Naomi Belle

Motherfucker.

So what if I can't swim? That doesn't make me weak—it makes me more dangerous. Because anyone who knows that now is on my kill list. Smith should already be dead.

And my cigarettes were ruined. That, more than drowning, pissed me off.

After this is over, I'll kill him.

"Hey, Naomi, I'm here to play with you," a voice slithered from behind me, followed by the click of the door locking.

I turned. Zack. In my room.

Good. Perfect, actually. If he wanted to play at being me, then he could handle being the target of my frustration. He could bleed for it. You live by the sword, you die by the sword.

I smirked, rolling my shoulders, irritation sizzling through me like static. "You're a lot more fucking stupid than I originally thought." I chuckled, sharp and humorless. "Who the fuck do you think you are?"

Zack froze, his dumb grin faltering.

I should've had a cigarette in my hand, but instead I had my fists ready. "Wait—what the hell?"

"You said you're Colin's boss, correct?" I took a step forward, watching the color drain from his face.

"W-wait..."

"That's funny," I said, my tone ice. "Because Colin has never worked under anybody surnamed Quinn. He only ever worked under La Grande Dame." I tilted my head, voice dripping with venom. "And what were you thinking risking the entire chain closing because of your stupid formal invites?"

His eyes widened. "They were here for—you're La Grande Dame?!"

He turned to bolt. Too slow. I caught his collar, yanked him back, and slammed him into the ground so hard the boards rattled. He wheezed, stunned.

"Are you fucking stupid?" I hissed over him.

"You're not Naomi Belle!" he gasped, eyes bulging. "Who are you?"

"How dare you sell an invitation designed to get my brother messed up? You know what happens to people with fakes—they get beaten so badly they don't survive." My rage sharpened, and I dragged him up just to throw him back down. "And why the fuck did you take credit for Sinaloa when you know fuck all about anything?"

Zack's lip split, and he scrambled backward. "Wait, stop—"

"Why?" I snarled, stalking him. "Didn't you say you were here to play with me? Then let's play."

My boot connected with his ribs. The crack was sharp, his scream sharper. He crumpled.

"Aren't you supposed to be some weak, gentle girl?" Zack groaned through spit and blood.

I crouched, my smile a blade. "I'm just good at pretending."

He whimpered. I leaned closer. "Everyone wants to be a gangster until it's time to be one. You should've checked who you were impersonating. You tried to harm La Grande Dame's brother. You should know he's untouchable."

"But I didn't know—"

My fist cut him off.

I let loose then. Every shred of irritation, frustration, humiliation I've had to endure since I got here—I poured it into him. He tried to fight back, but he was slow, sloppy, pathetic. I caught his wrists, twisted, slammed him into the dresser, into the floor. Each time he staggered up, I put him back down harder. By the end, he was crawling, coughing blood, his face already swelling.

"Stop!" he sobbed.

"No!" I roared, voice cracking with laughter. "You're a gangster, right? Welcome to the life!"

I swung again, my knuckles splitting against his jaw. His head snapped back, and he slumped unconscious, sprawled on the rug in a pool of his own blood.

I stood over him, chest heaving, my pulse finally slowing.

Shit. He was still breathing. I should kill him. It'd be cleaner.

But no. Not yet.

I left him there, bloodied and broken, and walked into the bathroom. Turned on the faucet, let the water run cool, scrubbed the blood off my hands until the sink swirled red.

Simple. All I had to do was tell Pierre something vague and let the rest of the house fill in the blanks. By the time the story made the rounds, I'd be the victim, the good girl again.

Nice. Clean. Simple.

And Zack? Zack would wake up wishing he'd never dared to steal my achievements.

***

After a while, I'd cleaned up. The dress was fresh, heels back on, and the boots I'd used on Zack hidden deep where no one would find them. I looked every inch the fragile Belle daughter again, not the bloodied creature who'd nearly beaten a boy into the grave.

If only I had my cigarettes.

"Naomi!" Pierre's voice boomed from outside the bathroom door.

Perfect timing.

Then came the yelping. "Zack—what happened? You shouldn't be down! Were you beaten by that orphan?"

Another chimed in, disbelief dripping off her tongue: "How is that possible? She's a malnourished village girl. How could she beat up Zack?"

