Chapter 9 - The Ghost of Marco
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For six months, Billy threw herself into the resurrection of her sister’s legacy.
The Eleanor Ror Foundation became a massive success. The reverse-beading technique, finally credited to its rightful creator, took the fashion world by storm. Billy moved from the sewing machine in her living room to a massive, glass-walled office in the fashion district.
Rafe kept his distance, offering quiet, logistical support through his holding companies, ensuring her supply lines were flawless and her events heavily secured.
But the underworld was not as forgiving as the fashion industry.
It was late November. Billy was working late in her office, reviewing fabric swatches for the spring collection. The building was mostly empty.
The heavy glass doors of her office suddenly pushed open.
Billy looked up, expecting the night security guard.
Instead, a man with a jagged scar across his cheek and cold, dead eyes walked into the room. He wore a heavy leather jacket and carried a suppressed pistol in his hand.
Billy froze, the fabric swatches slipping from her fingers.
"Hello, Billy," the man rasped, locking the door behind him. "You’ve done very well for yourself. Nice office."
"Who are you?" Billy demanded, her hand instinctively reaching for the heavy brass paperweight on her desk.
"I’m a friend of Marco’s," the hitman sneered, stepping closer. "Marco is sitting in a federal prison cell because of you. He lost his territory, his money, and his family. The boys in the North End don't appreciate a waitress tearing apart our hierarchy."
"Rafe handled Marco," Billy said, trying to keep her voice steady, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs.
"Rafe is getting soft," the hitman spat. "He’s spending too much time worrying about fashion shows and not enough time running his streets. A few of the capos decided it’s time to send him a real message. And what better message than leaving his new favorite pet bleeding on her expensive rug?"
He raised the pistol, aiming it directly at her chest.
Billy didn't scream. The years of suppressing her fear, of waking at 4:15 AM, of surviving on three hours of sleep, had forged her into something harder than he anticipated.
She grabbed the heavy brass paperweight and hurled it with terrifying accuracy directly at his face.
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The heavy metal struck the hitman squarely in the nose with a sickening crunch. He cried out in pain, stumbling backward, his gun discharging wildly into the ceiling.
Billy didn't hesitate. She vaulted over her desk, sprinting toward the heavy glass door.
