The Hitman's Property (A Bad Boy Mafia Romance Book 2)

by Tia Lewis

  The Hitman’s Property

  A Bad Boy Mafia Romance (Book 2)

  Tia Lewis

  Salted Pen Publications

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  26. Three Months Later

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Epilogue

  1

  The Fixer went by the name of Tommy Green, but I highly doubted that was his real name.

  About a year ago, I remembered talking it up with one of the local gang members in South Boston who mentioned that the Jamaican was the go-to man to hit up whenever shit hit the fan. He gave me the number to the Pirate Mini-Golf Adventure Land Supreme and instructions on how to order “services.” Everything was done in code.

  Tommy was widely acknowledged as the man who had all of the connections, and he could get you anything that you needed—weapons, drugs, information, etc. I had only used his services twice before—mostly to gain more information about a target that Boss didn’t give me so that I could take out a hit and fulfill a contract.

  So, I was surprised that I had even remembered the Fixer’s contact information since it’s it had been so long that I needed his help and wished that I would have contacted him when my money was stolen by the Russians. However, it’s better late than never now than never and right now I needed his help more than ever.

  He drove into the parking lot of the Wanderer’s Pillow in a red Porsche convertible, with the roof down. He wore a green and red bandana and an open blue shirt. He was tall and sleek, with skin as black as the darkest night and dark brown eyes. When he walked, it was with a swaggering motion, one hand pulling up his jeans that consistently fell and revealed the crack of his ass while the other hand moved back and forth as he sashayed down the street.

  He parked next to me and didn’t get out of the car. He popped the trunk, and I walked to the back of the car, opened the truck and gazed at its contents. Inside were two large black cases, both were too heavy for most men, but they were not a problem for me. I hauled them out with a smile.

  Moments later, Tommy finally decided to hop out and join me.

  “Liam, my mon! How yuh stay?” he said in his strong Jamaican accent. “Wah gwaan wid yuh todeh? Long time nuh see!”

  “I could be better, Tommy. But I can’t complain too much. You?” I replied, shutting the trunk.

  “Everyting is everyting,” he said with a big grin.

  “What’ve you got for me?”

  “Chill, mon. Everyting criss? Lets ketch up,” Tommy held his hand out as though to stop me from jumping forward. “Let’s guh somewhere quieta. Where’s yuh motel room?”

  “Nah. We can’t go there.” My voice was firm and left no room for argument. I didn’t want Tommy to see Tess until it was all over, when it didn’t matter if he ratted on us to the Russians or to Boss. I didn’t think that he would go there since he worked for himself, but then again I couldn’t take any chances. Besides, Tommy knew better than to question me. For all that he knew, there was a corpse in the motel. He wouldn’t want to deal with that kind of shit, so I was confident that I could count on his silence.

  “Okay, mon, aal rite, then let’s at least get inna yuh car.”

  “Follow me.”

  We walked across the parking lot—I walked, Tommy swaggered, bounced, strutted—to the Mustang.

  “Fuck!” I shouted. “I forgot the keys.”

  “Then we use mi car, mon.”

  We walked to the red Porsche, a flashy, pretentious vehicle built for white suburban men going through midlife crises and climbed in. Tommy put the key in the ignition and turned it halfway. Then he flicked a button, and the mechanism of the roof grunted and growled, the roof lifting from the boot and moving over our heads, cutting off the light. I reached down for the lever which would allow me to push the seat back—my knees were pressed against the dashboard—yanked it, and slid back. I pushed back with my long legs, and the seat made a screeching noise.

  “Woah!” Tommy cried. “Watch it! It’s a sensitive lady.”

  “Fuck, Tommy! Can we just get on with the show?”

  “Abusing mi car, treatin’ it like it’s noting. I worked for dis car.” He grumbled on and on as he reached into the back of the car and pulled a black duffle bag into his lap.

  “Not now, Tommy! What else do you got for me?”

