Her Villain: A Dark Bully Romance (Aqua Vitae Duet Book 1)

by Ellie Meadows

  “I hadn’t sold anything in a long time,” he leaned down and also picked one up. “A design firm bidding on a city beautification project hired me to do these for their presentation. Look,” he held his watercolor towards me, pointing to sections of the work, “new streetlamps, sculpture installations that would act as new locations for city camera systems, the traffic lights were even getting a revamp. Very art deco. They gave me the specs on the proposed changes, and I did their visuals.”

  “That’s amazing, but you never told me?” There was something familiar about the area in the watercolors. But it was stylized just enough to make it hard to recognize. “What part of the city is this?”

  “So many questions,” he laughed, but again I could hear the exhaustion in the sound. “I had to sign a nondisclosure agreement for the project. The design firm didn’t want to credit anyone outside their company. Your mother knew, because I never kept secrets from her. I couldn’t. I told her everything. Though she could be a woman of mystery.”

  “Mom, a woman of mystery?” It was my turn to laugh. “She was always so blunt. Honest to a fault. You never wanted to ask her if an outfit you loved looked good or not.”

  Dad sighed. “She could be brutally honest, yes.” Setting down the painting he held, he mussed my hair affectionately. “Let’s just donate this. They’re just a reminder of more work that went uncelebrated. The firm won the contract, but after the test run, the efforts were deemed cost prohibitive. I think your mom only had them framed because she was proud of the paycheck I made.”

  “Hush. You know Mom didn’t care about the money. And that’s a shame it didn’t go over,” I murmured, still studying the painting, still trying to put my finger on where in the city it was. “Where was the test run? I’m assuming that’s what you did here.”

  “I’m tired, Julie. Ask me another twenty questions another day.”

  “Well, I think these are amazing. And they’re absolutely the ones I want for my apartment.” I gathered up the half dozen into my arms, standing and grunting against the heavy load. “They’re going to be perfect with my décor.”

  “So, you did some decorating since last time I saw your place?” He smirked, his gaze flicking down to the pictures I cradled. “You sure you want those? They’re commercial. Pedestrian at best.”

  “Hey, my dad painted these. Be kind.” I smiled at him. “They’re exactly the ones I want. It’s like you’ll be with me all the time in New York now.”

  “If you’re sure...” he still eyed the cityscapes, and I couldn’t understand his hesitation. Unless he felt like I was taking the only pieces that made him a sellout. Giving up on his normal style to make quick cash in a bid to be more successful.

  “I want something you feel is more you, too. Whatever painting’s your favorite, I’ll hang that in a place of honor in my apartment.” Because my tiny New York one-bedroom had infinite wall space.

  He finally looked at me. God, he was getting so old. “I’ll pick one for you.” He nodded, seeming appeased.

  I waited for him to pick one of his paintings for my place. And of course, he picked one of the larger pieces.

  “It’s perfect,” I lied, because he looked happy. I had no idea where I’d hang it though.

  “You sure you don’t want more like it, rather than those?” he pointed at the pile of framed work in my arms.

  “If I had more wall space, Dad, I’d hang everything you ever touched.” I eyed the canvas he was supporting. “But you are most definitely going to have to drive me home.”

  “You got it, Kid.”

  We left the studio and maybe it was my imagination, but my father seemed to have aged another ten years in the short time were there. But that ball of grief, no matter how tiny it has become over time, can do that to you in an instant.

  17.

  Romero

  Eleven. Chicago was still alive, even on a weeknight.

  Halos of golden light spilled across the city.

  My mind was alert, body sexually sated. I’d eaten a few bites of the steak, but it was never a good idea to go into a job overly full. I’d learned that very early on—I’d had to build up my tolerance for violence and blood. Too much food on the stomach can lead to a messy cleanup to cover your tracks.

  Hotel Ann hadn’t been a clinger, to her credit. She’d taken me at my word that it was a one-time experience, no strings. As soon as she’d recovered and dressed, she’d politely wished me a good night. Sure, she’d looked back at me wistfully, but that was to be expected.

