Scarlett Read online

  Contents

  About the Book

  Foreword

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  The End

  A Message to My Readers

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Scarlett

  Copyright © 2018 Jenna Cole

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except in the case of a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to any actual events is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Art: Danielle Dickson of Vixen Designs

  Cover Photo: Depositphotos

  Editing: Jenn Wood of All About the Edits

  Proofreading: Michele Ficht

  Interior Formatting: Abigail Davies of Pink Elephant Designs

  About the Book

  You know how fairy tales start?

  Once upon a time...blah, blah, blah.

  Girl meets handsome prince...blah, blah, blah.

  They kiss...blah, blah, blah.

  Throw in an apple and she almost dies, he swoops in and saves her life. Then they live happily ever after?

  My story is just like that, but with a few minor changes.

  Goes like this: Girl sees family being murdered; girl runs for her life, then finds out she isn't exactly who she thought she was because she's been lied to. Oh yeah, as it turns out, she's also in quite a bit of danger, with a lovely bounty over her head.

  With one man ordered to "watch me," and another one who promised to protect me, who exactly am I supposed to trust, when I'm just finding out who I really am?

  Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Scarlett.

  To Adriana Locke,

  Whether it's in your world or mine, you taught me to write from one place, and that's from the heart.

  To Marie Skye,

  To someone who is as selfless, as she is badass. This one's for you!

  To My Sensational Six,

  Welcome to Savannah.

  “Sooner or later, everyone sits down to a banquet full of consequences.”

  Robert Louis Stevenson

  She is a rare girl.

  Unconsciously unapproachable.

  The kind of girl worthy of an unhealthy obsession. She is intoxicatingly exquisite and unapologetically whimsical. Her natural easiness, angelic features, and the way she reserves her smiles for picture-perfect moments draw people in. And oh, how they notice her.

  Her mind is a galaxy of exploding thoughts, and if she isn’t wandering unexplored roads, her nose is buried deep in a book. Her soul remains hidden from outsiders, but the journal she keeps is filled with secrets and overflowing with hidden discoveries. With her tiny frame pressed against the bark of a tree, you can watch her pencil move feverishly for hours as she pours the contents of her soul into the pages of her leather-bound book.

  People naturally gravitate to her. She is bright and beautiful, yet silent and withdrawn. A contradiction of sorts. Her darkness shows in her eyes on days when the sun hides behind gray clouds just for her and the air turns dewy and suffocating and warm. On days like this, vulnerability and fear wage war in her mind. Her steps become less steady, her crystal blue eyes turn murky, and her dreams become her nemesis.

  She is a smart girl. Highly intelligent, in fact. She is good with numbers, with words, and with riddles.

  On this particular day in June, the dark clouds in the sky seem to multiply and build in a way that would cause the hairs on your skin to prickle. The woodsy scent of rain summons chaos.

  Something is off today.

  With her.

  With the universe.

  And although she was always prepared for a day like this, she never truly expected for it to come.

  But then again, who would?

  Birdy

  New York City

  “It’s been speculated that ghost trains travel the New York City Subway system at the oddest hours of the day, taking the most curious and peculiar routes for the sole purpose of keeping certain unused lines open. Now, I’ve never personally seen one of these trains before, though I anticipate, on the rare occasion that one was spotted, we’d find definitive proof of more useless government spending.”

  “Is that so?” The old man in the hand-tailored suit lets out a deep hearty chuckle. His face is worn and weathered, but his eyes are filled with mirth. “Well, that’s our government for you,” he adds, before popping open the evening paper. “And to think we elect these fools.”

  I nod slightly without his realization, his focus now on the carefully-selected stories splashed across the thin newsprint. He pushes his readers up the bridge of his nose, as our bodies sway from side-to-side with the gentle rocking of the train. I stare out the window, watching as rain falls in sheets, blanketing the city in a wet wonderland. Lights sparkle and dance in blurred orbs from downtown storefronts in the twilight hours.

  I glance at my watch, already noticing it’s half past seven. I should have been home an hour ago. My shoulders fall forward as the train approaches my stop. Tossing my backpack over my shoulder, I stand and make my way out of the subway car.

  “Have a good night,” I say to the kind man.

  “Stay safe,” is his only reply.

  The subway station is a bustling sea of passengers and mayhem. Pushing and shoving persists as travelers make their way on and off the busy platform. The air is charged, and the heavy fog makes it difficult to see. I make my way onto the street and watch as cars weave in and out of traffic, narrowly avoiding each other, as screams from nearby sirens slice through the air.

  Aggressive raindrops pound the canopy of umbrellas held by soggy pedestrians, as I join the group of antsy bodies and wet briefcases at our crosswalk. Chaos unfolds as the traffic signal changes, giving permission to cross the busy intersection. It’s pure pandemonium as commuters begin bulldozing past one another, and race across the street.

