by LP Lovell
“Was that bricks and mortar?” I ask through gritted teeth. Resting my back against the wall, I drop to a crouch, pressing my palm against the hole in my leg. I reach beneath my hoody and grab the bottom of my tank top, tearing a thick strip of material away. I tie it just above the bullet wound as tight as I can get it. Closing my eyes, I rest my head back against the wall, and take a deep breath. I know I’m out, but I release the clip on each gun, checking them, just in case I miscounted. I haven’t. Fuck. I drop one gun on the floor, keeping a hold of the other. It may be empty, but he doesn’t know that. I take the dagger from my thigh holster and palm that in my other hand as I stand. I step into the doorway of the office without hesitation, because perception is everything. I’ve watched Nero walk into a room full of armed men and completely unnerve them simply because he’s so confident, so utterly in control of everything around him. I try to channel his sense of power and entitlement. Arnaldo sits behind his desk, seemingly alone aside from the two dead guards either side of his desk. With a grimace, he lifts his gun and I throw mine at him. It clocks him square in the forehead, leaving him dazed enough that I cross the space to his desk and ram my knife through his wrist, pinning it to the wood. He screams like the little bitch that he is, his fingers going slack around his weapon as his nerves are severed. I pick up the gun and he watches me, his expression masked in pain, sweat dotting his brow. I slide onto the desk in front of him and grab a handful of his greying hair.
“You came after me, Arnie,” I tut.
“You aligned with him.” He spits the words. Blood spreads over the desk, trickling over the edge of the wood and hitting the floor in a steady patter.
I shrug. “I sell to the highest bidder. He paid more.” He paid me with something money can’t buy. My sister.
“You’re going to die. Your Russian sugar daddy can’t help you this time,” he growls, wrapping his fingers around the hilt of my knife. I’m impressed when he wrenches it free from his arm and makes a sloppy dive at me. I grab his wrist and thrust my palm into the centre of his forearm, smiling when I hear the satisfying crack of his bone followed by an agonized cry of pain. The knife falls to the desk and he clutches his arm which is now bent at an odd angle. Men like Arnaldo are not to be taken lightly, but the fact is, they are power players, men who sit behind desks calling shots and rarely killing themselves. When the occasion calls for it, they pull a trigger. He’s no match for me and he knows it. I see the defeat in his eyes. The resolve. Gripping a handful of his hair, I wrench his head back and force him to look at me.
I smile, lifting my knife to his throat. And then I look him right in the eye as I drag my blade across his throat. His eyes go wide and a gurgled choking sound slips past his lips. Blood spills out, gushing down his body like a waterfall.
I grip his chin and his fading eyes meet mine. “I don’t need help. I’m the kiss of death.” I press my lips to his forehead, and when I pull away, that futile last breath leaves his body in a hiss.
I usually feel a small thrill when I kill a target, this time though, I truly feel nothing. Arnaldo was not a mark. He was not a pay cheque. He was not the enemy of some faceless client. He made himself my enemy. This was personal. This is what happens when you seek out death. She comes for you. And now, I leave. I just killed the under-boss of the Italian mafia, and there are consequences to that. Even death must know when to run.
2
Nero
Rage. It’s my constant companion, driving me to the edge of sanity with each passing day. And Una Ivanov is the fucking cause. I know she can look after herself and she sure as shit doesn’t need my protection, but the price on her head is high. High enough to even the odds against her dramatically. I’m out of the loop because Arnaldo has decided that she’s a traitor. He knows I was working with her, though, of course, he can’t possibly prove it. I just have to bide my time where he’s concerned. If I know anything about Una—the more he backs her into a corner, the worse he’s making it for himself. It seems he’s forgotten who he’s dealing with, and if she doesn’t remind him of it, then Nicholai Ivanov damn well will. The crazy Russian won’t take it well when he hears his favourite pet is being hunted like a dog.