  When I was alone again, Do Not Disturb sign hooked to the doorknob, the real work began. I hacked into the small hotel’s basic security system, putting the cameras on a loop, before dressing and applying the adhesive fingerprints. In a situation like this, I could have opted for gloves. But it was hot out and skin to gun was my preference even in artic weather. Balthasar’s weapon choices were good, though I’d have preferred to carry the Maxim 9 again as backup to the folding stock sniper rifle rather than the Beretta with direct thread suppressor. It didn’t feel the same, not quite an extension of my arm when I held it, and the added length when carried already assembled meant a delay in unholstering, which meant a delay in firing safely. He’d given me my favorite knife though, a slick Kershaw that slipped beautifully into the boot sheath.

  I’d exited the building via a back door, the cameras rendered useless. It had been easy enough.

  Leaving the rental car in its visible parking spot outside the hotel front entrance, I moved through the shadows until I eyed an older sedan. Tires were low, a thick layer of dust and pollen coated the paint. But more importantly, there was a notice from the city from a week ago to move the car on street sweeping days or it would be towed. Which meant the car had been in this same spot for long enough for it not to be missed for a few hours.

  Slipping the air wedge into place, I inflated it to provide access for the folding long reach tool. Seconds later, I popped the lock and tucked the equipment back into the leg pocket of my black tactical pants. I was pissed that the aramid clothing I’d ordered still hadn’t arrived. It proved money didn’t always grease the wheels.

  It was child’s play to hotwire the car, half a tank so enough gas for my purposes. Thankfully the engine ran quietly, not backfiring and alerting anyone still awake.

  I left the borrowed car in a public parking area off Wilson Drive, slipped into the helmet and lowered its ballistic visor over my face before jogging past baseball fields and down the running trail. This wasn’t a part of town Chicago natives weren’t prone to wander after dark, not with the homeless in the viaduct and the parks closed. I made quick work of tucking myself away into the trees I’d scouted earlier to watch the viaduct closely.

  Once midnight arrived, I didn’t have long to wait.

  An unmarked van matching the one in Balthasar’s files exited North Lakeshore from the direction the surveillance predicted, taking the ramp slowly towards West Lawrence, the road running perpendicular to my position. I studied it through the rifle scope. Normal plates. Tinted windows. They came to a rolling stop at the end of the ramp before taking a left towards the viaduct. The van paused outside the tunnel system before slowly driving inside to be swallowed by shadows, rendering the long-range rifle ineffectual.

  Checking my surroundings, I slipped the rifle strap over my head and flipped the weapon to hug against my back, barrel pointed to the ground.

  There were no civilians nearby to see me steal across the road from the trail to another covering of trees on the other side. From there, I slipped to the outer edges of the viaduct, hugging the reinforced wall to the right of the pedestrian entrance. Peeking around the corner, I spied the van on the opposite side of the road, pulled over towards the walking area on that side of the viaduct. There were bars separating the walking area from the road, making it necessary to stay outside the viaduct as I worked my way over.

  “We don’t need anything, but thanks.”

  “Hey, what are you
doing! Get off her!”

  Young voices.

  Both females.

  Their voices went quiet too fast. They had been neutralized already. Something injected, or possibly chloroform. Something to keep them from raising so much hell that their neighbors would wake up to investigate. Though most homeless learn to keep their heads down, stay invisible.

  I moved faster, drawing the Beretta for close combat and cursing the silencer length for making the draw slower. I depressed the safety deftly and held the weapon angled down and away from my body. As I took the last corner and came into view of the tents spotting the viaduct sidewalk, I raised the weapon, grip firm, elbows bent for control.

  Seven tents. Weather worn.

  Five figures. Two being dragged without opposition to the open side door of the van.

  Fourth bad guy at the wheel, ready to drive away.

  Four full-grown motherfuckers against two small women.

  Rage blossomed in my chest, the monster taking over inside. I greeted it, welcoming the adrenaline flooding through my limbs, electrifying my fingertips. Readying me for what came next, the thing that nurtured my base needs almost as well as sex.

