Hitman's Holiday

by Alexa Land

  Besides, even if he did by some miracle make an appearance, I needed to stay the hell away from him. He was a bad habit, like smoking. There should be some kind of patch to get over him, preferably a big one that went over my crotch and prevented me from fucking him whenever we were in the same area code.

  After a while, I got up and slipped out a doorway to my left. I cut through a narrow sun porch, then exited through another door, emerging into an elegant backyard. Well, mostly elegant. The wide path before me was lined on both sides with perfectly symmetrical Italian cypress trees and shrubs. I wondered if it was intentional that the tall, cylindrical trees and accompanying pairs of round shrubs looked exactly like two big rows of cocks and balls.

  At the end of the path, some kind of huge metal sculpture was under construction. I went to take a closer look. Rusted metal bits and pieces were piled off to one side, and on a stone base, two huge faces were just beginning to take shape, tilted at an angle and positioned close together as if they were about to kiss. Though there was little detail to them, I somehow got the impression both faces were male. It was already quite beautiful, though probably less than twenty percent completed. I wondered who the artist was.

  I stepped up onto the stone base and ran my hand over the bottom lip of the figure on the right, the one who seemed to be reclining with his lover hovering right above him. The metal was cold to the touch, but silky smooth. There was something about the way the lips were parted, a yearning conveyed simply but eloquently.

  It reminded me of Connie. God help me. Another flood of memories rushed up to engulf me as I wrapped my arms around myself.

  Chapter Four: Tricks and Treats

  Brooklyn, New York

  October 31, 2008

  It had taken me just short of three years to track down the man I at first knew only as Connie. Since my extended family was involved in organized crime, I had a lot of resources at my disposal. Even so, I hadn’t had much to go by, and the search had proven difficult.

  But not impossible.

  I looked around me as I climbed the open staircase to a sixth-floor walk-up in Brooklyn. The old packing plant was in the midst of a major renovation that was turning it into upscale condos with gorgeous views of the Manhattan skyline across the river. Most of it was empty, with only a couple lofts completed at that point. The rest was a construction site, and it was vacant this time of night. I had it on good authority that Connie, better known as Constantino Dombruso, was subletting one of the completed lofts on the top floor.

  I’d been shocked when I discovered the identity of my coin thief. The Dombruso family and mine went way back, with a long-standing feud and a history of tension and distrust. But then, maybe it shouldn’t have been so surprising that I’d encountered one of them while committing a crime. The Dombrusos’ influence spread far and wide, and they had their hands in all sorts of pies. Apparently that even extended to pilfering rare coins, which I would have thought was beneath them.

  But maybe Constantino hadn’t been working for his family, and his role in their organization was unclear. One of his cousins ran the family, and his father was an infamous contract killer, but I didn’t know much more than that, despite the fact that my family had been keeping tabs on his for generations. It was always wise to know your enemy, so I was annoyed that our intel had become spotty and had put one of my family members to work in order to remedy that situation.

  When I reached the loft, I paused in the hallway to catch my breath and assessed the large door in front of me. It was solid wood and probably original to the building. It slid on a rusted track that looked like it might be original as well. No way would that door give way, but the track probably would.

  I was in full you-fucked-with-the-wrong-guy mode, right down to my black leather jacket, mercenary-worthy cargo pants, black t-shirt and combat boots. To truly convey that message, I drew my leg back and kicked the door with all my might, my boot connecting solidly with the vintage pine. It sent a shockwave through my leg and hip and actually hurt like hell, but it was worth it, because the big door fell inward with a really satisfying crash as its metal track bent and tore away from its moorings.

  I spotted Constantino immediately across the huge, oddly empty loft. He was sitting on a big, wrought-iron bed with a book in his hand, his dark eyes wide and startled. In the next instant he was in motion, and I was, too. Surprisingly, he didn’t try to run away. Instead, he headed straight for me.

  Whatever thoughts, plans and ideas had gotten me to that point fell away the moment we reached each other. I grabbed him and crushed him to me as my lips ravaged his. He kissed me desperately as his hands grasped my jacket, pulling me to him.

