ONE YEAR LATER

SOMETIMES I WONDER ABOUT THE LIFE I'VE left behind.

But as I catch my smile in the mirror―honed to wicked perfection―I forget about it. Because the person I was before was no one special. No one powerful.

And now . . . now I have everything I ever wanted.

They call me Ruby now. For the blood I've spilled.

To think―once, I was so afraid of killing.

Now it comes easy to me.

My grandfather told me I needed to create a reputation, one everyone would fear, and so I have. No one knows my identity yet―the Reaper said I would become a target if they knew I was his heir―and so I have created this all on my known.

I use the high heel of my shoe to press down a drunken man's chest.

After he made an inappropriate grope for my chest, I showed him exactly what I'm capable of by whipping out my knife.

That's another thing people are afraid of. For the Mafia, guns are the normal. But ever since I started using blades, daggers, I have become something of a legend.

Besides, using a knife to kill is no different than using a palette knife to paint.

Who would've thought? Art and death are so similar.

A pang of longing hits me. Killing is the only kind of painting I've done in the last year, and sometimes I miss it. It's not that I'm not allowed to paint, it's just that I can't.

Ever since Angel's betrayal, a part of me has felt . . . empty. I haven't heard from her or seen her in twelve months, and I'm forced to think that maybe she's moved on. Maybe she really doesn't care after all.

It's for the best. Because now that I know our families are at war, it is easier. Easier to pretend I never loved her, easier to pretend that I blame her for her parents killing my father.

I don't. Blame her, I mean.

But the Reaper seems pleased when I act as though I need vengeance, and I've learned that when the Reaper is pleased, everything is good. His temper is something else.

The drunken man rolls over and throws up over the bar floor and I sneer in disgust, though really, I just feel sorry for him.

After striding up to the bar, I order a drink. Then I have a faint sense of deja vu, and I realize. This is the place where Vittoria and I went out for drinks almost a year ago. This is where I met Angel for the first time.

All of that seems so long ago.

Vittoria . . . what happened to her?

The last I remember is that she was blackout drunk at the masquerade ball, and I told her to stay in places with other people. After that . . . well, after that, Angel gave me up. And I haven't had any contact with Vittoria.

Although she's a member of one of the three Mafia families―four, technically, considering my grandfather's name―I haven't seen her. I know it's because the Mafia families don't interact, but . . . I miss her.

As if on cue, as if the thought of her actually manifests her into being, I realize she is sitting a few seats away.

"Vittoria!" I gasp, unable to help it.

She looks at me as though I'm a stranger. "Do I know you?" she asks.

I stare at her for much longer than is appropriate. "I . . ."

This when I realize that I am unrecognizable.

I hadn't realized all the changes to myself in the past year, but I do now.

My blonde hair is long and grown out, and I dyed it dark. There are tattoos all over my legs and my wrists, works of art. I am dressed in a red dress, the kind she always begged me to wear that I hated. I wear a leather jacket, and my eyes are covered in dark eyeshadow, giving me the illusion of mystery. There's also a sword, strapped to my back.

The university could take me back at any time, my grandfather has already offered, but I just can't. How can I go back, knowing what I've done? In a way, I feel as though I'm beyond university. How is schoolwork important when I've already killed?

As for Nathan . . . well, after Dominic beat him up that night, word has it that the police took him. He is now in prison back in America on a life sentence. I wasn't the only girl he ruined.

Vittoria squints at me. She hasn't changed much in this year. Her hair is still sleek brown, her body still willowy and graceful. She's still gorgeous. Nostalgia hits me and I wonder if she has a new roommate.

"Cade?" she says as though it's impossible. As though I'm a dream.

I nod, feeling like I'm on uncertain ground.

Maybe she didn't miss me, maybe no one cared―

"Cade!" she shrieks, and she leaps into me, her arms wide. She pulls me into a soul-crushing grip, hugging me so tightly I can't breathe. I feel wetness on my shoulder. Is she crying?

"Vittoria?" I say, confused. But the embrace feels so good, so nice, and I like feeling like this―loved―that I let her hug me.

