CAUGHT: A Hitman Romance

by Noir, Stella

  She raises her eyebrows.

  “I’m happy for you, you know that,” she says. “Just be careful, okay? Some of the things you told me about him sound fishy to me.”

  I want to object, but I know she is right. I told her about his behavior in the beginning, about his accusation of me playing some sort of game with him. He was so certain that we had met before and that I was hiding something from him. And the way he looked at me…

  It also struck me as weird how intrusive he was on our first date, not even physically, but emotionally. There was more than one time when I suspected him of being a police officer or some sort of detective, even though those thoughts were soon cast aside after we had sex. That was a whole other kind of weird, because the intimacy we shared in those moments was out of this world as well. It was something that could not be faked, something real and deep. As wonderful as it was, it also scared me—and still does.

  It was as if he knew. As if he knew what had happened just a short while before we met. That horrific incident on the roof. Too much time has passed for me to go to the police now, so all I’m left to do is to try to forget about all of it. I want to cast the memory aside and bury it as deep as possible, overshadowed by positive memories and thoughts.

  He is helping with that, even though his extreme devotion still confuses me, and so do his questions. His curiosity about me is endearing and odd at the same time. When I wanted to know why he keeps asking these questions about my past, my personal life, my darkest secrets, he just said that he wants to know as much as possible about me.

  I tried to convince him that there is not much to know about me, that my life is and always has been uneventful, but he has never been content with that statement.

  “You don’t have to worry,” I assure Amanda, who is still watching me from the side, leaning in my door frame with her arms crossed in front of her chest. “I may remind you of a teenager right now, but I’m still a big girl. I can watch out for myself.”

  “Ah, I know, I know,” she says. “Don’t mind me, I’m probably just jealous.”

  I turn around, catching a smirk from her.

  “I mean, come on,” she adds. “He’s a great catch! Handsome, rich and didn’t you mention that he is a fantastic lover, too?”

  She grins at me while my cheeks blush as if I really was that teenage girl she just claimed me to be. I have a tendency to be a little too open in front of Amanda sometimes.

  “In any case, he keeps you off the rooftops,” Amanda continues, sending a cold shiver along my spine.

  It’s a mystery to me how I managed to keep that terrifying encounter from her. She has commented on my nightly rooftop excursions and the fact that they have stopped so many times, yet I never told her why that was. It almost feels as if telling her would make everything more realistic. If no one but me—and the killer—knows about it, I could still convince myself that it never happened. Despite the police reports that verified an actual murder taking place that night.

  I swallow hard, trying to get rid of these dark memories. They make my heart sink to the bottom of a black sea that resides within my chest, storing all the bad memories that I have tried to get rid of.

  Yet I used to dwell in them every time I sat up there, scanning the city skyline below and tracing the streets that used to be my home, a long time ago. A different life that had a different me as the protagonist, a younger me, a poorer me, a sadder me. It strikes me as a sick irony that it took another man’s death for me to stop following that unhealthy habit.

  “Aren’t you late?” Amanda interrupts my dark rumination.

  I glance over to the clock on my nightstand. Damn, she’s right.

  “Oh, yeah!” I exclaim, hurrying to gather my stuff.

  I shouldn’t do this. All those horrible thoughts and memories have no room when I am about to meet him. Although I am sure that it will be easy to forget about them once I am standing in front of him.

  That’s how it’s been every time I saw him so far.

  However, tonight will prove to be very different.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Mars

  “Shit, shit, shit man! We have to clean this up!”

  Frank and Victor, the big guys, are close to panicking and frantically gesture around, while their eyes are traveling back and forth between Joseph, me and the body on the floor.

  “What the fuck is wrong with this kid?!” Frank yells in my direction.

  I flinch and instinctively lower my arms, still holding the gun that I should not be holding.

  Big Joseph is standing next to me, but unlike his henchmen he does not seem to be shocked or in panic at all. He radiates the same calm dominance that always surrounds him.

  He is my hero, my idol. A man of his word, a man with power, and he just owns this power by pure presence. I want to be like him one day.