  I should have been furious. I should have hated him, and for a long time, I thought I did. But the moment I saw him again, all bets were off.

  I picked him up and carried him to the bed, then threw him on top of the rumpled blankets and climbed on top of him. As I straddled his thighs, I grabbed his white t-shirt and literally tore it off him, then did the same with the pair of briefs he wore. He moaned as his cock swelled and bounced against his abs. I reached for it and he pushed my hand away, so instead I dove onto his exposed neck, licking and kissing it as he thrust his hips and rubbed his erection against me.

  I needed to be inside him more than I’d ever needed anything in my life. I yanked my jacket and t-shirt from my body and threw them aside, then reached for my wallet and grabbed a condom and lube packet. I unzipped my cargo pants and pulled out my throbbing hard-on, and as soon as I was prepped, I got on my knees between his thighs, grabbed his legs and pulled them apart. He sat up a bit to watch what I was doing and exhaled slowly as I pushed into him.

  As I began to move in him, he locked eyes with me. I drove myself into him so hard that the entire bed rocked, and he gave me a wicked little smile. I grinned at him and dropped down and kissed him before I began to absolutely pound him. He threw his head back and yelled, the sound almost bestial. Connie clawed my back as he pulled me closer and rocked his hips up to meet each thrust, slamming himself onto my cock, a sheen of perspiration appearing on his olive skin.

  There was no rational thought, no discussion, nothing but pure, raw, primal sex. We took what we needed unapologetically. Like two starving men at a banquet, we feasted on each other, grabbing, demanding, civility completely forgotten. I clutched him to me and he bit my shoulder, then cried out as if he’d been the one bitten. I grabbed his hair and pulled his head back so I could get to his neck, his mouth, his shoulders, kissing and licking and nipping him.

  Again and again I drove myself into him. The sound of my body slamming into his filled the empty loft, along with our yells. As my orgasm built, I pulled back and stared into his eyes, trying to burn him and that moment into my memory like a brand. He stared right back at me, his dark eyes wide, his full lips parted as he gasped for breath.

  He climaxed a moment before I did, yelling as he shot all over his chest and mine. When he came, his ass clamped down on my cock, which detonated my orgasm. He crushed my body to his and I slammed into him as I came, my vision faltering. The force of my orgasm overwhelmed me, and I wrapped my arms around him as if he was all that was anchoring me to the earth. I shot into him repeatedly, my body almost convulsing, and by the time it was over there was almost nothing left of me.

  I fell onto my side as aftershocks racked my body, and Connie carefully peeled off the condom and disposed of it somehow. I was too out of it to really notice what was happening. He pulled the blanket over both of us and wrapped his arms and legs around me, then began to dot light, tender kisses on my face, my lips, even my eyelids. I drew him into an embrace and breathed in his scent. His hair still smelled like tangerines.

  When I’d stopped shaking and could finally talk again I murmured, “Why won’t you let me touch your cock?” There were a million things I wanted to ask him, but that had pushed its way to the front of the cue.

  “None of your business.” He kissed my cheek
and I brushed the hair back from his face. Only then did I notice he’d pinned back his overgrown bangs with an old-fashioned, black bobby pin. It made me happy for some reason, maybe because it was so quirky. I was grinning as I fell asleep.

  *****

  When I awoke, I was once again alone. I was also handcuffed to the iron bedframe. It didn’t particularly surprise me, though it did annoy me. I sat up and looked down at myself. I was completely dressed from the waist down. My pants were even zipped, which I didn’t remember doing.

  The loft was emptier than it had been the night before, and there were no clothes in the big, open closet. In fact, aside from the bed, it contained absolutely nothing aside from my t-shirt, which was folded neatly on the floor across the room. My phone was centered on top of it.

  I sighed and used my free hand to pick up my leather jacket, which he’d draped on the bed post. Then I grinned a little when I spotted the metal bobby pin clipped to the collar of my jacket. Connie wasn’t coming back, I knew that for a fact. But he’d left me a way out.