  Killing.

  The metallic sweetness of fresh wounds.

  The fetid consequences of death, when my marks were so scared that they pissed or shit themselves. It happened more than Hollywood advertised. It wasn’t just sweat and crimson. It was ugly, all-consuming, and caused a complete release of control.

  My eyes had adjusted to the darkness.

  And I realized that one of the traffickers was a woman, not a man.

  I raised the gun and squeezed the trigger, setting a bullet free to lodge in her brain, the only clear shot I had. She collapsed in a lifeless pile, wound seeping blood that looked black in the dimness. I wouldn’t risk hitting the girls. Rushing forward, I watched the men struggle to understand what was happening, and then jump into action, letting their unconscious victims slump to the ground. They drew their own guns. But they were too fucking slow.

  I rapid fired, squeezing two bullets off in fast succession. A neck shot; the man fell to his knees dropping the gun to clutch the spurting wound. The second bullet dug into the third man’s shoulder. Not enough to immobilize. He ran at me, gun firing wildly. These men weren’t experts, they weren’t trained to handle professional pushback. They were nothing more than the idiot muscle, sent for a fast drug-and-grab. Their prey was easy game after all. The woman had likely been the lure, faux kindness covering bad intentions.

  It made a sense. People were more likely to trust a motherly figure. She was the one standing by watching after pretty words and promises hadn’t worked; not manhandling the girls and dragging them to the van.

  The van, which was trying to peel away from the crime scene.

  I gave it my attention, shooting the back right-side wheel. The bullet punched a hole through the tire. A useless fucking hole, hissing air out slowly. I fired again, this time through the back passenger window angling towards the driver. The bullet must have made contact. The van swerved, slamming into one of the partition columns between the lanes.

  “Who the fuck are you,” the second man I’d shot was on top of me now, grinding his teeth around the pain of the gunshot wound as he raised his weapon with shaking hands to aim.

  He was close now and I took one hand off the Beretta to slam against his arms, knocking them to the side, and his gun with them. He grunted, trying to recover, but before he could, I forced the silencer into the shoulder wound, pulling the Beretta trigger and sending another round. He howled against the pain, crumpling to his knees, and dropping his own gun to wrap fingers around my wrist.

  “Shit, man. Shit! Stop! Fuck! I’ll do whatever. I’ll tell you fucking whatever.” His features were pulled in anguish, but I still recognized him from the surveillance footage. This wasn’t his first outing.

  “So you kidnap the weak and you’re a fucking traitor,” I snarled, grinding the weapon into his damaged body, watching the wound seep and the edge of the barrel disrupt the tattered edges of flesh.

  “Come on man, I’m just doing a job. I don’t even know details. I just grab the fucking kids and I transport them to a warehouse in Evanston. That’s all I know man. That’s it.” He clawed at my wrist.

  “Then you’ve outlived your usefulness, haven’t you?” squeezed off another round, enjoying how the loss of blood was making his features go slack, his skin pale, easy to see even in the pathetic viaduct lighting.

  “Please, man. Just let me go. I’ll get the hell outta Chicago.”

  “Yes, you will. But you’re not leaving by car or plane. You’re not going East or West. You’re going way down South, and your ticket’s my goddamn bullet.” I kept the barrel shoved into the gaping wound, and I leaned down to pull the knife from its sheath, bringing it up to press against the man’s throat.

  “Please, man. Please,” he whimpered, the smell of fresh piss wafting into the air. A dark stain was spreading down his jeans.

  I sliced slowly, blood beading along the clean line. Beautiful, smooth, no jagged edges. Rivulets of warm wet crimson traced down his neck to soak the collar of his tee shirt.

  I stood there longer than I should have.

  Mesmerized by the life fading from his gaze.

  A door creaking open broke me from the trance. I let the body drop carelessly, swiping the knife blade across my pants before letting it glide back in its holder.

  The driver was stumbling into view, clutching the side of his face and using the van for support.

