Blood on Her Name

By B. Nacole

Officially, 17-year-old Anya is dead. Unofficially, she's in New Orleans with minimal recollection of the night her mobster parents were murdered and even less recollection of how she ended up in the hands of a shady nightclub owner.

After weeks of failed attempts, Anya escapes with help from the son of the city's most notorious crime boss. Using his father and his connections to produce official documents, Anya proves she is who she says, despite the death certificate, and begins to teeter the lines between avenging her parents and earning the trust of the crime family protecting her.

When Anya's uncle quietly resurfaces, he deems her more useful dead and refuses to entertain her desire to piece together what's left of their family. He threatens to destroy her relationships with the members and heirs of the crime family unless she becomes his personal assassin and spy.

Refusing to be a pawn, Anya forges her own path into the bloody criminal underworld to secure what's left of her family's empire before her uncle kills her—or before she kills him—all while navigating a blooming romance with the boss's desperate-for-peace son, avoiding the detective that has his sights set on the family, and racing to ensure she's exacted her revenge on those responsible for her parents deaths once it's revealed to the world that her casket is empty.

• Language: English
• Publisher: B. Nacole
• Release date: Jan 6, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215055472

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Anya dropped the knife.

After five minutes of picking the lock on the nightclub’s third-floor bathroom window, Anya cursed. Five minutes wasn’t even a personal record in her lockpicking history and now she’d dropped the fucking knife, leaving her to dredge up the final lick of courage to shimmy out of the window and reach for the blade, only to lose any and all balance she had, slide recklessly down the awning, and slam onto the balcony concrete below.

Never let your enemies catch up to you. Anya repeated her mother’s favorite piece of advice as an unfamiliar voice emerged from the balcony corner – soft, almost breezy enough to cut through the humid night and muddle of jazz music, I didn’t know girls fell from the sky.

Blood oozed from her nose, crimson dripping down her lips and staining the light concrete as she shuffled up to face the source of the voice – a boy leaning against the balcony corner, more intrigued than concerned that she had quite literally just dropped into his life.

He was lithe enough that Anya figured she could push him over the railing with ease to create a big enough distraction to give her more time to disappear, They don’t.

In unison, they eyed the knife hanging precariously over the awning. Then considered each other. Anya could only figure that maybe he was a reluctant part of a bachelor party or a frat bro who had defected to the balcony for a line of coke. But neither scenario suited him, and Anya was sure she might’ve dropped in on someone reconsidering their life choices.

His soft brown eyes drifted to the etched brand on her shoulder that marked her as Dark Smile property – curiosity shifted in his eyes and Anya thought maybe he would be the one to push her off the balcony. His gaze flicked back to the blood on her face and offered a hand.

What a gentle… Her words trailed away upon catching the faded red feather presented neatly on his pale forearm.

Red feathers were for the trio of New Orleans crime families that stuck together despite there not being a drop of blood connecting them.

Red feathers reached far and wide into the criminal undergrounds.

Red feathers were dangerous.

Anya was suddenly grateful that her parents had schooled her on as many crime families as they could.

Hesitating was a mistake on her part. His eyes filled with mistrust. The feather was something that wouldn’t have meant anything to a normal girl attempting to escape one of the many private events the nightclub had to offer.

But she pulled herself up, softly sliding a handover the feather. I need— Help.

The balcony doors burst open, and Anya was jerked back, pushed back into one of the nightclub’s more sedated floors where it functioned as an in-between for the first-floor dance club and VIP lounge on the third.

Maia, the only security guard Anya hadn’t managed to bite, kick, or stab—until tonight, that is—squeezed her arm to keep her from steering away from the stairs leading back into the VIP lounge.

Anya rocked against her, shooting a bloody smile up at the woman, How’s your hand?

You’re getting to be a pain in my ass.

Anya sneered at a cluster of drunken patrons taking up the stairway, Not my fault.