  “Okay, okay. Chill out mi bredren. I’ve gat a sawed-off shotgun, pistols…”

  “I won’t need pistols,” I interrupted. “Sawed-off, though? That might work. What else are you packing?”

  “An MP5 sub-machine gun, four hand grenades, two flash-bang grenades, a P90 sub-machine gun. In di back, I’ve gat a bulletproof vest and an AK-47, too. All of dem with lots of rounds, mon. Oh, and I’ve gat a few changes of clothes like yuh asked for. Boots, jeans, shirts, rite?”

  “Okay, I’ll take it all,” I replied, looking over the dashboard. A conga line of Hawaiian bobble heads glued to the dashboard danced up and down. “Don’t they distract you when you drive?” I pointed at them.

  “Yuh get used to dem. But yuh say all? All?” Tommy’s eyes lit up. “Dat will be a few grand, mon. Fifteen, at least. And dat’s doing yaah a sweet deal. Ha, ha, ha!”

  This fucker was gleeful, ecstatic about the prospect of a sale.

  I turned from the bobble heads and laid my eyes on Tommy, looked deep into his eyes, and said: “I’ll need that on credit.”

  Tommy’s mouth formed an O shape. Then his forehead creased, and he shook his head from side to side.

  “No, suh! Hell no! Credit, mon? Yuh fuckin’ outta yuh mind? Mi nuh wuk on credit!”

  Now Tommy was pissed. I could tell that he wasn’t down with it and I worked quickly to address it because making this deal was a necessity.

  “Then you’ll have to make an exception. You can trust me,” I assured him.

  “Dat isn’t possible rite now!” Tommy started to zip up the black duffle bag, muttering under his breath. “Yuh call mi out here an den yuh wanna chat bout credit! Ha! Du yuh tink dis is a charity? Ha! Yuh crazy! Mi wud like to get mi some credit too, bredren! But di world nuh wuk like dat.”

  I reached forward and grabbed the hand that Tommy was zipping up the duffle bag with.

  “I’ll need that on credit,” I repeated. “Don’t make me tell you a third time. It’d give me no pleasure to beat you senseless until you can’t stand, Tommy. But I will if I have to.”

  “Wah da bumboclaat wrang wid yuh! Yuh a gawdamn eediat? Mi ave gat friends back in Jamrock dat kno how to deal wit yuh credit loving ass! Real queffas who nuh fuck around! Real talk. Try cross dem lane and yuh bloodclaat dead!”

  “Are you threatening me?” I laughed. “Unless your friends hang around shithole parking lots, you’re shit out of luck. Don’t be so goddamn dramatic. I’m gonna pay you. Just not right this second.”

  Tommy tried to pull his hand away, but I squeezed it harder close to snapping the bone.

  “Mi bloodcl
aat hand, mon! Ahh!” Tommy shrieked, his face contorting. “Mi need sum guarantee! I can nuh just give dem to yuh! Shit nuh wuk dat way, mon!”

  “Of course you can,” I said twisting his hand harder. “That’s exactly what you’re going to do.”

  “Ahh, Bumboclaat! Yuh haffi understand!” He yelled. “Mi running a business!”

  “I don’t give a fuck!” My voice boomed like thunder in the night. The bobble heads rocked back and forth, Tommy shrunk back, and I could see across the parking lot that a homeless man lifted his head from behind a few trash cans to investigate the ruckus.

  “Chill!”

  “How many fucking times have I dealt with you, huh? Twice, and you never gave me shit before. We both know that you’re a small-time guy, but I always come to you because you don’t fuck around and you don’t question my word. I’ll pay you, just not right this goddamn second. Don’t fuck with me, Tommy. Men who insult me tend not to live very fucking long. Understand?”

  I let go of Tommy’s crumbled hand and held my own hand out for him to shake it, like a man closing on a business deal.