Nothing is playing out the way I planned. Not at all. Because I never factored in the possibility of giving a shit about Una. She was supposed to be by pawn and instead, she became my queen. My vicious little queen…until she ran from me. Since the very first time I saw her, I’ve wanted her, craved her even, but this is different. What is that saying? You don’t know what you have until it’s gone? Well, I couldn’t possibly have predicted just how much she had gotten under my skin until she left. I should let her go. She’s a weakness I don’t need. Not to mention the amount of heat that’s on her, but every time I think about walking away, about the possibility of her being killed, or worse, surviving…moving on, fucking someone else – I can’t. She can’t. She’s fucking mine and no one else touches her but me.
“Nero,” I turn from my spot at the window and face Gio who’s standing in the doorway to my temporary office in the London apartment.
“Have you found her?” I ask.
Frowning, he folds his arms over his chest. “Not exactly.”
It looks like something out of a horror film. Five bodies and what looks like the blood of ten. The carpets. The walls. The couch…everything is crimson. I move through the apartment, my eyes skimming over the few possessions Una left behind. There’s nothing personal, nothing that would give her away as ever having been here—except the blood bath in the living room. The en suite bathroom has a couple of bottles of shampoo, a razor…I pick up the shampoo and open the lid, inhaling. Vanilla. The smell instantly reminds me of her, though it’s missing the lacing of gun oil that always seems to cling to her. I leave the bathroom and pause in the bedroom doorway, glancing down at the dead man sprawled haphazardly just inside the room. The hilt of a knife protrudes from his forehead, buried so deep, there’s barely any blood. I bend down and yank the knife out of his forehead. The sound of crunching bone reverberates around the room. I inspect the simple yet delicate dagger, smiling as I imagine Arnaldo’s kill team creeping up on Una in the dark only to find themselves the victims of a nightmare.
“The cleaners called it in,” Gio says, his expression pinched as he watches me. We’ve paid off every possible underground contact we could find, and the cleaners are a good place to start. They’re impartial, a third party who will clean up anything as long as they get paid. “She didn’t call them though,” he says, “the Russians did.”
My eyes snap to his and I frown. “They’re supporting her?”
He shrugs. “I guess she isn’t leaving them with much choice. They don’t want this kind of heat.” He waves his hand towards the blood bath in the living room. That’s true, but this really was inevitable. Arnaldo keeps sending men after her like she’s a bleeding animal with a damn prize hide. Sooner or later she was going to make a mess she couldn’t clean up alone. And here we are.
“No, this is more than that,” I say. “These bodies are at least twenty-four hours old. They’re actively helping her. They waited to call it in. They gave her a chance to get clear.” I know Nicholai is fond of her, but to help her now would put himself in the firing line. The Russian is crazy, but enough to risk causing a war?
Gio nods. “This isn’t her style either. She’s clean efficient. This…” he drifts off.
“She’s sending a message,” I murmur, a smile pulling at my lips.
“Message received,” he says under his breath. His phone pings in his hand and he glances down at the screen, his face draining of colour.
“What is it?” I ask.
He turns the screen towards me, showing me the image of Arnaldo’s severed head sat on his desk, a red lipstick mark on his waxy forehead. A slow smile pulls at my lips. She did it. Months of planning. Her, her sister…all part of the bigger plan. All part of this. But then he put a hit on her and she ran. I didn’t want her t
o run, but I wanted to protect her from the shit-storm I put her in. I never for a second expected her to walk into Arnaldo’s house and take him out for fuck’s sake. “She got away?”
“They haven’t caught her if that’s what you mean. She killed eighteen of his men,” he says and I have to laugh.
“We just lost track of her, and she’s probably become even more wanted. Why the hell are you smiling?”
We did lose her, for now, but I will find her. “Because she’s fucking perfect.”
I’m about to get everything I’ve ever wanted, except her. I must find her because without her, all the power in the world wouldn’t be enough to fill the void left by my vicious little butterfly.