The bodyguard scoffed, the stairway giving way to the quieter VIP floor. It was the floor where Anya was quickly deemed too ‘unfriendly’ to slip into the role of a cocktail waitress days after her unwilling arrival. Right above the lounge, though, was a small, dingy apartment that had its share of girls coming and going, who had attempted to dress and do Anya’s make up over the past weeks. They’d failed spectacularly, leaving the club owner to spit abuses back at her and hold the prospect of worse abuse over her head until she tempered her attitude.

Except tonight, it didn’t matter that Anya spit and kicked and bitched, she still ended up in ill-fitting heels, a too-tight dress that pinched her skin, and makeup that aged Anya way past her 17 years.

Eyes were on Anya as they weaved through the floor, masked gazes glancing over the blood on her face then to the brand on her shoulder then their attention drifted elsewhere, assessing her body as new conversations started.

Anya wondered what they thought about her – was she a rogue dancer that had snorted too many lines? A waitress that didn’t bend to the whim of an important patron? Or did they not care at all that she was too far away from where she belonged?

Maia presented her to a private booth where the club owner, Charles, chatted up an unknown man whose cologne bordered on obscene. One of the regular waitresses, Lola, paused from filling their glasses. Her smile, one that was always reserved exclusively for Maia, fell away after taking in Anya’s now unkempt appearance and Maia’s shoddily bandaged hand.

Unknown Man glowered at Charles, This is the girl you wanted me to see so bad?

Charles waved Lola away and attempted to urge Anya into the seat closest to the man. Anya flopped into the chair, posture be damned.

She’s usually very well kept. Charles swiped a damp napkin harshly against her nose and leaned in, breath hot on her neck, Anastasia, this is Ivan. He’s a very important person to you right now. Then quieter, Be. Nice.

Anya eyed the bucket of oysters and ice on the table, Doubtful.

Ivan slid a whiskey glass towards her, Tell me about her.

Charles snatched away the wrapped steak knife closest to Anya, "She doesn’t respond well to kindness. She gets ornery if you don’t watch her close enough."

Feisty, Ivan’s eyes gleamed. How old is she? Where’d she come from?

"She’s almost legal, Charles’s gaze left a sour taste in Anya’s mouth. He was built on threats, never daring to touch her but making sure she knew he could do much worse. She’s a spoiled mafiya princess. Her parents are dead – Daddy was bratva royalty, her mother was too proud for her own good. There’s no one looking for her now."

No, I still have Felix and the Ivanov’s. The thought soured as Anya tapped a broken nail against the whiskey glass, sick uncertainty weighing down on her, Says you.

Ivan tapped her chin, nodding to her glass, Drink. Relax, Anya.

Anya brought the whiskey glass up to her lips, scanning the room for new exits as the liquor and ice barely grazed her tongue. Oh shit. Anya’s gaze froze at the booth closest to the bar.

The boy from the balcony was sliding in a booth with a girl whose smile shone brighter than the neon lights bouncing off her mahogany skin. She leaned into the blonde girl who frequented the apartment just long enough to deposit groceries that didn’t require Anya to use utensils.

From across the room, the boy’s gaze met hers again before jerking his attention away upon taking in the company at her table. Anya sat down the whiskey, the glass hitting the wooden table with a forceful clink, earning the men’s attention once more.

Can I get something else? I don’t like whiskey.

Charles hissed, "No."

Let her loosen up. Ivan grinned, nodding. Be quick. We have a busy night.

Anya slid from the chair, making a point to weave past the boy and his friend as she made her way to the bar. She leaned over, noting a small knife by a pile of lemons, and gave the bartender the warmest smile she could muster, Can I get a bottle of vodka?

What kind?

One of the good ones from the back. Anya nodded towards Charles’s table, then channeled the advice the other girls had whispered to her, telling her that the bartender made sure the girls were medicated safely. And maybe something for… Anya leaned in, keeping eye contact, The nerves?

The older woman sighed, nodding to the stock closet as she shuffled away. Hyperaware of the boy’s eyes on her, Anya plucked the paring knife from the cutting board and glanced over, tracking him as he disappeared down the stairs. With the knife tucked against her arm, Anya cast one last glance to the men at the table and headed to the stairway packed with tipsy patrons. This part of the club was bright and crowded but gave her enough space to gain on the boy and slide her hand down his arm.