  “Now, what do you know, Princess?” I questioned, maniacal grin spreading my lips, though he couldn’t appreciate thanks to the darkly tinted visor. I was riding the edge, kissing the spark of madness Balthasar always warned me about.

  But it felt so damn good.

  Weakly, the driver lifted a gun with one hand, the other still clutching his cheek, trying to point it in my direction, but failing miserably. One quick shot to the leg was all it took to halt his ambition. He collapsed against the van, sliding down the side and gasping.

  I sidled forward, glancing over at the two homeless women still unconscious on the ground. As predicted, none of the other tents had unzipped. No one wanted to get caught up in whatever war was raging outside their thin protections. I didn’t blame them.

  When I was close, I pushed the suppressor against the man’s forehead. “Tell me what you know. Where do you take the girls? Who’s your boss?”

  “I ain’t telling you shit, Pig.” The man spurted, blood filling his mouth. “You’re a goddamn psycho.”

  There was little doubt in my mind that this man wasn’t a snitch. Even if I took my time, cutting pieces of him away until, bit by bit, he wasn’t enough of a person to be considered a person anymore, he wouldn’t tell me jack shit.

  “Have it your way,” I shrugged, euphoria rushing through me as the bullet shot into his head and exited the other side cleanly, bringing with it a modest spray of brain.

  Checking the van to be sure there was no one else, and no clues that would bring me more information their operations, I double checked that all four traffickers were dead. And then I checked the pulses of the women. Alive, breathing steadily.

  I pulled the Kershaw out of its sheath once more. I needed to send a message to any remnants of the Candy Factory that might try to once again revive their operations once the dust cleared.

  I took my time cutting off their middle fingers, pressing the blade against the base of the proximal phalanx and pushing down until I felt the initial protest of bone against steel, causing me to apply more pressure to achieve my goal. My boot sole pressed against the back of the blade and a quick downward jerk did the trick. The oh-so-satisfying crunch and crack as the knife finally ruined the digit and I could pull the bloody stump away from the hand sent shivers down my goddamn spine.

  They were still fresh enough for a small gush of blood to exit the wounds.

  It was a nearly black wetness
under the dim glow of the viaduct lighting.

  I left the middle fingers in a pile. A fuck you, and a stop fucking around all in one.

  The white and black roses with clipped stems in my calf pocket were a little worse for wear, but that didn’t matter. I placed the black flower, young and not yet blossomed, onto the pile of fingers, and then put the white between the two young women. This was something else that Balthasar didn’t care for. A calling card was vanity, he said. It came with risk, he said. Did I want to be caught?

  Maybe... Especially if becoming obsessed with Juliette Capuleti was an indicator.

  Holstering the Beretta once more, I moved out of the viaduct. A quick surroundings check confirmed the area was clear, and then I retraced my steps carefully back to the stolen car. As I moved, passing the ball fields once more, I used a burner to call the police with an anonymous tip. A good Samaritan had heard gunfire somewhere near the Lawrence Street viaduct. Please hurry. Someone was screaming. It sounded like a woman.

  I flipped the burner over, pushing off the back and pulling out the sim card to snap in half before dropping it and the phone into a trashcan near the last sports field.

  Keeping my speed steady, I drove random streets to work my way back to where I’d jacked the car, parking it in the same spot I’d found it and locking the doors before replacing the city warning notice.

  I was still too pumped to sleep by the time I slipped back into my hotel suite. And I needed to sleep to catch the early return flight in the morning. Not that the private jet wouldn’t wait for me. The meeting tomorrow wasn’t something I could delay, though Balthasar had requested it be moved to New York instead of Virginia.

  In a perfect world, the work week would hit pause when there were murders to manage.

  Tonight was minor. We still needed to take down The Candy Factory’s main players. If we moved fast, tracking movement from Chicago to Evanston, we could pinpoint the warehouse. I’d let the FBI take over from there. I knew what intel they had; together it should be enough to squash this particular network of traffickers. Not that there weren’t so many more.