I pull the car up next to a stack of containers at the edge of the shipping yard. Gio is practically bristling with tension beside me. “I don’t like this,” he murmurs. “I don’t fucking trust Russians.”
“Una’s Russian.”
“Exactly.”
I’ll admit that I usually wouldn’t agree to this meeting. If it were for anyone but Una, I wouldn’t be here. One call to my phone, a heavily accented voice simply stating a time and place. Nothing more. The only reason I’m here is because that accent was Russian. The only common factor between me and the Russians is Una.
I cut the engine and, for a second, neither of us move. I stare through the windshield at the tall, lean guy resting against the hood of a Jaguar sports car. His white-blond hair, the same shade as Una’s, catches the moonlight. I swear they could be siblings. Sharp green eyes stare unflinchingly back at us as he brings a cigarette to his mouth and inhales, making the end glow a bright crimson.
I open the door and get out, feeling the weight of my gun strapped to my chest beneath my jacket. The Russian tosses his cigarette to the side and walks towards me. He moves like a predator and a dancer wrapped into one, calculated and lethal. He moves like Una. He’s one of the fucking Elite. My hand instantly goes for my gun. His head tilts to the side as he tracks the movement like a wolf watching a rabbit with complete indifference and the knowledge that it could end the lesser creature in an instant. Of course, the Elite feel no fear, even when they should. “Don’t do that,” he says in heavily accented Italian.
I grip the gun and drop my arm at my side, my index finger hovering over the trigger. “Who are you?”
He sighs and folds his arms over his chest. “Sasha, a friend of Una’s.”
“Forgive us if we aren’t too keen on Una’s brand of friends,” Gio says, coming to stand beside me.
“She is more like my sister.” His pale blond eyebrows pull together as his eyes shift from Gio to me. It’s the closest to an expression I’ve seen from him. “So you are the Italian that lead her to destruction,” he says accusingly.
“Why are you here?” I ask, quickly running out of patience.
“I do not like you,” he narrows his eyes, “but she is dangerous right now. Nineteen Italians are too many. She is the best I have ever seen, but even the best cannot stand against the entire Italian mafia.” He sighs. “And I can only help her so much before Nicholai finds out.”
“It was you,” Gio says. “You called in the cleaners for her.”
Sasha nods. “I will do anything for her, but I cannot betray Nicholai, and he wants her back. She killed Arnaldo Boticelli. She went too far. She could maybe run from Nicholai, but not with the Italians hunting her. I cannot protect her anymore.” He swipes a hand over his face. “But you can.”
I take a steadying breath. “She ran from me. What makes you think I can help her?”
He moves closer until he’s standing directly in front of me, his eyes boring into mine. “We both know that you are not what you seem, Nero Verdi. What is it they say? With great power comes great responsibility.” There’s a pause. “I do not know whether you are friend or enemy,” he looks me up and down, “but she must have trusted you.”
I smirk. “She didn’t trust me.”
His expression remains impassive. “She needs help.” Yeah, no shit. That ship sailed a long time ago. “Get her, and once you have her, protect her from both your own people and mine. Arnaldo is dead, but revenge is inevitable. Nicholai wants her back, and you have no idea the lengths he will go to for her.”
“What will he do to her?” She went completely rogue, helped me do something she never should have done for a sister she’s supposed to be too cold to care about.
His eyes go distance for a second. “The human mind is pliant. He can make her forget. He can fix her.”
“Fix her?” My fists clench and heat simmers just below my skin.
He looks at me for a moment and nods once before turning and walking away. He yanks his car door open, pausing. “I can track her burner phone. I will send you co-ordinates for her destination.”
“Wait. Why are you helping her? You’re betraying Nicholai for her.”
His bright green eyes lock with mine. “Because I love her.” And then he slides into the car and closes the door behind him. The engine snarls before the wheel spin away.
