Firebird Rising: A romantic mafia fantasy (The Gray Dynasty Series Book 1) Read online

  “Are you sure you want me to drop it?”

  “I said drop it!” His eyes narrowed. “I’m not going to tell you again!”

  “Okay, as you wish.” Celia clenched the twig in her palm, feeling the pleasant tickle of heat brewing within. She whipped it at him.

  Before he could react, it erupted in midair into a flaming ball that latched onto the mouth of his gun and enveloped his hand to the cuff. He cried out in pain, dropping the hot gun and flailing his arm about. “You had an explosive! You wretched, nasty woman! You bitch!” He ran back into the courtyard, screaming for water to douse his smoldering uniform.

  “It’s true. I can be a rather nasty woman,” she said to herself, smiling thinly, before sending the iron gates and the surrounding wall up in flames. “But I don’t care for the word bitch. It’s in poor taste.” She pressed her lips together, then frowned as she watched the fire eat through a wooden awning in the west wing.

  Celia ran through the streets, searching for the getaway car Darren had waiting nearby. If it hadn’t been for the adrenaline coursing through her, she might have fainted from the energy expended. Darren was in the driver’s seat of a black sedan, parked a couple streets away. She opened the door and slid into the passenger side.

  “H-how did the fire start?” His knuckles were white as he gripped the wheel and stared at the dancing flames now stretching high into the sky.

  “I can’t be certain. They shot at some trucks and I suppose a gas tank was hit. Everything went up in flames. Not to worry, the firemen can put it out.”

  “But the gas tanks wouldn’t have made such a big fire in an all-brick building. Something else had to be the cause.” His voice trembled with a tinge of suspicion as he watched the black clouds drifting over town.

  Celia shrugged and pulled his face closer, kissing him slow and deep. Running her hands through his soft hair, she looked sweetly into his eyes. “Let’s get out of here, my love.”

  Darren nodded in a daze and started the car. The engine roared to life, and they sped off into the night.

  *

  They were a few hours outside North Haverdale, winding through country roads lined with wheat fields, when Darren pulled over. Celia was itching to get out of her prison-supplied plain beige shirt and long skirt with scratchy stitching.

  “Do you have my clothes?” she asked as they came to a stop at the side of the road.

  “I couldn’t get your belongings in time, so I bought you something instead.” He handed her a large brown paper bag.

  She opened the bag and emptied its contents. A pink two-piece dress, silver shoes and a matching headband tumbled onto her lap. She held up the satiny dress and examined it. Silvery sequins were stitched in a floral pattern along the hem of the skirt and the cuffs of the sleeve.

  “Bright pink with too many sequins,” she scoffed.

  “I know you aren’t used to fancy things. It’s a wonder how Wilson mistook you for some heiress in those plain clothes you had on!” He chuckled to himself, ignoring the scowl on Celia’s face. “It’ll look lovely on you. Trust me.” Darren smiled, reassuring her with a pat on the shoulder. “Oh, and I also bought you a coat and hat. It’s going to get much colder soon, you’ll need it.” He pointed to the back seat where a black coat and hat lay.

  At least the coat and hat are a less offensive color, she thought. The dress could be concealed underneath until she found something more suitable. Opening the door, she shook her head and took in a deep breath as she stepped outside, her new apparel draped over her arm.

  “Keep your eyes in front,” she ordered before making her way behind the car. It was still dark out, and not a single vehicle had travelled down the road in the last hour.

  Darren rolled down the driver’s window and rested his elbow on the door. “Before we set sail for France, I’d like to meet your father. What’s his name?”

  “Why do you want to meet him?” She pulled the blouse over her head and shoved her arms through the sleeves.

  “Well, I’d have to ask for your hand. It would be the polite thing to do. You’re from that small town––what was the name of it? Monterey? Monrep . . . Mono . . .” He waved his hands in a rolling motion, as if reeling the name from the depths of his brain. “Oh, Montreau, right? It shouldn’t take us too long to get there.”

  “I don’t need his permission.” She begrudgingly stepped into the skirt and pulled it up to her waist.