Gently, Anya intertwined their fingers and pulled him down a darkened hall, I don’t think we properly introduced ourselves.

He went eerily still. Before Anya could question it, he had twisted the knife away from her and pinned her against a door, What do you want?

His eyes bore into hers, mistrust swimming in his golden eyes, long fingers tight around her wrist.

This isn’t how you make friends, Anya pushed open the door with her free hand and pulled him into the coat closet. She yanked the knife back, pointing it to the red feather, tip grazing his skin, I need your help.

He tore his arm away, nodding to the brand on her shoulder, Why should I help you?

I don’t know, she hissed, voice bordering on erratic. Maybe because I’m not going to get out of this hellscape without outside help.

Anya had tried to walk out of the front door. She’d made it a few steps before a group of henchmen dragged her back inside kicking and screaming when one man wasn’t enough to stop her thrashing. The second time she’d stabbed a bodyguard with a fork, ultimately earning her Maia, the brand, and a lack of eating utensils.

Look, Anya held the knife out handle first, hoping he sensed the urgency in her voice. I don’t know how I ended up here, I don’t know where my parents are or if they’re even alive, but I do know what your feather means.

He hesitated, accepting the knife to wipe at the blade before tossing into the corner, What’s your name?

Hope soared in her chest. It was the first time in weeks someone bothered to ask, Anya. Yours?

Liam, he circled the room and pulled a fuzzy neon blue coat from the rack. He pushed it into her hands and pulled his phone from his pocket, Don’t lose that.

Anya blinked at the coat, Are you helping me?

Liam eyed her high heeled boots skeptically, Can you run?

Possibly. Yeah.

Liam nodded, gently pulling the fuzzy collar up closer to her face before guiding her back through the crowd, Anya’s fingers clung to the hem of his thin t-shirt as the thrum of people threatened to separate them. Liam paused briefly to glance at the stairway. The girl from the booth was bounding down the stairs.

At the top of the stairway, Charles watched the girl before his gaze swept over the sea of people, never locking onto them, but Anya could feel the wave of anxiousness exuding from Liam as they inched towards the back exit. The girl caught up to them and ushered them out of the door.

In unspoken unison, they separated and weaved through the cramped parking lot. Liam nodded, waiting for the girls thumbs up before slinking into his own car. He gave Anya a nervous glance, You ready?

Anya stared at the back exit, Charles’ fury emanating from the doorway, Yes.

CHAPTER 2

Anya rested her head against the car window, pulling the fuzzy jacket closer around herself to fight the nerves as she checked the passenger side mirror at every turn.

She expected the worst, to look in the mirror and see Charles pursuing them. But the roads were calm, no cars attempting to run them off the road, no bullets cracking windows. The girl in the white Chrysler flashed her lights before passing Liam up and turning at the stop sign.

The car stopped, music thumped through the speakers while Liam precariously balanced his phone in one hand while the other nervously tapped against the steering wheel until the phone lit up with a text.

Anya caught the quick exchange of heart emojis, Liam’s shoulders relaxing just a touch before realizing that she was watching.

Making sure she got home, Liam murmured, dropping the phone into his lap, both hands going to the wheel, Is Anya your real name?

Anya hummed, breath fogging up the window, "Is Liam your real name?"

No. It’s Billiam the Third. Liam ceased his nervous rambling, a shaky sigh then a beat of silence. It’s just Liam. Where are you from? How did you end up in Rosebud’s?

Wish I knew. Anya stayed quiet until she felt Liam’s eyes on her, I don’t know.

They fell back into a tense silence, the neon lights and businesses disappearing and transforming into bumpier back roads and neighborhoods. The houses grew in size with each turn, mostly leaving behind the colorful shotgun homes and creeping into ornate historical homes, at another stop sign, Liam turned back to her, Is that the truth? That you don’t know how you got here?

It was and Anya hated it. Hated that there was a sliver of memory gone, leaving her unsure of everything, unsure if her parents were raising hell to find her, or if Charles’ harsh words were true. If you don’t believe me, you can unlock the door and let me out. She pulled at the handle, unsurprised that it was locked, so Anya stabbed at the window button, the window spasming every few clicks.