3
Una
Paris. The city has an atmosphere unlike any other. The streets are a bustle of activity yet somehow everything always feels so leisurely. I walk along the street, clinging as close to the buildings as possible. The side streets are less populated, but I’m always aware, always alert. I reach the wooden, shuttered door that leads into a townhouse and push it open. The old black and white tiles of the hallway give way to the wooden stairway. I climb the stairs to the first-floor apartment and unlock the door. I was wandering the city a couple of days ago, trying to lay low when I spotted a sign in the window advertising this apartment. I had planned to just stay in Paris for a couple of days before taking a Ferry back to England. A brief trip to throw anyone who might be following me off my trail. But the second Annaliese, the landlady, showed me inside the apartment, I felt a sense of peace I haven’t felt in years. It’s completely unsuitable. There’s only one stairwell, and because it used to be a house there’s not even a fire escape from the first floor, but I took it anyway. I guess I just wanted to stop running for a second, hole up and take a breath. Paris is as good a city as any to hide in.
I push the door open and drop the small bag of groceries on the kitchen side. The apartment is a small one bedroom, but the windows stretch from the floor to the ceiling and, in a way, it reminds me of Nero’s New York apartment. Afternoon sun spills through the long see through curtains, casting shadows across the wooden floorboards.
I like it here. I could stay here until this baby is born, and he or she can grow up in Paris, safe from all the dangers of my world. I go to the bathroom and take some supplies from the medicine cabinet. I sit down placing the dressings and bandages on the coffee table in front of me. My pocket buzzes and I take out my burner phone, seeing a blank text from Sasha. It’s request for a check in. I send him a quick message.
I’m going off grid. I’ll be in touch when I can.
I need to remove myself from everything and everyone because even friends can be enemies. I do not doubt that when it comes down to it, Sasha will side with Nicholai. And I’m glad. His loyalty to me is dangerous for him. I shove my jeans down and pull away the dressing that’s stuck to my thigh. My haphazard stitching wouldn’t be amiss in a Frankenstein film. I did the best with what I had at the time: a pocket sewing kit bought at the local corner shop. It’s for sewing on buttons, not closing a bullet hole. The flesh around the stitches is swollen and red, and it hurts like a bitch. I think it’s infected, but I can’t get any help with it. Any hospital will report a dodgy-looking bullet wound, and all the doctors I’d usually call for this sort of thing are affiliated either to Nicholai or someone else. Granted, the five-million-dollar price tag should have disappeared with Arnaldo—seeing as he’s the one who put it there—but I’m worth something to someone. I can’t trust a doctor. I unscrew the lid from the bottle of vodka and grit my teeth as I pour it over the wound. It stings and I have
to breathe through my nose. I think back a few weeks to Nero and the bullet hole I put in his shoulder. I laced it with gun powder, and I wish I could do the same, but that shit is hard enough to do to someone else, let alone yourself. My mind drifts to him. I wonder what he’s doing right now. Is he looking for me? Does he now want me dead? Is he a friend or enemy? Would he kill me now that I killed his boss? I don’t think so, but I could be wrong. Nero plays by his own set of rules. Mafia is supposed to be about family and loyalty, but Nero had his own brother killed. No, something tells me he won’t feel an ounce of remorse for Arnaldo’s death. But he is a power player, and sometimes in order to gain power, loyalties must be feigned. After all, his power comes from the mafia and it can be taken away just as easily. I promised him I would go back to him, but now I don’t know that I can keep that promise. In our world sentiments are cheap, emotions pointless, and loyalties so very easily bought. One act, one moment, one death, and all the pieces on the board have moved. Have they moved so much that Nero and I are no longer side by side, but across the board from each other?
I wake up and every one of my senses are instantly on high alert. Someone is in the apartment. I sit bolt upright and grab the gun from beneath my pillow, flicking the safety off. Climbing out of bed, I pause when I hear the featherlight creak of a floorboard right outside my bedroom door. Fuck. I cross the room on tiptoes, ducking behind the door, and here I wait.
