FEMME FATALE
Pericolo #1
Kirsty-Anne Still
FEMME FATALE
The Pericolo Series
Kindle Edition
Copyright © 2014 Kirsty-Anne Still
Cover design – Cover It Designs – Arijana Karčić
All rights reserved. Please keep this book in its complete original form with the exception of quotes used in reviews. No alteration of the contents is allowed. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means – electronic, mechanical, photographic (photocopying) recording, or otherwise – without prior permission in writing from the author.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
This is a New Adult Contemporary Romance novel recommended for readers over the age of 18 due to sexual themes, swearing and violence. Due to the theme of organized crime and graphic murder scenes, it is in the readers discretion to read this book. You have been warned it is for an older audience.
Also by Kirsty-Anne Still:
A Fire That Burns.
Watch What Burns – SEQUEL to ‘A Fire That Burns’.
Saturdays At The Viper Series – Book one in The Viper Series.
The Runaway Viper – Book Two in The Viper Series.
Your Little Secret – Co-written with Bethan Cooper
Coming soon:
Femme Fatale Reloaded – The Pericolo Series – expected late 2014/Early 2015.
The Viper’s Bite – Book three in The Viper Series – expected 2015.
Your Killer Secret - Co-written with Bethan Cooper – releasing 2015.
Twisted Fate – standalone – expected 2015.
DEDICATION
Allana, Charlotte, Nicola, and Victoria,
Without you four, Femme Fatale would be nothing more than a bubble in my head that I was too scared to write. You have cheered me on, fallen in love, taken my doubts from me, and never lost faith in me – oh, and listened to my every excitable, gruesome, evil thought about what this book could entail. I cannot help but stop and think about how lucky I am to have four women who are a part of my everyday life so passionately.
You give so much to support me that I only hope I’m able to return it.
For that, this book is for you.
Thank you for loving this and me.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
BONUS MATERIAL
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHAPTER ONE
“You really are a kinky bitch,” he swears as he traps me into the corner of the elevator. “The others weren’t lying.”
His hands grab at me greedily, readying me for the submission to his sexual arousal. I feel the sudden jab of his erection as it fights against the material of his pants and I close my eyes – God help us both. When I open them again, I see he’s right where I want him; grinning like a jackass who’s just won the fucking lottery.
“I’ve been waiting for this. After watching you sitting there all night with that sky high slit in your skirt, giving that seductive look, it’s gotten real hard to ignore what I want. You had to know I was ready to jump you. Especially after that little trick with the cherry stem and your tongue.” He licks his lips with anticipation, laughing like a small, excited child, and in reaction, my irritation only begins to manifest.
“I only aim to please,” I merely breathe as he reverts to plant kiss after harsh kiss to my neck. I run my hands through his hair, gripping tight to pull his head back and away from my skin. “You know I will be running the show once we’re in the room, yes?”
“Fuck, yes,” he grunts, then his eyes narrow upon me. “But for now, I’m in control.”
“Whatever,” I whisper and release his hair from my grip as the doors to the elevator slide open. Little does he know, he’ll never have control.
Immediately, he’s smothering me, groping at my body, trying to get more of what I’ve kept him waiting for – me. He was forced to play our relationship by my rules and my rules only even when he contested everything I declared. I made sure he wined and dined me before I lured him to a penthouse in the nearest hotel. It’s taken me all of two weeks to be prepared for this, to have even an ounce of confidence that once his back is pressed to the mattress he’ll be like putty in my hand. Unlike those before him, he’s been a challenge.
I push him toward our room; I’m forceful, but he told me he liked that. I’m just following what I know about him. It’s what I’m best at – appeasing every man’s dream. I sashay my way closer to the room, running my hand along the wall only to turn on the spot to throw my key toward Carlson. He gives me a wicked look, and I can tell he’s eager to get me behind a closed door. Rushing ahead, he pushes the key card in and throws the door open as I turn back to follow. He leans against the doorway, looking out at me, but I refuse to hasten my speed to appease him. What good will that do? It hardly keeps him on tenterhooks for the fun we’re about to have.
When I make it to the room, I breeze passed him, making sure my ample ass grazes his groin. I hear him groan, and before I have chance to turn back, he’s behind me, hands fumbling clumsily across my scantily dressed body. I feel his hand glide down my side, taking hold of the zipper to my black, plunging dress with it, pulling it down to reveal my naked side. As his greed begins to accelerate, I know I have to work quickly.
“Strip,” I demand as I turn within his arms before shoving him away from me. For incentive, I shimmy out of my dress, allowing it to fall free from my body and pool at my feet. I then stand, my hip cocked to the side a little, my hand resting on it, with only my underwear covering me. “Now.”
With mesmerizing speed, Carlson rushes to rid of his own clothes. The strip tease is not one that reaps the hottest of arousals, but we’re one step closer to sealing the deal of our relationship. As he haphazardly kicks his shoes off to free himself of his pants, he tries to untangle his tie. I start to tap my foot, emphasizing each minute he’s wasting. It’s a purposeful move to make him rush, make him panic; make him think he won’t get lucky if he wastes any more of my sweet time. If I’m deadly serious, I could have found something much more entertaining than this train wreck. When he’s left in nothing but his boxers and an undone shirt, I exact the final moments of my power trip.
