remind me of someone,"
Pasting on a fake smile, I joke, "An old love, maybe?"
He laughs, the sound menacing. "Oh, no, not a love," he says but doesn't elaborate. With a stare that makes my bones chill, he says, "I'll just have the pasta and a sode, please,"
"Sure. Coming right up,"
I try walking away as casually as possible, but something makes me walk faster. Perhaps the fact that I can feel him watching me. I'm used to male customers staring and not having the decency to hide it, but this is something new. Something about that guy gives me the creeps.
Customers usually ask questions similar to those, but that man was sure I reminded him of someone. A little too sure for me to be comfortable. Despite the itching feeling in my head, I put in his order and head back out with his soda.
"Here you go, sir," I say, placing it on the table. "Your pasta will be out soon,"
He stares up at me, an impassive expression on his face. Uh, okay. With my heart beating a little too fast, I make my way back to the floor and check on the rest of my tables. A nice elderly couple in the back talks to me their grandson, who they think would be a great fit for me. I laugh it off, knowing there's no way in hell I'm getting involved with a man.
A few minutes later, one of the chefs shout, "Order up for Lynn,"
I grab the plate of pasta and take it over to the mysterious man sitting at the front of the restaurant. He stays in the building until an hour before my shift ends. He doesn't order anything aside from a few sodas, and just sits there, looking over at me every few minutes. For the rest of the time, he's busy on his phone.
When my shift ends, I'm dead on my feet. All I want to do is head back home, eat my dinner and go to bed. I grab my backpack and say goodnight to my co-workers before throwing on a jacket and heading out. It's a little colder now, getting closer to winter, meaning the streets are emptier this time of night.
I walk down the street to my apartment complex, bypassing a black sedan in the street. There are usually a few cars parked in the street, belonging to people visiting someone in the complex. Something about this car sends shivers through my body, though.
I was in the life long enough to know that if you feel like something is off, it probably is. I try to get a peak at who is inside the car, but the windows are heavily tinted.
Practically sprinting up to my apartment, I lock the door behind me, putting a chair at the door in case someone tries to break in. I immediately empty out my backpack, placing my dagger on the bed. And then I search for my duffel under the bed.
Inside of it are the things I vowed to keep hidden from the new life I've built for myself. I haven't opened this bag in almost three years, but I know my instincts. If I am uneasy, I have reason to be. I pull out the newspaper on the top.
The headline reads 'VALENTI FAMILY EXECUTED IN POWER STRUGGLE'.
No one knows the true story. Every newspaper article is purely speculation, not even I know the truth.
Rifling through the bag, I check my stash of fake IDs and burner phones. I've never given any of the phone numbers to anyone I've met, which makes disappearing without a trace easy.
It might be time to disappear again.
A knock at my door scares the shit out of me, and I instinctively reach for my dagger. With my heart racing loudly, I make my way to the door. Before I can open it, I spot a manila envelope on the floor, slid under the door.
Picking it up, I back away from the door. Still holding the dagger up, ready to fight whoever decides to be brave enough to burst through my door, I walk over to the kitchen table.
My hands tremble as I turn the envelope over. My name is on the back. My real name. Not an alias. I tear it open and pull out the photo inside.
It drops to the floor before I can properly register what I've seen. That's Lorenzo. My younger brother. What the fuck?
Crouching, I examine the photo. He's tied to a chair, his clothes torn and bloody. His face is beaten, but there is no mistaking that cocky half smirk for anything in the world.
My fingers feel like they are going to fall off my hand as I pick up the photo again. It must be old, I think. Lorenzo died in the fire with our parents. The police identified his body through dental records.
Curious, I turn the photo over. The writing on the back shatters something inside me.
'He's not dead. Ask Moretti."
An anger I haven't known in a long time takes over my body. Lorenzo is alive. And Dante Moretti has him.
"I should've killed him when I had the chance," I mutter to myself, already making my way back to my bedroom. "Looks like I'll get another shot."