"It’s broken, Liam huffed through the excessive clicking, but entertained her enough by unlocking the door. I believe you, I just want to have the facts straight."

Anya tried to close the cracked window, giving up and shoving her hands into the coat pockets. "Why were you in the club then?"

Liam hesitated, I have friends.

Really? You don’t sound so… Anya trailed off as Liam turned down another residential road, fear rising in the back of her throat. The possibility of ending up in a worse situation tossed her stomach, Where are you taking me? Look, I didn’t stab you, I think that counts as an act of good will so you kind of have to tell me if you’re a cannibal or going to leave me in a ditch.

"I’m not going to cannibalize you, if that’s what you heard about the Chevalier’s then that’s a new one. I can’t help you by myself, Liam offered, doubt in his voice as though he wondered if he could. You also never told me where you’re from, but if you want to chance it from here, you can."

Anya considered it, eyes going over to the faint red feather on his arm. He was someone, someone with Chevalier connections, and those connections could get her away despite the wariness in his voice. Far away where she could dig for answers herself. You don’t seem up for a road trip to Brooklyn.

"Christ." Liam tilted his arm away, making a final turn into the driveway of a house that even with the dark night and streetlights barely casting any light, Anya could see the bright turquoise paint and boxy shape that made it different from any other typical suburban home she had ever seen, let alone the home of a gangster. But then again, her time in the city had been wildly abnormal.

The ignition clicked off. Anya counted the number of lights on, following Liam out of the car and into the damp humidity that immediately made the fuzzy jacket unbearable. Is this your house?

It’s my aunties.

On cue, the front door jerked open to reveal a lanky woman in a puke green face mask, Liam, why are—She noticed Anya and straightened, crisp mask furrowing as her eyebrows crinkled with concern.

Liam ushered Anya past the woman and into the house where the comforting scent of coffee and freshly baked cookies wrapped around Anya, settling her nervous stomach. The woman closed the door and looked at Anya then at Liam, waiting for an explanation.

This is Charlotte, Liam started, instead. Or Greer. Together it makes Charlotte Greer. But pick either one.

Greer is preferred, Greer blinked at Anya again, then tilted their head towards Liam. Liam, it’s… well. I mean, it’s absolutely, 100% fine if you want to bring a girl home, but…

Anya snorted.

Before Greer could continue, Liam towered over Anya and gently pulled at the coat collar. She blinked, realizing that he was waiting for permission. She saw the insistence in his eyes and something else that comforted her enough to nod and allow him to pull open the furry coat and reveal the grotesque smile inked into her shoulder.

Greer paled, not bothering to hide their shifting expression, Liam.

She needed help.

Liam Woo-jin Monaghan, what the hell are you thinking inviting Sombre into this house? Your father is going to lose his shit. Greer paced the length of the coffee table, then sucked in a calming breath, attention going back to Anya. What’s your name, hon? How old are you?

Monaghan. A chill prickled Anya’s spine, the name setting off klaxon alarms worse than the red feather, Anya. But… Monaghan?

You knew this, Liam questioned, brows furrowed, hand going to the feather on his forearm.

I thought maybe you were just someone working for the family, she let out a shaky breath, ready to sink down and contemplate her life choices, "Not the actual family."

Monaghan. Soileau. Deschamps. The three families historically controlled their own trades in Louisiana and bordering states, the Monaghan’s working with the Soileau’s a unique union for the time period, an Irish family that actively worked with the Black crime families on the gulf coast. The Monaghan’s utilized the Soileau’s mortuary profession by allegedly smuggling narcotics and contraband with hearses – and in return the Monaghan’s provided much-needed protection from law enforcement and politicians. The Deschamps crept in later with holds on any flourishing casinos, marking a shift into legitimacy. The Monaghan’s still stretched far and wide –with a legitimate grasp over nightclubs, distilleries, and maybe some politicians along with newer, but prominent blood ties in New York that linked to one of the Five Families due to the current boss’s mother being a Morelli.

You got lucky and got both, Liam deadpanned.