  “I couldn’t let you do something so dishonorable and hurt your reputation. We’ll need him to agree. You’re his daughter––he has the right to give you away to your husband.”

  Celia stuck her tongue out and rolled her eyes as she straightened her new clothes. Although not to her taste, the shimmery material was a welcome change from the cheap, stained prison wear she sported for a week. She looked through the rear window at Darren, who still had his eyes fastened straight ahead. He may be dull and conventional, but he was a gentleman; that fact, she couldn’t deny.

  She sighed and dropped to her knees. “Ouch! My leg! My leg!” She clutched her shin.

  “What’s happened?!” Darren stumbled out of the driver’s seat, rushing to her aid.

  With one swift motion she locked his head under her arm, grabbed his gun from its holster and shoved him to the ground.

  “Celia . . .” His eyes widened, looking at the girl standing before him in a pink sequined dress, her delicate fingers curled around his revolver.

  “Hand me your wallet.” She pointed the barrel at his head.

  “W-what’s going on?”

  “I said hand me your wallet. Now.”

  “I-I . . .”

  She let out an exasperated breath and pulled the trigger. The bullet planted into the dirt beside his boot, splattering mud onto his face, and he scrambled backwards on his hands and feet. Placing a trembling hand into his pants pocket, he retrieved his wallet and tossed it to Celia.

  She caught the leather bifold with her other hand, flipped it open, and peered inside, the faint trace of a smile curling at the corners of her mouth. “Thanks for the cash . . . and the car.” She backed away, the gun still pointed at Darren’s forehead.

  “Celia . . . I thought . . . I thought you loved me!” He was still on his knees, his hands clutched to his chest as he begged. “Please don’t! We were going to get married!”

  “I’m not the marrying sort, darling.” She gave him a wry look and hopped into the driver’s seat. With a heavy foot on the pedal, the car lurched out onto the road, its tires smoking as rubber burned onto pavement.

  “You can’t do this to me!” Darren screamed after her as she flung his hat into the wheat fields. “Bitch!”

  Celia shrugged as she glanced at Darren’s receding visage in the rearview mirror. Maybe she did deserve that one. At least she didn’t have to worry about him pining after her with a broken heart.

  Lighting one of his cigarettes with her free hand, she settled into her seat and drove at full speed toward a town called Tully.

  Chapter 2

  Celia stood in the powder room of her hotel suite, hunched over its pedestal sink. She massaged shampoo into her thick, wavy hair, then rinsed cool water over her head. Inky black dye swirled around the bowl, making a slurping noise as it emptied down the drain.

  Darren’s money clip held only a few notes, but it was enough to afford her a box of dye and a room for one night. Given her discerning taste, it wouldn’t afford her another. Satisfied she’d washed out the excess dye, she wrapped a towel over her head and walked into the bedroom.

  It was a generous size for a single person, larger than the apartment local families lived in, not that Celia would’ve had the faintest idea. Morning light flooded in from a wall of gold-paned windows, velvet curtains draped along each side, and a king bed sat in the center of a silk-papered wall, flanked by two wooden night tables.

&
nbsp; Undoing the belt of her plush robe, she let it fall to her ankles. A week in the big house with goopy porridge for meals and she’d lost more than a few pounds. To her delight, her cheekbones were more pronounced, like the women who graced advertisements for posh boutiques, but the rest of her face was sallow and pale. The combination, she believed, made her resemble a painted ghoul she saw once in a yard on All Hallows’ Eve. Dark circles drooped under her eyes, and the beginnings of a hive-rash was forming at the base of her neck. She cursed. It must be a symptom of those raggedy prison clothes, she thought, scratching at the blotchy red spots on her skin like they were dried paint splatter.

  Having had no other option at her disposal, she’d put the dress Darren bought back on after her shower. Pulling the ink-stained towel from her head, she tossed it onto the bed, and her hair tumbled around her shoulders. With both hands, she tousled it, letting the waves frame her face. Shifting from one side to the other, she scrunched up her nose.