  “Bumboclaat!” Tommy rocked back and forth, rubbing his hand as he grimaced in agony. “Mi will at least need a timeframe for da payback. Dat di least dat yuh can do.”

  “Done.”

  Tommy shook his hand in anguish as we sat silently in the car for a minute. I listened to him mumble what I assumed were Jamaican curse words, and I just smiled.

  “Yuh kno… Madafuckas have been chatting bout yuh. Dem saying yuh trow everyting away for a gyal…”

  “Don’t… fucking… say it,” I interrupted. “Don’t talk about her. Don’t say anything. Just shake my hand and do what I say.” I warned. My voice was the voice of a man who would annihilate anyone in his path when it came to his woman.

  Tommy blinked and looked down at my hand.

  “You’ll be paid in full in less than a week,” I promised.

  “Wah di raas! Less dan a week? Cum pon, Liam!”

  “Trust me, Tommy,”

  “Mi am trusting yuh, mon.”

  “From where I’m sitting, it looks like you don’t have a choice but to trust me.”

  Tommy let out a deep sigh, reached down with his good hand, and finally shook my hand in agreement. His palm was sweaty, and his hand trembled since he was nervous.

  “Oh, and I need something else from you, too,” I said, unzipping the black bag. “Nothing special. Just a bit of laundry that needs to be done.”

  I took out the blood-stained sheets.

  2

  My body went into panic mode when I opened the motel room door, and Tess wasn’t there. I dropped the suitcase, along with the black duffle bags and frantically paced around the room, searching for any signs of a struggle or that someone had taken her. Fuck! I should have noticed them from the car parking lot, I thought. But I had been distracted, and anything could have happened to her while I was gone.

  I thought about what I would do to anyone who had touched her. Any man who had laid his filthy fucking hands on her was dead. I would strap the bastards to a chair and take a hammer to their teeth while they screamed for mercy. I would swing a crowbar into their kneecaps and enjoy their wails of pain. I would make them see the full force of my fury. They would see what happens when someone intruded and took something that belongs to me and only me. If somebody had taken Tess away from me, then there would be hell to…

  “Look who decided to come back, arsehole,” she said as she emerged from the bathroom with a ball of tissue paper in her hand, dabbing her cheeks. She walked past me and dropped into the rocking chair.

  I let out a long sigh. My arms were raised, prepared for a fight. Feeling foolish, I let them fall to my sides. Tess tucked her legs underneath the chair and rocked back and forth slowly as she looked up at me with her eyes squinted.

  “I’m actually surprised to see you back. I thought that you might have got tired of sharing a room with a ‘slut,’” Tess glared at me as she reminded me of my previous insult.

  “Tess,” I breathed, closing and locking the door. I picked up the suitcase and black duffle bags, walked across the room and dropped them into the bed. “Tess…”

  “I’m not really in the mood to hear you keep repeating my bloody name.” She had put her jeans back on, as well as a red hoodie which hugged tight to her chest, showing the outline of her tits. “Is that all you can say? My name? Do you think that makes everything better? You’re such a misogynistic arsehole, and I don’t know why I even bother dealing with you.”

  She made a choking noise like she was going to cry again, but then she bit down on her lip and shook her head, forcing the tears away.

  “I’m not a slut, Liam,” she went on, in a steadier tone. “I was kidnapped and sold. I did what I had to do to survive. I never enjoyed it. Every second, I wished that it would stop, and I never, ever thought that I would enjoy sex again, certainly not so soon afterward. And now the mate who breaks that expectation and actually means something to me calls me the one thing that cuts me the deepest.”

  “Tess…” I repeated, completely at a loss for words. I had fucked up, and I knew it.

  “Perhaps, it was my fault that I tried to get you to open up to me. I realize that we’ve only known each other for a very short period of time and I’m sure that interrogating you and trying to get to you know was irritating.”

  “Just let me explain...”