Liam, Greer urged. I’m sure you had solid reasoning for bringing her here, but you know you have to tell your father. Before I—

Liam cut her off, I already texted him.

Anya bit her lip, And who exactly is your father?

Please let Liam be a distant cousin, or a nephew, or something…

Who do you think? Liam answered as Greer sighed, James.

Double fuck… Liam is the boss’s son.

The alarms that had Anya on edge turned into full whooping sirens. James Monaghan was the current head of the Monaghan family, ultimately one of the three heads controlling the city, if not the entire state. Her parents had said very little of the Morelli-Monaghan’s, save for stating that James had traipsed through New York at one point, a capo –a made man with his own group of soldiers and associates to boss around– for one of the oldest Italian families before returning to rule his own kingdom.

The words barely sank in before the front door reopened and a Black man with a crown of locs stepped in, curious gray eyes going from Greer to Liam then finally to Anya. To save time, Liam reached over to reveal the brand once more. He stared hard, murmured a low ‘God Dammit’ before pinching the bridge of his nose, "Liam, I’m at least ninety-five percent sure this isn’t what you were supposed to be doing tonight."

No, Greer whispered, joining the man at his side. But I’m sure he has a good reason for doing what he’s done, Parrish.

Anya half dared herself to ask for Parrish’s last name, to truly measure what kind of additional trouble she had caused.

I hope you have a good explanation for this, Parrish offered, less gently than Greer had.

When Liam wavered, Anya pulled the fuzzy jacket around her, I saw him, I saw the feather, I asked for help.

Just like Liam’s hesitation on the balcony, Parrish’s eyes narrowed, "And what exactly do you know about the red feathers?"

Shit… Anya narrowed in on the dark feather nestled between a medley of brighter and more intricate tattoos on Parrish’s arm, throat drying out as she put distance between her and the trio. "Look, you asked how old I was, I’m 17. My parents are maybe dead and, at this point, I’m a piece of furniture that almost got sold tonight. I saw Liam’s feather and figured I would have a better chance at escaping with him since the last time I tried leaving I ended up with this brand. That’s it. "

That doesn’t answer my question, Parrish replied carefully.

The door handle jiggled, and Anya paled at the possibilities of who else could be behind the door. Greer cast her a sympathetic glance before peeking through the window, their shoulders relaxing as she opened the door, allowing a man to stroll in wearing a black dress pants and an almost perfectly pressed white button up that was wrinkled only slightly as though the man might have been in the middle of his beauty rest when he was summoned. Which, judging by how late it was, it was a possibility.

Greer gave the man a brief smile before closing the door, Speak of the devil and he shall appear.

James.

Well, my son rarely requests an audience, so I figured it had to be important. I just thought maybe you nearly burned the kitchen down cooking pancakes again. He considered the small group in front of him, eyes locking on Anya, And I see that unfortunately isn’t the case.

Liam deflated and reached for Anya. This time she shirked away, I can do it. Just like ripping off a band-aid, Anya shed the jacket completely, allowing the brand to be in full view.

James bristled, expression hardening, "You’re not supposed to be anywhere near the clubs, Liam. Not drinking, not—"

I wasn’t, Liam urged quickly, something in his eyes flashing. Ro wanted to see Ella.

Liam, Parrish hissed. Why was Rowan with you? Why would you leave without—

She left when I did, I texted her! Frustration leaking into Liam’s voice. She—

James’ jaw tensed, effectively cutting Liam off, Living room. Now.

Greer led Anya away from the entryway, taking the fuzzy jacket that she’d been using for an anchor. Anya zeroed in on the only clear exit, only to have Parrish follow her line of sight and station himself near the sliding backdoor.

James sat in a lounge chair and motioned for her to sit across from him. When she didn’t move, Greer sat on the couch and patted the seat, Come on.

Anya sank down at the end of the couch, taking in the rest of the living room from the packed bookshelves to the withering plants to the turned down picture frames on a shelf.

James cleared his throat, How long have you been in New Orleans?

Anya racked her brain, stomach tossing at the memory of waking up in a dark room and only being laughed at for demanding answers. Absently, she brought a hand up to her bruised nose, I don’t know. A few weeks, maybe?

