Sing To Me (A Dark Renzetti Series Book 1)

  SING TO ME - DARK RENZETTI BOOK 1 COPYRIGHT © 2020 V. Domino

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying or other electronic or mechanical methods, without prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations used in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, plots, and incidents are a product of the author's imagination or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is coincidental. The author acknowledges the copyrighted or trademarked status and trademark owners of all word marks, products, and brands mentioned in this work of fiction.

  Cover Image/Author Logo by Pretty Riot Graphics

  Book Formatting/Graphics by AJ Wolf

  Editing by Emily Lawrence at Lawrence Editing

  To my husband and best friend.

  You’re my greatest inspiration, my love.

  I’m still madly in love with you.

  Also, to my daughters who drive me up the

  wall but make me strive to be better.

  I love you punks.

  “A mother’s love cannot be separated by time or space.

  Equally, a father’s vengeance will find satisfaction even from the grave.”

  -My husband

  Before continuing on, please be aware that the Dark Renzetti series contains graphic violence, power control, explicit sexual content, kidnapping, and attempted sexual assault. Each book is on different levels in terms of triggers but all contain them. This book has cussing, alcohol, cigarette and drug use and is for mature readers only.

  Thank you!

  Get the kids, get them safe. Get the kids, get them safe.

  The mantra plays in my head as I quietly keep to the shadows of my sister’s house. Breaking the back window to get in was a risk, but I heard the gunshots through the phone and my sister’s screams. It’s a risk I must take.

  Get the kids, get them safe. Get the kids, get them safe.

  Getting to the room seemed like running through the gauntlet of dangers, but it’s nothing compared to the dangers I faced getting the kids out of the house and to safety.

  Flames danced around the living room. The same room my sister was just in while on the phone with me.

  “See you in hell, schemer.”

  The child on my back squeezes me at the sound of the familiar voice.

  Get the kids, get them safe. Get the kids, get them safe.

  “Sing to me, nipote,” I tell the little one clinging to me as we make it out into the cold night.

  As the sweet little voice fills the air as we run through the darkened neighborhood, I let the image of the killer burn itself into my memory.

  I’ll never forget the face I saw through the flames.

  I’ll never tell a soul these children survived.

  And one day I’ll celebrate the death of the monster because mark my words: these children will make him pay.

  Some people go to the Big Apple for stardom, others go to start over, and some go for love. What would you go for? I’m going for all three. You see, I grew up in Texas, as an orphan in children shelters and foster homes, never knowing my parents or anything about them. I didn’t even know where I was born. At least I didn’t until I aged out of the system and got my birth certificate, which stated “Anastasia Romano, date of birth: June 18, 2002, born in New York City.” So here I am at a greyhound bus station, ready to start my journey to the Big Apple for answers, a new life, and to make my dreams a reality.

  Pulling out my journal, I continue where I left off. Did I mention I’m a songwriter? I am. I’ve been writing lyrics and singing for as long as I can remember. The shitty life I’ve had so far has been a constant muse to my words. I wouldn’t say my lyrics are completely dark, per se, but they are heavy and soulful. I joined the choir in the last children’s home I was in and sang mostly solos. I’ve been told my voice and style is dark and reminiscent of Billie Eilish.

  Huge fucking compliment right there.

  She’s an inspiration for me. Maybe not as big an inspiration as Edgar Allan Poe or Lana Del Rey but definitely a huge musical inspiration.

  So yeah, I’m looking for a spot in the light too. I know it’s not going to happen the moment I step foot in New York. I know I’ll have to work hard for it and I’m willing to subway sing until I get my shot.

  Whatever it takes.

  I graduated from high school last year and got my diploma, but I’m not going to college. It’s not something I have any desire for. I won’t waste years just to get a degree in something I have no passion for. I want to have a new life somewhere no one knows me, somewhere I’m not known as the orphaned loner. A place where no one can remind me that my family didn’t love me enough to keep me.

  I tried my hardest not to believe those taunts, but what else is there to believe when I’m sitting alone cleaning up my own cuts and bruises, tucking myself into bed and reading bedtime stories to myself? Maybe something happened to my parents and the state took me from them or, God forbid, they died when I was young? Those are possible scenarios, right?

  Right.

  Doesn’t change the fact that I had only myself to lean on. I had to learn how to fight and defend myself against bullies and sometimes I had to defend myself against the perverted caretakers. Yes, that’s right, sometimes the state paid caretakers who tried taking advantage of young children. Shocker, huh? The shelters in Texas are gender-separated, leaving the women to take care of the girls and men to care for the boys in separate houses, but that doesn’t always deter those sick enough to try.

  Once when I was sixteen, one of the women watching over us girls for the night allowed the boys’ caretaker to come into my room and do what he pleased as long as she was able to go do a few lines of cocaine. Whether she knew what he was doing or not, I’ll never know, but that motherfucker learned quickly that I wasn’t some helpless kid he could rape.

  I always slept with a switchblade under my pillow and when he put his filthy hand over my mouth to keep my screams muffled, I popped the blade out and stabbed him three times in the thigh. Almost got him in the face too, but he fell back with his fat little cock hanging flaccid. I guess a blade is a good mood killer.