  Lightning pops just as I’m shoved to the ground. My face hits the uneven pavement with brute force, and the wind is knocked out of me. A mass of wet loafers and heels trample past me, ignoring my breathless pleas for help. I can vaguely hear the faint beeping from the traffic signal, alerting pedestrians that their turn is almost up. I attempt to stand, but the stampede of commuters keeps me pinned to the ground.

  Before I know it, the beeping is replaced by the squeal of screeching wet brakes. I watch in slow motion as a plump middle-aged man slams his cab into park and jumps out of the dented yellow vehicle.

  He begins screaming and shouting at me, as he sends his fists flying through the air in fury. Echoes of curse words ring in my ears, and I lay there, helpless, watching the spray from the rain bounce off his bald head. My heart begins thumping out of my chest, when suddenly I’m pulled to my feet and placed back onto the sidewalk.

  Everything happens so quickly that before I’m able to catch my breath and thank the stranger who saved my life, he’s gone.

  I’m left dazed, standing on the corner, dirty and wet, with nothing but my backpack and the warm remnants of a stranger’s hands lingering on my cold wet body.

  When I was a child, my mother would say a prayer and tuck me into bed each night just be
fore the sun would sink below the horizon. I always lacked the courage to ask her who exactly those prayers were going to, or why she would close my curtains just before the sun went to sleep. Nevertheless, she always had the curtains opened in time for me to watch the sun rise.

  I found comfort in the way she hid the darkness from me, and how satisfied she was with her false belief that I was oblivious of the strange men who would enter our home most nights, shortly after her rhythmic lullabies would soothe me to sleep. Some nights, as she’d tuck me in, her opaque pearls and pricy heels would peek out from beneath her crimson robe. Traces of her sweet perfume would tickle my nose, and I’d know that I’d likely be woken up by the lingering scent of rich cigars and the deep voices of men. As I grew older, I’d fight to stay awake so I could piece together conversations about extortion, murder, and women, thus beginning my secret fascination with the dark.

  Perhaps she skewed my view of life purposely by limiting my perception of the ordinary. Growing up, I never fit in with the other kids, but I observed them well enough to know I didn’t want to. Aside from my Uncle Sal, I was never allowed to meet anyone who visited our apartment. He was in no way biologically related to our family, but my father liked him well enough to consider him as such. They always enjoyed talking business over whiskey my so-called uncle would bring over, while puffing on some of my father’s favorite handcrafted cigars.

  I always believed I was put on this earth for a reason. At least that’s what my father always told me, and maybe the selfish part of me always wanted to believe that it was true. I idolized my father for his desire to change the world. He didn’t hide the darkness from me the way my mother always did; instead, he made a show out of exposing it as a journalist.

  I’ve always believed in signs, so to pretend that I didn’t know my world was about to flip on its axis would have been a lie. Call it intuition, call it a hunch, call it whatever the hell you want, but it would never change the fact that I knew my life was about to be swallowed up by a giant black hole, and where I’d come out was anyone’s guess.

  Our welcome mat is covered with muddy footprints, and the front door has been left ajar. Clean white dinner plates sit in front of empty chairs and an untouched dinner. The faint cries from mama’s coo-coo clock can barely be heard over the noises coming from upstairs. I find my father’s cigar burning in an ashtray, surely distorting its flavor, next to his private journal. I grab the timeworn book and begin climbing the stairs to their bedroom, terrified at what I may find.

  They say that the air thins as you go up in altitude, but as I ascend into hell, the air becomes nonexistent.

  My hands quickly cover my mouth as I enter their room. My heart begins beating violently against my chest, demanding an escape from the horrific scene. The deafening sound of bullets as they graze into flesh echo off the walls of our modest New York apartment, and I watch as shadows steal from me the only two people I’ve ever loved.

  I stand frozen in the doorway, clenching the journal against me, as I lock eyes with my father. They are wild and blazing with horror, silently pleading for me to run. My eyes follow a trail of blood leading to mother’s lifeless body. Looking back at my father, I know he’ll be next.

  “Run, Birdy!” my father screams.

  “Someone get her!” warns a voice from the shadows.

  There’s so much screaming.

  So much blood.

  I cover my ears and shake my head in a desperate attempt to drown out the ear-splitting sound of my erratic heartbeat and hell exploding around me. The smell from gunshots looms in the air, as hot tears begin streaming down my face. I know I have a decision to make.

  Fight or flight.

  Run or die too.

  BANG!

  “Forgive me, Birdy,” he chokes out as his eyes flutter closed. “I love you.”

  All the oxygen in the room vanishes with my father’s last words.