"Oh, Cade, I thought―I thought―" She bursts into tears.

I look around to make sure no one is watching―I do have a reputation to consider, but for a second, the thought ashames me. What's more important, this reputation or Vittoria? I shake my head. I have changed.

"I thought you were dead!" Vittoria mumbles into my shoulder.

Shock drips through me. I feel like a deer caught in headlights.

A thought rams into me so hard I lose my breath. A year ago, when the Reaper asked me if I wanted Angel to think I was dead . . . I said yes.

But I didn't think the world would believe it.

I never meant for Vittoria to get hurt. I just wanted . . . I only wanted Angel to feel the kind of hurt I had felt.

At the time, it had felt good. But now, I feel sick and humiliated with myself. I should have never let him spread around the word that I was dead.

But in a way, it was true.

Cade died, and a new woman was born.

I am Ruby now, a creature of shadow and bone and sword. I have killed, I have fought, and I have proved myself. They know me in the Mafia circles as a seductress, someone to be careful around. My lips are always a deep maroon red, and when I kiss, it leaves an imprint.

And . . . I have kissed. I wanted to forget the touch of Angel, but every time, it just left me feeling more and more hollow.

Vittoria looks at me like she can't believe she's seeing me. "How are you . . ."

"How have you been?" I say, trying to direct the conversation on her.

"Second-year is hard, we're sculpting now, and I'm doing a modern remake of Michaelangelo's David." She shakes her head again, like she's looking at a ghost. "You should be with us, you know. You love sculpting."

"How was Professor Lunetta?" I say, avoiding that last sentence.

"It's awful, that class," Vittoria exclaims. "Now that you're gone, it's like . . . she picks on other people but it's just not the same. Your little feud with her was fun, and I think she kind of misses it. No one knows what happened to you at school. I thought you were dead because in the Mafia circles, the rumor spread."

Again, I roll over the last part. "Well," I tease, "if Professor Lunetta wants a feud, you can be her new star. All you have to do is talk back."

"No, thanks," Vittoria says, laughing. "I like my grade as it is, thank you very much."

Then she quiets down, becoming more serious. "Cade . . . can we talk about it? That night, the ball, that's when you went missing. I really thought . . ." She hiccups. "I thought you died. I was so drunk that night and when I realized you were gone . . . I thought it was my fault. I shouldn't have been so irresponsible . . ."

Shame twists through me, a hot, ugly beast. I can't believe how selfish I was, letting her think I was dead. I thought only Angel would. She was the only one I meant to hurt.

If this is how Vittoria feels, what do you think Angel is going through? a small voice inside of me whispers. I stomp it down. If Angel really cared about me, she wouldn't have taken a plane and left the second she gave me away.

"No," I assure her. "It wasn't your fault at all. It was . . ."

I stop. How do I explain any of this to her? How do I tell her the truth?

How do I tell her what I've become?

I'm sure she's heard of me as Ruby, but I don't want to see the look on her face when she realizes that's me. Would she be disgusted? Disappointed?

Shame washes through me. I don't want to see that, because it would break me. It would shatter me completely and utterly to know she is repulsed by who I've become.

For the first time in a year, I am really thinking about it. I have always considered my reputation as something prideful, the bloodthirstier the better, but now I look upon myself with something like criticism. I've killed, I've fought . . . maybe I'm not a good person.

Maybe I've never been a good person.

I let myself get sucked into the chaos of the Mafia, I let myself become enamored with the glory and temptation of violence and power. I'm in so deep I can never get out.

So really, there is no point in telling her what I am. If only so that I can have one person who looks at me like I am not something to be feared or worshipped.

In Vittoria's eyes, I am just me. Well, the me I used to be a year ago.

I want to keep feeling that way, so instead of answering her question, I direct the topic to something else. I keep her entertained with useless information, and I keep her talking about life at the university. Even when I start to miss school again, I let her talk about it. Anything so she doesn't ask about me.

All the while, a voice in my head calls me a coward.

>>>

What do you think? Is Cade right for not telling Vittoria?

What do you think of who she's become―Ruby?

I love you all!

From the moon and back,
Sarai