“Get on the bed,” I command the moment he looks up at me. I point over to the large bed with an impatient look. “If you don’t, I’ll be walking back out that door. I told you, I run the show in here.”
“Right,” he utters and rushes over to the bed. It’s as if now that he’s half-naked, he’s lost all confidence, lost all of his prowess. He scrambles on and I roll my eyes. If I knew my evening would have turned out like this, I’d have declined and spent the evening painting my nails. Carlson has been lacking enthusiasm and the ability to tell I’m more than a little impatient in everything he does. The past two weeks have been filled with sighs and eyes rolls, impatient exhales and snappy retorts. He found it hot, I found it fucking exhausting.
As Carlson lays himself out, ready and eager
for me to take the lead and drag him to a sensual high, I decide to prolong his torture a little more because I have other ideas to start this. I turn and go over to the dresser, grabbing the bottle of champagne that came with the room. I unwrap the top and pop the cork. I take a leisurely drink while looking over my shoulder at him as I do so, garnering his readiness for the bubbly goodness. I turn back to the glasses, holding the bottle ready to pour our drinks, and reach into my bra where I slip a vial from my right cup. As I begin to pour the champagne, I pop the lid and allow all the liquid to drain into the glass of bubbles. Putting the small glass back, I pick up a strawberry and use it to stir Carlson's drink. Turning around with a champagne flute in one hand, strawberry in the other, I use the moment to really build the moment. I step toward him and drop the strawberry into his drink. I allow it to fall, sinking amongst the bubbles and give him an eager grin.
"Drink?" I ask him, sauntering my way toward him.
"Only if you join me," he purrs to me. As I approach, he props himself up on the bed with his shirt thrown open and his hairy chest on show – not the finest of sights I’ve even been graced with.
“Of course.” I cannot help but smirk back at him as I pass his drink over to him. After he’s taken it, he hesitates for a moment, obviously waiting on me. I go back and pick the champagne bottle up. As I turn, I begin to hold it in the air. "Bottoms up!" I toast and then take a large swig from the Bollinger bottle.
I watch as Carlson downs the entire glass and picks the strawberry out. I pick my own from the overflowing bowl and take a seductive bite of the juicy fruit. He watches me with such vigor as I rest against the dresser lining the wall of our room and groan in sheer delight at the sharp taste that fills my mouth.
“Another?” I ask, putting the bottle up as a little to gesture toward him.
He shakes his head as he starts to squint his eyes, looking visibly paled. He sits dazed for a moment, and I just watch – intrigue filters through me as he strives for an explanation as to the sudden feeling overcoming him. He shakes his head, trying to rid the sudden sickness hitting him.
“The alcohol hasn’t gone to your head already now, has it?” I ask, teasing him ruthlessly. I know exactly what’s happening. I’m the one aware of how fast the addition to his champagne will attack his system. He shakes his hand out at me, no.
His hand suddenly flies to his chest as he clutches at his shirt in a familiar manner and looks at me with that deathly confusion. He cannot speak, not as the poison pulsates around his system, claiming every last part of him its victim. I know, in his mind, he’s screaming out the why’s, the how’s, the help me’s, but I just stand here. I don’t move as Carlson reaches out for me desperately. I remain in my spot, watching every last minute of his life play out. I know if I don’t, I will be punished. I see the life pass from his eyes and cherish that mine has been saved with this one cruel act of humanity.
As he falls down, I take my time grabbing my Prada purse and fishing through it for my metal nail file. I continue to ignore him as I walk to the bed and slump upon the end of it. I listen to him start to mumble for a moment, his words slur and merge to one. The drug-infused poison is taking effect, and I merely start to inspect my nails. I see an imperfect unevenness on my left index fingernail and begin to file it into the perfect shape. I stow away a mental note to get a mani-pedi tomorrow. When the bed moves too fiercely, I throw my hands up in the air so as not to stab myself accidentally with the pointed end of the file. As Carlson’s convulsions increase, I stand up from the perch at the end of the bed, unable to remain close with my back to him. I turn and watch him in the middle of the bed. He’s no longer aware of me, vying for my body or my answers. The toxins have full control, leading him to a less than peaceful death with every ebbing beat of his heart.
I can see his face redden as the venom wraps around his lungs, taking every part of him captive in order to lure him to a slow, painful demise. I watch in total silence, almost paying homage to the task I was dealt. Once he begins to calm, I watch for any signs of a miraculous survival. When I notice his chest doesn't shift with exhalation, I move forward. My heart is a slow beat, the thrill of the kill about ready to burst with adrenaline through my body. His eyes are wide, pupils’ dilated, the whites of them both are stained red. I crawl beside him, straighten his collar as I redo his buttons and lean in for one last act - kiss his check. As my lips settle against his cheek, I feel the lasting warmth on his skin. It’s a sensation I’ve gotten myself used to. That initial kiss, the one after their fatal ending, the one that is last to believe he’s still a human being and not a corpse.