  Breathing out a heavy sigh, she placed both hands on her hips and frowned. Then she turned to the coat rack and pulled on the black wool coat and matching hat. Grabbing a square of paper and a pen from the nightstand, she scribbled down a note:

  Sam, meet me at the Lion’s Head pub near the Royal Hotel in Tully. 6:30 p.m.

  — Mr. Edelman.

  Stepping out into the hallway, she closed the door behind her and hurried down the corridor, the sound of her heels cushioned by the soft, burgundy carpeting. The elevator opened with a ping, and an attendant greeted her with a broad smile.

  “Good mornin’! Which floor ya headed, ma’am?”

  “Morning. The lobby, please.”

  “Straightaway.” He pushed the appropriate button and asked, “Ya visitin’ for the first time?”

  “I’ve been here on a couple occasions, some years back, but this time feels brand-new.” She clasped her hands in front of her, watching the needle flit from one floor to the next.

  The skin at the corners of his eyes crinkled as he chuckled. “I been here fifteen years now and some days it all seem brand-new to me. They buildin’ all kinda shops and things to do in town. Every week it look like somethin’ new. Ya goin’ shoppin’?”

  “I was thinking I would.”

  “You ladies love yer shoppin’.” He gave her a playful wink. “Grayson’s is the best shop in town for anythin’ ya want. Just a short walk from here down the way.”

  Celia inhaled a deep breath. Closing her eyes briefly, she pulled her lips into a tight line. “Thank you.”

  The cab pinged, and he peeled back the metal gate. Its silver doors slid open.

  “Have a great day, ma’am!” he called to her as she stepped into the lobby. Celia waved him off with the back of her hand and continued toward the reception area.

  A young clerk stood behind a mahogany table. He shuffled some papers in his hands, banging them on his desk to straighten them, and then he fixed them together with a clip. He smiled as she approached.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Edelman, how may I help you?” His voice was warm and welcoming from years of practice, but the jolly sentiment hadn’t spread to his tired eyes.

  “Might you be able to ring number forty-three in Delaney and give this message to a fellow named Sam?” she asked, sliding the piece of paper toward him.

  He held the note in his hands. Reading it, he gave her a curious look. “I sure can, madam. Will Mr. Edelman be joining you soon?”

  “Yes, he’s coming up from town and will be here this evening. He’s been kept late with his business. You know how it is. That’s why I’m ringing for my–er–my cousin. He’ll join us for dinner.” She gave him a confident, reassuring smile, wondering if he bought it.

  He seemed to consider for a moment, regarding her carefully and then the note. “Right, I sure do know how busy things can get in the city. I can relay the message for you, unless you’d like to do so yourself? I have a telephone in the next room.” He gestured to the tall wooden door behind him.

  “No!” she exclaimed, then seeing the alarm on his face, she calmed her tone. “I meant to say, no, thank you. I’ve got a few things to attend to. If you could please relay the message.”

  “Not a problem.” He tucked the paper into his breast pocket. “Will that be all?”

  “Yes, thank you,” she said. Taking a step backward, she paused. “Oh, and please read it exactly as written, and if he asks on whose behalf you’re acting, please, only mention it’s Mr. Edelman. Please.”

  “Very well, I will follow your direction. Have yourself a good day, Mrs. Edelman.” He excused himself and tended to two new guests who’d just arrived with stacks of luggage wheeled by a bellhop.

  Celia passed them by as she walked through the golden-trimmed revolving doors and stepped out into the cool October air. Her damp hair made it feel chillier, and she tugged her hat firmly over her head. Strolling down the street, she admired the rows of tall limestone buildings framing a cobblestone road.

  Tully was a small town in the north-eastern region of Fauland, many miles from North Haverdale. She’d gone far enough that it would take that smug lieutenant and his underfunded police force days to figure out where she was, and by that time, this whole thing would be buried. The thought of his sour puss mug receiving an order to stand down brought Celia a sense of satisfaction she hadn’t felt in a while.