Pierre's voice snapped sharp. "Where's my sister?!"

Time to play my part.

"Pierre!" I called sweetly, cracking the bathroom door and poking my head out like a timid rabbit. "I'm so glad you're finally here. I'm scared."

He rushed to me, eyes blazing.

"You beat Zack up and left him like this, but you're scared?" one of the girls spat, her voice like broken glass. "He looks like he needs the ICU to live again! How are you afraid?!"

"There's nothing to be scared of, Naomi," Pierre said, gentling his tone for me. "Tell me what happened. How did Zack become like this?"

I clutched the edge of the door and let my voice quiver. "He just tried to sneak into my room and said he was going to have his way with me." A shaky breath, eyes wet. "Then he took off his pants and—it was almost like a split personality came out. I guess they started fighting each other. I don't know what that was."

"So... he did that to himself?" an extra girl asked, baffled.

I widened my eyes, let the innocence drip like honey. "Do you think I could've done that to him? I can't do anything that bad to a grown man."

That was when I spotted Smith. Changed clothes, dry now, but his eyes locked on me like he was trying to strip me down to the bones. The idiot. If he wanted to keep me under surveillance, he could at least have the courtesy to explain why. But it didn't matter—I'd covered everything perfectly. If he tried to expose me, all I had to do was play the victim harder. I'd win.

"Call the police!" Pierre snapped. The crowd behind Smith had grown thick, faces lit with gossip and anticipation. A woman shoved her way through, falling to her knees beside the ruined heap of her son.

"WHO DID THIS TO MY SON?!" she screeched.

"You came just in time, Mrs. Quinn," Pierre snapped, pointing like a prosecutor. "Your son tried to attack my sister." His voice cracked with righteous fury. "I need some clarity on why."

"What do you want me to say? She's just some gutter trash your family picked up in France! If my son wanted her, so what?!" the woman snarled. "Look at my son now! If you ask me, she was the one who tried seducing him!"

Pierre's face flushed scarlet. "You better back off! Your kid did something terrible!"

"You should apologize for having us all around this poor piece of trash! We're fine with the Belle family but this orphan—"

"She's not an orphan!" Pierre roared, cutting her off. "Do you see this? The Quinn family condones rape! Hide your daughters or else this lady's son will ruin them! Zachary Quinn is an attempted rapist!"

Oh, bravo, brother. I could've kissed him for that. Instead, I clutched at his sleeve and played the part of the trembling girl. "Pierre, I had no idea there was a mother out there that approves of her son doing this. I wonder what else they do?"

Gasps rippled through the crowd. I knew I had them now—Colin was here too. With his presence, this scene could tip in whatever direction I wanted. I could have Zack and his mother ended with a single word. But I couldn't risk it. Too harsh, and the mask would slip. Better to play the good girl. Always the victim.

"You little—" Zack's mother lunged for me, hand raised. Instinct flared hot—I wanted to strike her back, drop her like her son—but before I could, Smith stepped in. He caught her wrist, pulled her back with ease.

"M-Mr. Smith," she stammered.

"What a fine way to keep up your husband's legacy," Smith said smoothly, his voice a razor's edge. "You think it's right that my fiancée was almost attacked by your rapist son?"

My stomach turned. Fiancée? What the fuck was this bastard doing, attaching himself to me in front of everyone?

"Mr. Smith, that orphan—"

"She's no orphan. She's the Belle family's biological daughter," Smith declared, then casually kicked Zack's broken body. "Now I hit him, so I'll take responsibility."

The crowd's mood swung hard. Zack's mother wavered. "Surely for this street rat you wouldn't do this!"

And then John slithered out, stepping forward like a self-important vulture. "It's a historic moment. You're actually being questioned, Mr. Smith. Looks like today things are going to change as we're withdrawing our investment. We can't have any blemishes fall back on us."

The Quinn woman's face fell. "Wait, I didn't know! Mr. Smith, I'm sorry—"

"You should apologize to the victim here," Smith said, and then—he winked at me. "It's up to her to decide."

My heart stopped, then burned with rage. Was he... flirting? Or just mocking me?

Either way, fuck him. He was stealing my moment and I didn't like that at all.

I forced myself to smile through the trembling act. "I'd rather get the apology from Zack himself."

And the crowd ate it up.