prologue
Smoke curlicued in front of his face, creating designs he had no intention of deciphering. The stench of cigar made his nostrils flare, but it was a comforting stink after all these years, and he let it brew inside his lungs for a while before exhaling it slowly. The girl shifted under the sheet, letting it slip off her. The light seemed to sink into her pale skin. The darker arm of her friend slipped over her in a companionable loneliness, making them no longer alone.
Voltaire smiled wryly to himself; the thoughts that were entering his head this morning. Perhaps he was a little drunk. The two women in his bed hadn’t noticed if he was, and the third re-entering the room from the toilet and finger-combing her hair hadn’t seemed to catch on, either.
Three friends. A bit cliche, but boredom would work itself out as it would, particularly when drink was involved.
There was a commotion outside of his window. And while that was commonplace in a city the breadth and size of New York, Voltaire took a brief interest in it and glanced outside. A teenager- a girl, it seemed like- was struggling slightly in the grasp of an older man. A man that he knew- Ricardo DelRossi, an associate of his. More an underling, but nothing he needed to argue about with to himself, as all three knew what the pecking order was. If so, the girl was probably his daughter. Her name was Alexandra, wasn’t it? Something like that. She would be fifteen or sixteen now, if memory served him correctly; around the age he started to pay attention to those things.
His attention at the moment, however, wandered to watch the blonde snort a line off of his nightstand and fall back into fantasy’s grip. She did strike a lovely form. Let Ricardo take care of his own. Family squabbles were just that, and none of his concern. Until he distinctly heard, “I will leave this place, you bastard,” and knuckles connecting to skin. Considering the girlish squeal that followed, she was on the receiving end.
Voltaire had had enough. He remembered those eyes, shining feverishly as she stuck the needle in her arm which he had so graciously provided in exchange for the bit of pilfered cash she offered him. She had been trying to dull some pain, perhaps this was it. He rolled the window open, and shook his head slightly at the scene. “Ricardo!” He glanced up, surprised the shady figure in the window took notice. “If she wants to go, let her go. Children, they grow up so fast.”
“But- sir-”
“Do it.” The window rolled to a shut again. After a few painstaking moments in which it seemed like he would be disobeyed, the man stepped back and into the building, albeit reluctantly. Those eyes flashed up at him. Gratefulness, shock, anger, all of those he expected to find, and welcomed in his own way, although he hadn’t done it for the reward. But there was one last, unnamed emotion he couldn’t place before she turned and walked away. Her coat trailed behind her, and he had one last glimpse of the moon shimmering in her raven hair before a hood covered it, and she was gone, melting into the night where even his eyes failed to find black moving against seedy black.
There, let that be his good deed for the century, since everyone seemed determined he have one. Good deed enough that he provided the services he did, and kept the economy going at an affordable rate. What more did they really want from him? It wasn’t until several minutes later, when he re-entered the womb of warm women on his bed that he labeled it.
Revenge.
Voltaire smiled wryly to himself; the thoughts that were entering his head this morning. Perhaps he was a little drunk. The two women in his bed hadn’t noticed if he was, and the third re-entering the room from the toilet and finger-combing her hair hadn’t seemed to catch on, either.
Three friends. A bit cliche, but boredom would work itself out as it would, particularly when drink was involved.
There was a commotion outside of his window. And while that was commonplace in a city the breadth and size of New York, Voltaire took a brief interest in it and glanced outside. A teenager- a girl, it seemed like- was struggling slightly in the grasp of an older man. A man that he knew- Ricardo DelRossi, an associate of his. More an underling, but nothing he needed to argue about with to himself, as all three knew what the pecking order was. If so, the girl was probably his daughter. Her name was Alexandra, wasn’t it? Something like that. She would be fifteen or sixteen now, if memory served him correctly; around the age he started to pay attention to those things.
His attention at the moment, however, wandered to watch the blonde snort a line off of his nightstand and fall back into fantasy’s grip. She did strike a lovely form. Let Ricardo take care of his own. Family squabbles were just that, and none of his concern. Until he distinctly heard, “I will leave this place, you bastard,” and knuckles connecting to skin. Considering the girlish squeal that followed, she was on the receiving end.
Voltaire had had enough. He remembered those eyes, shining feverishly as she stuck the needle in her arm which he had so graciously provided in exchange for the bit of pilfered cash she offered him. She had been trying to dull some pain, perhaps this was it. He rolled the window open, and shook his head slightly at the scene. “Ricardo!” He glanced up, surprised the shady figure in the window took notice. “If she wants to go, let her go. Children, they grow up so fast.”
“But- sir-”
“Do it.” The window rolled to a shut again. After a few painstaking moments in which it seemed like he would be disobeyed, the man stepped back and into the building, albeit reluctantly. Those eyes flashed up at him. Gratefulness, shock, anger, all of those he expected to find, and welcomed in his own way, although he hadn’t done it for the reward. But there was one last, unnamed emotion he couldn’t place before she turned and walked away. Her coat trailed behind her, and he had one last glimpse of the moon shimmering in her raven hair before a hood covered it, and she was gone, melting into the night where even his eyes failed to find black moving against seedy black.
There, let that be his good deed for the century, since everyone seemed determined he have one. Good deed enough that he provided the services he did, and kept the economy going at an affordable rate. What more did they really want from him? It wasn’t until several minutes later, when he re-entered the womb of warm women on his bed that he labeled it.
Revenge.