  Apparently the cuffs had just been meant to slow me down so he could get a head start on me. I picked the lock easily with the bobby pin, then slipped it in the pocket of my cargo pants and went to use the restroom. After that, I did a lap around the loft, looking for anything he might have left behind. There was nothing though, apart from a few packets of soy sauce in a drawer in the kitchen and a half-empty can of diet soda in the refrigerator.

  I put on my t-shirt and jacket, then picked up the door and moved it aside. He’d propped it up over the gaping hole I’d created when I announced my arrival. I leaned it back in place before I headed for the stairs.

  Since it was a Saturday, the work site on the lower floors was unoccupied. Sheets of plastic meant to keep the dust down rustled in a breeze that managed to slip in, carrying the scent of the river. I flipped my phone open to see if I had any messages, and then I smiled.

  Connie had used the camera in my phone to snap a picture of himself, and he’d set it as the wallpaper on my screen. He’d taken it just as the sun was coming up, and the sky through the windows behind him was pink. His long hair was tousled, he needed a shave, and the corner of his mouth was curved into a half-smile, which went with the mischievous sparkle in his eyes. “Until next time, beautiful,” I told his photo, then tucked the phone in my pocket.

  Chapter Five: Irish Spring

  Belfast, Ireland

  May, 2013

  I’d assumed it would be relatively easy to find Connie again after tracking him down in Brooklyn, but I was very much mistaken. In fact, five years passed before I saw him again. And the things I heard about him during those years were more than a little troubling.

  Constantino Dombruso, or Tino as he was usually called, had apparently followed in his father’s footsteps and become a hitman for hire. I tried to reconcile that with the man I knew. But that was impossible, because of course I didn’t really know him at all.

  He became a shadow, almost an urban legend. Stories emerged from time to time about alleged hits he’d carried out, and the way he remained one step ahead of the police and individuals bent on revenge. While the Dombruso family retired from the game and all but disappeared from the scene, Connie’s reputation kept growing. He was hired by some of the most notorious families in organized crime, which meant the enemies he was making as he carried out each job were heavy hitters in the criminal underworld. I was equal parts horrified at the things he was supposedly doing and afraid for his safety.

  Meanwhile over those five years, life went on. The antique export business took off and began generating a good income. My kid brother grew into a capable, successful man. My thirtieth birthday came and went.

  During that time, I didn’t date much, and I told myself it was because I was too busy. I really wanted that to be the reason. No way did I want to admit that some guy who’d ripped me off had gotten under my skin so much that I didn’t want anyone else.

  It irritated me that my heart started racing as I sat in a pub with an old friend and she told me in her lilting brogue, “I heard a rumor that Tino Dombruso’s in town.”

  It was a random Monday in May, and I was in Belfast, Ireland for a couple weeks, in part to procure a few pieces of furniture (legally) from the estate of a linen mogul. I raised an eyebrow at Kate McCullough and said, “He’d have to be a pretty shitty hitman if people knew he was coming.”

  “He’s not here to whack anyone, apparently,” she said, putting an American spin on her words. It seemed odd that anyone would know a thing about Connie’s comings and goings, but then, Kate was extremely well-connected. Her family’s ties to organized crime went back centuries, even farther than my family, and she was exceedingly good at keeping tabs on everything that went on in her city.

  I frowned a little and drank most of my pint before asking, “Why’s he here, then?”

  “That would be anyone’s guess.” She leaned forward and tucked a stray wisp of blonde hair behind her ear. “So, are you going to try to find him, given the fact that he’s quite possibly within spitting distance?”

  Most of my friends were well aware that I’d been trying to track Connie’s whereabouts for years. I’d made no secret of it. I knew a lot of people, and plenty of them had ties to the criminal underworld. News of a hitman for hire would filter through those circles, so I made sure everyone knew to pass along any scraps of information they might come across.