This is my calling card – the mark of a Femme Fatale. I kill and then I leave, but not after leaving one last mark. Carlson Matthews is no different to the many men before him. I’m a master of disguise, it’s in my veins. It’s who I am, who I was taught to be. As I sit back, looking at the lipstick staining his cheek, I know I have to leave. He was just another pitiful victim in a much eviler scheme.
I don’t usually mind the murder. It’s the mess I have to leave behind that bothers me – the corpse, the incriminating evidence, another death to add to my kill list. I cause the mess, I don’t clean it up. It’s one of a few things I have to remember. After all, Abbiatis are never to get their hands dirty with the aftermath.
I climb off the bed, away from Carlson’s dead body, and step back into my dress. I pull it back up over my body and zip it up. I grab my file, throw it into my clutch bag, and look around the room, making sure I leave no personal belongings. I refuse to look back at Carlson as I leave, but grab another strawberry as I head for the door.
As I saunter my way down the corridor, I pull my cell phone out, hit speed dial number two, and press the phone to my ear. I reach the elevator, pushing the button just as my brother’s voice answers.
"Tell him it's done." My comment is straight to the point. After all, the job is done; I don’t need to give anything more than that. As the elevator arrives, I allow a small smile to grace my lips. "What time’s dinner?"
CHAPTER TWO
"I need a new stash," I comment, throwing my now empty vial straight for my brother the moment I walk into the grand dining room. The light billows in, shrouding my brother in a bright ominous light. With the light blue walls, the sunshine always makes this room feel so grand. "I'm completely out, and knowing our father, I'll have a fresh body on my plate by the strike of midnight."
“You’re late,” Giovanni states harshly, twisting the vial between his fingers. He doesn’t even comment back, just seems to be hell bent on clock watching. I know him, he’s hoping he’ll be able to snitch on me to our father, but I don’t really care when I’m late because of a job.
“Carlson didn’t want to die quickly,” I tell him with a shrug. “Now, am I getting a new lot of poison or will I have to go to Papà for it?” I slip into a seat and look at Giovanni across the table. “Wouldn’t want him to think his prize jewel was losing its shine.”
“Shut up, I’ll have more by tomorrow,” Giovanni growls at me. His eyes narrow into slits as he tries to stare me down with a dominating glower. I don’t even so much as quiver under his stare. “You don’t have to bring him into this.”
I just smirk at his comment.
Giovanni Abbiati – the bald, brooding, middle child and the one most desperate to inherit our father’s throne. He has the same God complex our father does, but he doesn’t get the opportunity to execute it often. Although, I know not to push him too far; I have come to blows with his sadistic streak and have narrowly missed escaping without injury on multiple occasions. However, saying that though, it has never stopped me from rattling his cage whenever I find myself presented with a perfect opportunity. He might be the angriest of us Abbiati’s, but I can still rustle him with the mere threat of using our father as leverage.
“Did Enzo get the room cleared up, okay?” I ask as I reach forward for Giovanni’s glass of wine. I take an indulgent sip and relax back, keeping t
he glass close to my chest.
“Yeah,” he grumbles, and I can feel his eyes burning into me. “You did well not leaving much behind.”
“I’m well trained,” I remark, giving my own ego a stroke. “To be honest, I wished I’d have taken him out a week earlier. Carlson Matthews was a vile man. Too much groping for my liking.” I decide it’s time to dig a little deeper, try to find out some more information. “What did he do that was so bad anyway?”
Immediately, Giovanni’s face ignites, and I see he loves this part. He loves to dish the dirt on everyone, and he loves discussing what’s in people’s closets the most. No one’s skeletons are safe when Giovanni is around.
“Apparently, he used to be a Dio Lavoro accountant, but he left out figures and pocketed the money. Made himself ridiculously wealthy before cutting all ties and going into hiding for a few years,” he divulges, and I immediately bristle. I know how our father is over money. He isn’t precious over offering loan money. If you need some, he’ll give it, but steal it, and well, you’re just asking for trouble. “When he came back out of hiding, Papà tracked him and handed him over to you.”
“Hadn’t he learnt from years of working with our father that trying to outdo the great Salvatore Abbiati will never work?” I ask rhetorically, shaking my head.
I remember when I was just a little girl and running into the grand room to see my father fire a bullet into one of his many men’s forehead. It was there, at such a tender age, that I realized my father was not a force to be reckoned with. He was not a man easily reasoned with.
It was from then I understood why so many called him Dio del Sangue. My father is the Blood God, for all intents and purposes. That day not only marked my father as a murderer, but it marked the change in how my father treated me. I witnessed such a horrific trauma, and I never even so much as shed a tear for such a callous action. I remember the jolt that sent me backwards, the rigidness the sound of the bullet caused when it split the air into a million pieces, but I never ran screaming – I didn’t even so much as cower from my father. Looking back, I regret never shedding just one small sliver of weakness. The horrors I was driven to see, the things I have lived through, have changed the course of my life greatly. Had I ran screaming, I would merely have become the doted daughter. The one my father protected from all nine circles of hell. Had I just shown vulnerability, I wouldn’t now be his secret weapon.
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