  Tess sat silently in her chair for a moment and then laughed grimly as she reflected on our sad state of affairs. “You know what? Fuck that. I actually have every right to ask you questions. It’s not every day that an unknown contract killer decides to leave the country and plan a fairy tale life with you.”

  I had never, in my life, been in a situation like this with a woman.

  I had never even had an argument with a woman that I was involved with. I had never cared enough for that type of emotional engagement. I turned away from her and looked up at the stern-faced painting of a Victorian lady hanging on the motel room wall, her eyes suddenly judgmental, hateful, seeming to say: Do it. Say you’re sorry. Swallow your fucking pride for once.

  “I’m…” I stopped. The remorseful words were like acid on my tongue. I searched my mind for a time in the past when I had apologized, but I couldn’t remember ever having said ‘I’m sorry,’ at least not sincerely. I had said it ironically and caustically a few times, but never in a tense situation like this.

  “You’re… what?”

  I heard the chair creak and guessed that she was leaning forward, waiting for me to go on. I wouldn’t turn around. I just looked at the painting instead.

  I sighed. “I’m… Jesus, Tess! This is hard…”

  “And you know what else is bloody ‘hard’? It’s hard believing in your grandiose plan to run away to England when you act like a heartless, emotionless piece of shit. Do I look like a fool to you? Oh, Liam! Please take me back to bloody England and let’s live happily ever after. I don’t need to know what’s in store for me when we get there or what’s located at 429 Finchley Hampstead Road…”

  Shit. I forgot that Tess had gone through my pockets earlier and found the note that Mr. McGreevy had left me. I quickly remembered when I called for the Fixer and inquired about the address that the operator had said that 429 Finchley Road was located in Hampstead London, England. The address was to a warehouse.

  Tess continued ranting, and it was starting to grate on my nerves. “What you need to do is make a goddamn decision. Either stop being so fucking stubborn or I’m out! I will figure this shit out myself, and all this crap will be over. I’m done trying to make this shit work with you!”

  I sighed heavily. If I couldn’t say ‘sorry,’ then maybe I could do something else to calm her down. Maybe I could give Tess something to appease her. Maybe I could pull back my rib cage and show her a glimpse at my black, abyssal heart.

  “Do you wanna know why Gunner hated me?”

  “Yes. That’s a start
.”

  I turned from the painting and looked down at her bright blue, expectant eyes. I walked to the bed and sat on the edge of it, leaning my forearms on my knees and looked across the room at her.

  I took a deep breath. “Gunner’s father was the first man that I ever saw killed,” I said, the words coming out slow, as though they were being tugged up my throat with a string.

  I continued. “I was eight years old, and Kevin was a scared little kid. We used to sleep in the same room because our father had this really fucking weird fixation with envelopes. I believed that he collected them as souvenirs, like a prize for his accomplishments.”

  “Envelopes?” Tess repeated as a crease appeared on her forehead.

  “Yes. Envelopes. My father was a real heavy hitter and worked for the Bianchi crime family since he was a teenager. They would put his payments in envelopes after he completed contract hits, carrying out torture assignments and odd jobs. He would do anything for money if that meant that he could buy more whiskey.”

  “Wow.” Tess’ eyes went wide.

  “I remembered Boss telling me that even though my father was an outcast of the family he could be counted on to get shit done despite being a stumbling alcoholic, so they kept him around. My father knew the guys at the Drunk Harpy—the last generation—but they’d left him alone since his mind had gone. The only thing is a few times a month someone would come in and check on him. He must’ve been a real heavy hitter, for them to give him attention like that. It would have been easier to just kill him, less risky, too. As his started to lose his mind more, he got less and less work. It was crazy because my father was wealthy and broke at the same time.”

  “Broke?”

  “Yes, because he would spend the money faster than he could make it. Anyway, my father saved the envelopes since his teen years and would pile the envelopes up all around the house. Kevin and I were forbidden to ever touch them or go near them. Even if we accidently bumped into a stack of them, we would be beaten bloody.”