  I shrugged noncommittally and said, “Maybe,” even as my mind raced. What was he doing in Belfast, provided the rumor was even true? Where would he stay if he was in town? Who might he contact?

  “Dreo, you and I have been friends for years,” she said. “For most of that time, you’ve been fixated on this Dombruso character. I know he ripped you off, but I can’t imagine that was enough to spawn this type of obsession. What’s the real story here?”

  “I don’t know. I mean, we slept together a couple times, but they were just random hook-ups. Both of them ended with him ditching me by daybreak. It shouldn’t have mattered to me, except for the part where he stole from me, and at first I really did just want to settle the score. But…I don’t know. I can’t explain why he got under my skin like this.”

  “Maybe you have real feelings for this fella.”

  “Nah. I barely know him.” I drained my glass and signaled the barman for another.

  “Your family and his are long-time enemies. Does that have anything to do with this fixation?”

  “Not at all. That feud has nothing to do with Connie and me.”

  “Connie. Jesus, you do have feelings for this bloke,” she said.

  “Don’t read so much into it. He just told me that was his name when we first met, so it’s tough to think of him as anything else.”

  “Be a hell of a thing, you falling for a contract killer,” she said before finishing her pint.

  “I can’t believe that’s what became of him. He struck me as…well, gentle, I guess. Again though, not like I really know him.”

  “But you’d like to.”

  Kate sounded uncharacteristically sympathetic, and I admitted, “Yeah. I would.”

  *****

  Later that night, I was out looking for trouble. Specifically, I was looking for trouble with overgrown black hair and eyes like melted chocolate. Also, I was really drunk, which explained the melted chocolate analogy.

  I’d been bar-hopping in one of Belfast’s rougher neighborhoods and enjoying copious amounts of Irish whiskey. I really didn’t know why I thought Connie would turn up someplace like that. He was more of an upscale criminal. But I couldn’t picture him hanging out at the golf club, either.

  The types of bars I visited didn’t exactly welcome outsiders with open arms. At my fifth or sixth establishment of the night, merely occupying space and breathing air was enough to tick off the locals. Since, as I mentioned, I was really quite drunk by that point, I didn’t back down when a huge guy with a shaved head, considerably less than the
recommended number of teeth, and a freaking awesome attitude decided to pick a fight with me. Half a dozen of his cronies followed us outside, and it quickly became clear they intended to do more than just watch the fight.

  “Seven to one,” I slurred. “You’d better go in and find some reinforcements. You don’t stand a chance!” I was really stupid when I was drunk. I pointed a finger at the guy with the shaved head and told him, “Wassamatter Baldilocks, not man enough to take me down on your own? Need help from this group of rejects?”

  I knew my way around a fight and was feeling pretty cocky, even with those odds, until Mr. Clean pulled out a knife with an eight-inch blade. Well, shit. I was unarmed, and that was going to hurt. A lot.

  “Afraid to go hand-to-hand against me, Cueball? Is that how it is?” I asked while puffing out my chest and holding my arms out to the sides in a ‘come at me, bro’ gesture. It might have been more intimidating if I hadn’t swayed on my feet and almost toppled over. He just grinned at me.

  I was starting to get scared. Without the knife, maybe I could take them all on (or maybe that was the whiskey talking). But that weapon tipped the odds way too far in their favor.

  I took a few steps backwards, away from them, and the men began advancing, the half-circle they’d formed beginning to close in. Shit. This was going to end badly. I tried not to let my fear show, even as my heart raced and I broke out in a cold sweat.

  All of a sudden, they stopped, and a couple of them backed up. Their expressions went from murderous to downright alarmed. I didn’t know why until I heard someone cock two guns right behind me and I spun around quickly.

  Constantino Dombruso stood off to my right, dressed in an impeccable tan linen suit, camel overcoat and crisp white shirt. He was holding a pair of large handguns at arm’s length, his hands and his gaze rock steady as he pointed them at my would-be assailants. The fact that both guns were fitted with silencers just added to the intimidation factor.