  “You stupid cunt! You’ll pay for this!” The moron yelled at me while trying to stop the blood from spurting from his leg.

  Standing with my arms over my chest, I replied, “Right. I’m sure I’ll be in big trouble for stopping my attacker, who just so happens to be in my room, in the middle of the night, huh?”

  He tried to stand, but I took a step toward him, ready to cut the bastard down. Just then the girls’ night manager came in acting all shocked.

  Cue the eye roll.

  I got moved the next week to a foster home and never saw the two again. I didn’t bother telling my social worker about the incident. It’s not like it would’ve done any good. I’ve spoken up before, told the grown-ups like you’re supposed to, and nothing ever happened past a write-up. No one ever believes the kids, especially when your record shows you to be “volatile” and “violent” as mine does.

  I guess defending yourself when you get bullied or attacked by a pervert is frowned upon.

  Fuck that noise.

  Lay hands on me and I’ll make sure you remember who it was that kicked your teeth in. Sure, I’ve gotten my ass handed to me plenty of times, but I learned quickly how to defend myself, learned how to throw my own punches.

  With finesse, I dare say.

  Once, when I was fifteen and in a foster home, I got beat up so bad that I had to go to the hospital where the
nurse taking my vitals quietly mumbled under his breath.

  “Look, kid, I know you didn’t get jumped by a bunch of kids like dear ol’ foster daddy says, but I can’t prove it, so the next best thing I can do for you is give you this.”

  He slyly slid a skinny, cold object under my hand. Looking down, I saw it was a metal handle with a button. Pushing it, a wicked double edge blade popped out.

  “Push the button again and the blade goes back in. Don’t let that fucker or anyone else put their hands on you again, got it?”

  Satisfied with my nod, he turned and walked back out with a glare toward my foster parents. He was right too. My foster parents had a thing for beating the shit out of me for their own enjoyment. I ran away that night after putting some crushed up sleeping pills into their wine.

  So yes, I’m completely ready for a new life, in a new place, doing what I’m passionate about and hopefully finding out what happened to my parents.

  As soon as I got my release fund from the state and my last paycheck from the waitressing job I had, I bought my bus ticket. The one hundred and seventy dollars it cost me better be worth it.

  After hearing the announcement that my bus is ready for passengers to board, I grab my suitcase and backpack and climb the steps. Finding a window seat, I pull on my headphones and begin writing.

  After a grueling forty-hour bus ride with multiple stops, we finally pulled up to the bus station in Manhattan, NY. It’s so loud and different here. Most everyone has a resting bitch face and are on the move to wherever it is they’re going.

  My kind of people, if I’m being honest.

  The smell is a change too. It’s not a dirty smell, like what you hear about on TV. It smells like car exhaust and river water. I’m standing between the Hudson and Harlem Rivers, so it makes sense.

  It’s completely different from Dallas where people are smiling, tipping their hats, and saying hello to strangers while the air smells like barbeque. Here in New York, I’ve been shoulder-checked twice and I’ve only walked a block. I don’t mind the change at all. I welcome it. That’s not to say I’m not nervous, though. I just packed and left without a real plan of what to do once I got here. I’m sort of winging it, I guess. I figured I’d get it all sorted out once I set foot here, but now that I’m standing here, I’m a little overwhelmed. Fuck it. I’m on a journey and I won’t bitch out now.

  A couple of weeks later I’ve already found a little flat I share with my new roommate Carla Conti. She is a manager at the upscale bar I applied for. The decorative sign above the entry declared it Medusa’s Lounge.

  I walked in not really knowing it was a bar, though, so when I applied, I figured I’d be a waitress like I had been in Texas, but laws are different here. Can’t work with alcohol unless I have a license, but I wasn’t above begging. The motel room I was staying in was so fucking disgusting with the fleas and rats; not to mention the other tenants were either fighting or fucking so loudly I couldn’t sleep longer than three hours a night. So I was desperate to get some more cash and get into a better place.

  “I don’t have to work with the drinks. I can clean, wash the glasses, inventory, anything.”

  “I need a waitress not a janitor and I do all the inventory myself. Plus, we only have enough to pay for one more worker and that needs to be a waitress,” she said while getting up from the table, dismissing me with a shrug.

  “Wait! What if I work for tips only? No salary and I can even pull in more customers.” I promised and hoped like hell she’d give me a chance.

  “I’m listening,” Carla said while cocking her brow.

  Thinking on my feet, I said, “Well, I’m a singer. I see you have a small stage over there.” I pointed toward the corner of the lounge where the microphone and speakers sit. The mic has a beautiful golden snake wrapped around the stand, which matches the rest of the amazing décor. The whole place has a mythological theme going. Black, dark green with gold accents throughout and I noticed the women wearing bodycon dresses that look like snakeskin.

  Carla looks absolutely breathtaking in hers with her long red curls hanging over her breasts and topped with her golden snake headband.

  “I write and sing my own songs, but I can sing anything. I’ll work for tips. I just need this chance so I can get the hell out of the rat-infested motel room I’m staying in. Please?” I pulled a heavy pout with my hands in prayer position.