  My adrenaline spikes as the shadows near. Madness begins flowing through my veins, and I run.

  I run through crowded city streets. Through dark tunnels and dangerous alleyways. Through the devastating pain and suffocating fear. I run until there is nothing left to do except stop, collapse, and become a shadow.

  Acid burns my esophagus as the bitter contents of my lunch spill from my stomach, splashing to the cobblestone pavement with wicked force. My vision clouds as the knots in my stomach tighten, and I dry heave, falling to the street in the fetal position. The putrid smell of my vomit masks the smell of death still lingering in my nose. Wiping my mouth with my crimson raincoat, I continue down the back alleyway. Trash lines the wet road, and I watch as an empty can spins in a puddle.

  Drip.

  Drip.

  Drip.

  The alley is silent except for the constant trickle of water seeping from rusted gutters onto the street. I secretly wish I could follow the trail of rain and gravel down the grated sewer to someplace better.

  Or possibly hell.

  A lonely street lamp stubbornly flickers in the night, illuminating the road just enough for me to spot the black double door. The number “55” hangs just below the peephole.

  A familiar sense of déjà vu washes over me, giving me the courage to knock in the sequence my father had taught me years ago. I take an exhausted breath, then exhale all the fear that’s been bottled up inside of me, and I wait.

  Seconds turn to minutes, as I begin to question if I’m at the correct address, but I know this has to be the place. I feel like I’ve been here before.

  Finally, I hear movement from within, and after a few moments, I can hear chains being removed, and a lock click open. A man with mussed gray hair, and an unshaven face cracks open the door. If my father was still alive, the man appearing in front of me would be about his age. A tear starts to mar my eye, but I quickly shake it off. He exhales sharply, as if he knows why I’m here, even if I don’t.

  “Fuck. Get in here.”

  I blindly follow the man inside the redbrick building.

  “Name?” he asks as he lights his Bolivar cigar. I breathe in the rich scent of tobacco, hoping to catch some of the high.

  “Birdy Russo.” I take a second to say the next words. “My father was Manuel—”

  “Was?” he cuts me off sharply.

  I shut my eyes briefly before answering. “Yes...was.”

  “God dammit.” I can hear him mumble some more swear words under his breath as he leads me down the dimly-lit hall.

  “Sit,” he orders, as we enter a room with cracked beige walls. The torn leather chair he nods to is covered in ashes and littered with bullet holes, but I obey. I don’t exactly have a choice.

  He walks over to a safe in the wall and spends a few moments unlocking the steel machine. Slipping his hand inside, he retrieves a pile of cash and some paperwork. He plops down in his chair and slides an ID and birth certificate in front of me. I stare at it as if it’s going to bite.

  What does he expect me to do with this?

  I glance back up at him waiting for…something. A plan, instructions, hell, I don’t know, but something to tell me what I’m supposed to do.

  He blows out a puff of his cigar, and the lingering circles from the smoke dance in the air like the emotions in my heart. I cautiously pick up the ID, and gaze at the name printed on the front.

  Scarlett Jacobs.

  The girl staring back at me in the picture looks like she could be my twin. Same blonde hair, blue eyes, and no smile. I look back up at the man.

  “Who’s Scarlett?” I whisper, my breath bouncing like my heartbeat.

  “You,” he replies, almost matter-of-factly. He hands me the pile of cash he just removed from the safe. “Good luck, Miss.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me. What am I supposed to do with this?”

  “There’s enough money there to start a new life. Forget this one… Birdy.”

  “But, how? I just can’t… I’m barely eighteen.” My voice is shrill as I hold the ID up to him
as if he has never seen it before. Tears threaten to spill from my eyes again.

  He looks frustrated as he pinches the bridge on his crooked nose, and I can’t help but wonder how many times it’s been broken. “Look, you need to leave or you’ll be next. It’s only a matter of time before they get you too. I’m sure they already got eyes on you.”

  “Who is they? Who killed my parents!” I toss the ID at him, hitting him square in the chest. It bounces off his hard muscles and lands between us on the cracked concrete floor. I want answers, but the look on the man’s face tells me he’s not about to give me any.

  “Grab your shit, and get the hell out of here,” he demands, but I just sit there, frozen for the second time tonight.

  “Scarlett, go!”

  This time, his voice makes me jump. I’m on edge as I fill the backpack that’s been weighing me down all afternoon with the money and my new identity, fully prepared to leave this hellhole.

  Just as I begin walking away, the man grabs my shoulder, halting me in my steps.

  “One more thing.” His smoky breath hums into my ear. “You’re going to need this.”

  My body tenses, as I slowly turn to face him. He hands me a gold envelope, sealed with a crimson wax stamp, and I cautiously accept it. With trembling hands, I open it and silently read the four words that are typed in bold letters.