Artemisia

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This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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Meg Merrilies (pen name) asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

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CHAPTER ONE - ARTEMISIA

I dismissed his pleas for a final meeting and sneered at the thought of attending his funeral. He hadn't earned the privilege of my time. His peculiar tradition of watching the sun through a shot glass while surrounded by his group of outcasts reminiscing about the past left a sour aftertaste no amount of alcohol could replace. As the specter of death loomed, it seemed all the more pathetic.

Forever the hero in his twisted narrative, he conveniently forgot the collateral damage he wrought. 

I held no expectation of receiving an apology and refused to subject myself to hope for one. My last act of rebellion was blatant absence. The personal vendetta against the man who raised me was executed with an air of finality as he drew his last breath.

Papa would vanish on the radar of my existence, wiped as though he never existed.

Some might have regrets about taking this action, but I never left words unspoken. He didn't care to listen.

My only sorrow, if I were to dabble in such, would be that he would be unaware of what I planned to do to his precious legacy.

I should have triumphantly whispered my intentions in his ear; they were the only words that affected a man who spoke of sentiment but felt nothing of its warmth or sting.

I envisioned that exchange more times than I could count. If I went, he would try to bend me to his will. He yearned for the reassurance I would continue the family business in the same vein of cruelty.

Better than ten sons," he once slurred after I dispatched my brothers to confront a rival cartel that dared to siphon our supply.

I was simply trying to prevent an all-out turf war, and the poetic notion of gangsters eliminating one another had the specific ring of vengeance I craved.

I stopped being angry and started thinking of the cost on both sides. I settled into my role of a spoiled princess, indulging in luxury, pretending to be Daddy Don's cherished little girl—my performance Oscar-worthy at every turn.

Some of his so-called "friends" disapproved of my actions, the more vulgar ones which contradicted the character I played. Nor could they fathom why Father chose me.

My reasons for eventually accepting his offer of the family mantle were mine alone, as were his for offering it.

Then, there was the matter of his illegitimate sons and their claims. Their downfall was that they failed to see how they remained tethered to his power and claimed none of their own.

I assembled my team from their numbers, becoming the leader to those incapable of leading—the men and women who hated what they became. I blame the death of my mother for teaching me some men could be reformed.

There was always a better way, but it took me time to mature and realize how incentives and opportunities could motivate someone to turn away from a life of wrongdoing. Only then could I understand that even good men can make mistakes and yearn for redemption.

My father's criminal path granted access to their names, families, and the leverage he used against them through syndicate connections. I exploited that information to their advantage, keeping their secrets as they kept mine.

Standing in the small room I had secured for this day, I walked to the window and stared at the cathedral's fascia, noting the heavy wooden doors and the funeral procession making its way up the avenue—not much longer now.

I heaved a sigh, a mixture of emotions swirling within. My gaze fell on Ringer, who insisted on joining me for moral support. I didn't need it at twenty-four, but I loved her like family and kept her by my side. 

My father was undeniably respected for his ruthless ways, evident in the crowd awaiting the family priest. Gathering high-ranking men in one place was dangerous, but they did it to honour Daddy Don. Even in death, he commanded respect. Witnessing such influential figures in this sordid business in one area was unsettling.

The younger me would have considered collapsing the building on them when they entered. 

I watched from the building across the street as the last of his new men arrived late. Undoubtedly, hindered by the biting cold and congested streets of New York. 

He was short and wiry. Nothing to look at. Not unlike most gems before you mine them. His face was craggy from acne as a teen. I met him once and instantly knew this man was a lion. He was the only man my father truly distrusted, making him an immediate object of interest to me and several more senior members of our clandestine organization.

I observed as he shifted from one foot to the other, restless at the chapel doors as if half-expecting someone to make a move. He should have known better than to come.

The corners of my mouth twitched upward as I watched the scuffle below. He fought well but succumbed when my men pounced while another covered his head with a bag and shoved him into a van.

Predictable, in an unpredictable way.

It was day one of being our family's new Dona, and I was just getting started.