  Sighing, Carla told me to sing something for her like she thought I was full of shit. Immediately I began to sing “Writer in the Dark” by Lorde, but before I could even reach the chorus, she put her hand up, stopping me.

  “Okay, but you can’t sing your own songs. You’ll do cover songs and take requests from the customers. If it doesn’t work out within a week, I'll have to let you go. Deal?”

  Hell yes. I took the deal and after a week Carla and I had become really good friends. She had a similar past to my own and invited me to come stay with her since her old roommate moved out. The lounge had double the customers two weeks later, so I took the offer since I could afford my part of the rent. I had to get used to the uniform, though. I have never worn anything that showed so much skin before, not even a swimsuit. I felt like I was naked, but Carla said I looked amazing.

  So here I am. Two weeks in a new city and already I’m working in a badass bar with my first bestie, doing what I love.

  I’m finally loving my life.

  “Girl, your hips and tits are amazing in this dress. Stop pulling on it, though.” Carla’s voice pulls me back to the present. “Okay, you can look now.”

  Stepping in front of the full-length mirror Carla has in her room, my breath catches. I don’t look like the Texas orphan I once was. Tonight is the first night I’ve let her do my makeup and, looking at the masterpiece she conjured with her sorcery, it won’t be the last time.

  She made me look dark and mysterious with false lashes and black kohl around my hazel eyes, making them smolder without trying. Along with the contour and highlighting, she painted my lips a nude color with the liner being slightly darker, making my naturally pouty lips appear fuller.

  The faux snakeskin bodycon fits like a glove, showing off the body I work hard for. She left my long dark brown hair down but curled it. I’m not a vain person but damn, I do look good in this dress, all done up.

  “Wow, Carla. You’re a miracle worker! Thank you so much.” I’ve never had a friend like her.

  She’s feisty and can keep up with my scatter brain mind. She loves to hear the songs I’ve written and has promised to help me find some answers about my parents.

  She’s one of the great ones.

  That one friend you just know will be with you till the end.

  I appreciate her more than she’ll ever know.

  “All I did was shine up your natural beauty, chica. If you think this is good just wait until we go out clubbing this weekend. You’ll have all the guys lining up to dance with you.” She's ready to go, grabbing her purse and slipping on her scary high heels.

  I have to keep from rolling my eyes at her, as I tie on my combat boots and throw my favorite leather jacket on. It’s not that I don’t believe her or anything. I work out and jog every day, so I’m fit, but I’m not particularly interested in finding a man or being jerked around by men who think they can use me. I don’t hate all men for the sins of a few.

  I'm just a cautious bitch.

  I also don’t want a fling.

  See, I’ve never actually been sexual with anyone. I’ve kissed and fooled around with a couple of guys, but we were just gangly, fumbling kids with no clue on what to do. I spent my life defending my body, so I won’t give my virginity to just any old Tom.

  I want someone who will deserve it.

  Someone who will prove their worth to me before I give them something I protected with blood.

  Once we get to Medusa’s, Carla clocks in and starts inventory before the bar actually opens for business. I go straight to the stage and make sure everything
is set up. Pulling my laptop out and plugging the speakers in, I do a mic check and try to work the nerves out of my system; no matter how many times I’ve gotten up here it’s the same thing.

  Nervous energy and adrenaline.

  I have a long list of songs set for the night, but I’m also prepared to take in requests. While I’m finishing up, Carla comes over with a shot of whiskey for me. She does this every night because she knows the jitters I have are no joke and without the amber liquid, they’ll only get worse when the customers arrive.

  “You’re gonna do great as usual, Sia. Also, not to put pressure on you, but there’s someone important coming in tonight. He saw a video of you on Facebook singing that sexy ass song and called in to make a VIP reservation with Joe.” Joe being the owner of Medusa’s

  Wait, what?

  Eyes wide, I say, “Hold up, someone got ahold of the owner so they could come and see me? Who is it?” I’m about to panic, so I quickly down the whiskey.

  Damn. I’m really going to need another shot, or two.

  “Aye, don’t worry, girl. It’s just a customer who always spends around seven thousand every time he comes here.”

  Just a customer she says, ha!

  “We always take good care of him and his crew when he does come in.” Seeing my panic rising with each word, she runs to grab another shot for me, but Joe comes out and grabs everyone’s attention.

  “Okay, ladies, it’s time to open up. We’ve got a long line of people outside ready to see Sia and enjoy our specialty drinks. Make sure everyone is satisfied but pay special attention to the VIP areas. No empty glasses, no empty ice buckets, and no empty bottles.”

  Everyone starts getting ready for the customers as Joe walks over to me, asking me if I’m ready.

  “Yes, sir. I’m good. I’ve got everything set up.”

  With an exasperated sigh, he says, “How many times do I have to tell you, doll? Call me Joe, okay?” Without letting me apologize—Texas manners and all—he continues, “Carla should have filled you in, but in case she didn’t, we’ve got some VIP guests coming in who want to hear you sing. He really liked the cover songs you did for that singer, Layla Rey.”