  Along the sidewalk, she brushed shoulders with townies who were rushing between buildings, going about their daily errands. Delivery men unloaded boxes from trucks, shop boys stocked window displays with dried meats and produce, and bells jingled in chorus as doors opened and shut.

  How Celia wished she could trade places with them, if just for a moment. Her only concern would be the day’s work, and all would be well at day’s end. It would be simpler. Easier. She’d not have the burden of her own ambition on her shoulders. Deep down, she knew she wouldn’t last an hour toiling away in any bakeshop, or as a house cook or a seamstress, or waiting on well-to-do ladies. There were few professions that women were able to hold, and that was only if they were in the working class and didn’t have the important job of child-rearing. Celia wondered how many of them dreamed of something greater for themselves.

  A horn blared at the far end of the street where two men argued over a parking space, their shouting echoing through the town, drawing a small crowd. She shook her head and turned the corner onto a street lined with clothing boutiques. Women adorned with feathered and bowed hats promenaded arm in arm, stopping to peer into shop windows, “oohing” and “aahing” over this season’s latest fashions.

  She stopped in front of a four-story building that towered over the smaller shops beside it. Above the entrance, the name “GRAYSON’S” was painted in big block lettering. Celia’s breath caught in her windpipe. A prick in the center of her chest was followed by a sinking feeling, like her heart had slipped into her belly.

  The front doors pushed open, dinging the store bell, and a middle-aged couple walked through. The man stepped out first, holding yellow paper bags with “Grayson’s” written in cursive along the front. He gave Celia a bright smile and then tipped his hat, nodding a silent greeting. His wife followed close behind, lifting her ring hand to straighten her hat. She turned her nose to the air when she saw Celia and then grabbed his arm so firmly that one would think he was rescuing her from a biblical flood.

  Celia tried to stifle her amusement. Being an unwed young lady, she was used to snarky looks from time to time from the other half. Nevertheless, she was thankful for the momentary distraction. Clenching her fists at her sides, she straightened and pushed through the doors.

  The shop floor was crowded with racks of clothing. Women were trying on hats, scarves, and coats, while busy clerks rushed hither and thither to assist them. Laughter and chatter filled the air, and no one lifted a head when Celia entered the space, and for that, she was relieved. She could
blend into the crowd with ease.

  Making her way through the maze of racks, she brushed a hand through the selection of fabrics. The satins, silks, and cashmeres felt luxurious and soft against her fingertips. She picked out a slinky, aubergine-colored dress and held it against herself. Delight curled her lips, and she draped it over her arm, continuing on through the store.

  A pair of glossy black shoes stood out from a table stacked with every style of shoe imaginable. She checked the sizing and then pulled them from the shelf. Winding her way through the tightly spaced racks, she added a new coat and hat to her growing collection. And to finesse the look, she plucked a pair of sunglasses with big, rounded lenses off a wooden mannequin and placed them on her head. Her arms were overflowing, and she jostled the items about, trying not to drop anything.

  A shrimpy-looking saleswoman walked over to her. She had moppy red curls pinned into a bun on top of her head. “Miss, did you need a dressing room to try these on?”

  Celia nodded and returned a thin, perfunctory smile. The woman led the way through the shop and up a set of stairs. She stopped in front of a row of wooden stalls hidden far in the back. Opening the door for Celia, she gestured for her to step in. Inside the changing room were a tufted bench and a floor-length looking glass.

  “Please do let me know if you need me to find you another size or any other suitable product.” She didn’t await a response. Turning on her heel, she left Celia in the stall and hurried to tend to other patrons.

  Celia bolted the door shut then peeled off her coat and hat, setting them on the bench. With a glance into the looking glass, she saw that her hair had dried into a frizzled mess. Grabbing an elastic she’d kept on her wrist, she tied it back, hoping to maintain a presentable appearance. She quickly removed her clothing and put on the new dress. It draped loosely over her body, so she tied the wraps around her waist, making it fit her frame. A stiff-papered price tag jabbed her in the back, and she fished under the dress to yank it out. Crumpling it in her hand, she dropped it onto the pile of her old clothes.