You don’t know? He sounded doubtful.

Sorry, Anya frowned. Let me go find my calendar that has all of that plugged in.

Okay, let’s try this again… James’ jaw twitched, What were you doing in the club?

I was confined to the apartment. Anya blew out a breath, Charles deemed me too flighty and unfriendly for the public.

James hummed and leaned back, Charles?

"Yeah, Charles. Russian. A piece of shit. Won’t touch you but doesn’t need to make sure you know you’re trapped and that he could if he wanted."

James nodded, their versions of Charles aligning, Your name is Anya?

She nodded.

Anya what?

This time anxiety surged through Anya and forced herself to keep eye contact, It’s short for Anastasia.

What’s your last name?

Just lie. Lie through your teeth. Anya cursed herself for not jumping into a lie. But she darted up and James pulled out his gun. Anya froze, I don’t remember it.

Names are a powerful thing, Anya… Her mother had always told her.

Greer pulled her back and Liam now kept his eyes on her, his expression turning to concern. I don’t have time for the run-around, Anastasia.

Anya stayed silent.

James leaned forward placing the gun on the coffee table, the dark metal a stark comparison to the bright craft pieces scattered about. What’s your last name?

Baskov, Anya forced out. My last name is Baskov.

The silence was heavy, Parrish and Greer exchanged concerned glances, while confusion filled Liam’s face. James recovered first, keeping his eyes on Anya, The Baskov’s are dead.

Anya leaned back, stomach twisting at the confirmation and closed her eyes, trying to dredge up a memory that could help her, managing to keep back any tears as she let out a breath, Don’t I know it.

The problem with that, Anastasia… James leaned forward, …Is that their daughter is dead too.

The words settled over Anya, gaze never leaving James’s hard stare, sure it was supposed to be some weird, sick joke, Yet here I am.

Anya peered over to Liam, preparing to be scolded for something he wasn’t completely responsible for. For a brief second, she met his eyes before Greer reached over to squeeze her hand, simultaneously reassuring and protective. James, to be fair, I don’t think she has a reason to lie.

Parrish huffed, She has plenty of reasons to lie if she’s a nobody with nothing to lose.

Greer turned, ready to reply. James cleared his throat, commanding the room back to him. How did you end up in New Orleans, Anastasia?

Anya shook her head, I told you I don’t remember.

Anastasia.

I. Don’t. Re—

James lifted himself from the lounge chair and cocked the gun, aiming it to hit her square in the chest if he chose to pull the trigger, I told you I don’t have time for the run-around, Anastasia.

James, Greer hissed.

I only remember getting home. Anya challenged his gaze, I think I was pushed down the stairs.

By who?

Anya shook her head, I don’t know.

She asked for protection. Greer stood and gently pushed down his extended arm, "She’s still a child, James. Softer, the woman added, It’s not out of the realm of possibility that Charles would try to sell her if she is who she says. He’s not above trafficking."

Liam, James relented, uncocking the gun. Come here.

Greer held out a hand to pull Liam beside her and Liam let out a steady breath as he stepped forward.

James sank back down, looking up at his son, voice even and calm, "You know to come to me first when it comes to important shit, Liam. You made the choice to bring her here, so you can make this next decision too: Do you trust her?"

They locked eyes, Anya looked away, unable to believe her fate was in his hands. But the answer was a steady, quick: Yes.

James gave a sharp nod, attention back on Anya. If she is who she says, the Sourire’s won’t be happy. I hope you’re prepared for that.

Liam’s golden eyes met James’s murky blue ones, I am.

Can you get her cleaned up? James turned to Greer, Put her in actual clothes and don’t let her out of your sight.

As Greer agreed, James stood again keeping his eyes on Anya before rounding the coffee table and barely towered over Liam, If she’s lying, you’ll be the one to deal with it. Understood?

Liam nodded, but James looked over at her.

We’ll be in touch, Anastasia.

CHAPTER 3

Anya glanced over the collection of products scattered along the bathroom counter as she allowed Greer to seek out and gently pull out the excessive amount of bobby pins that had kept Anya’s hair