  Maybe that’s what’s wrong with me.

  “What the fuck, man!” Frank adds as no one is saying a word.

  I step back in fear when he approaches me, but much to my surprise, Joseph is stepping between us.

  “Leave him alone!” he barks at Frank, and both him and Victor flinch as if they have just been hit.

  “Are you for real, man?” Frank addresses his boss in the most inappropriate fashion. “This kid is fucking trouble! He just shot the guy without warning!”

  “He was threatening us!” I try to defend myself.

  Now, both Victor and Frank are laughing.

  “Us?” Frank asks, still laughing. “Who are you calling us, you little shit?!”

  “Leave the boy alone!” Joseph interferes, his voice as deep and calm as always. He is still standing between me and his enraged henchmen, providing me with a sense of security that I have never experienced anywhere else.

  “But boss,” Victor objects. “The boy just barged in on our affairs. He has no business even being here!”

  “Damn right,” Frank agrees. “Fucking little shit is nothing but a fucked up dealer, a street kid. Why is he even here?”

  “Because I brought him here,” Joseph explains calmly.

  I look at him, unsure what to think. The gun is still in my hand and I am surprised no one has taken it from me yet. Frank and Victor are asking the exact same questions I have asked myself when Joseph brought me down here.

  I have only been here once before. It’s just like they say: I don’t belong here. I work outside, selling for Joseph and his people. It’s the most useful I have ever felt since my dad ran off and my mother started abandoning me for her ever changing lovers. In her eyes I was old enough to take of myself at the age of 14, and I wanted to prove her right. If you know the right people—and I do—it’s pretty damn easy to get by even at my age. Hell, I’m probably making more money than she ever has in her life!

  Joseph took me under his wing after I got in a fight with one of his boys. What he offered me was better than anything else out there. Money, respect, a place where I was part of something. Something dark and exciting. He forced me to continue school, so that’s what I do. But as soon as classes end, I find myself back at work. I am a good seller, mostly because I don’t take bullshit from anyone. I’m not scared, and if someone tries to fuck with me, I don’t let him. And if someone fucks with him, with Joseph, I will make damn sure that this person does not go unpunished.

  The only man I am truly scared of is Joseph. If I upset him, I know I am in deep trouble.

  Then, why did I just do this? Why did I interrupt their argument with this shit head by shooting him? I had no business to do that, there was no order for me to do this. I am not even supposed to hold this gun in my hand.

  Joseph brought me down here to show me something, and Victor and Frank were in the middle of arguing with this guy I have never seen before. Things became loud and more aggressive, and when the guy started to threaten Joseph I saw red. I grabbed the gun from a table next to me. They are everywhere down here, in every corner. For self protection.

  No one ex
pected me to do this, especially not the drunk idiot who now lies dead between us.

  Why was I so sure that I was doing the right thing? Why did I think Joseph would approve?

  Something just told me that he would, and the way he is protecting me against his henchmen right now may prove me right.

  “He only did what had to be done,” Joseph continues.

  Victor and Frank stare at him with disbelief, and so do I.

  “In fact, we should praise him for his great aim and perfect timing,” Joseph adds, now turning around to me. “That was quite impressive, Joe.”

  Mars, I want to correct him. I hate it when people call me by my first name. It’s my father’s name, so unimaginative and proof of my parents’ lack of interest in me. But I cannot correct Joseph, not him. Especially now, when he is defending in me in what could be a crucial moment of my life.

  “Thank you,” I say instead, trying to sound calm and confident.

  “Put that gun away now,” Joseph says.

  I nod and do as I am told, placing the gun back on the table next to me where I found it. Victor and Frank stare at us, watching the scene in silence as Joseph approaches me.

  He puts his hand on my shoulder, a fatherly gesture unknown to me until that moment.

  “Look at me,” he orders.

  I hesitate, still fearing his fury, a punishment so bad that I cannot even imagine what it would look like. With him, one could never know for sure. Maybe he has just been waiting until I was unarmed.

  But when I dare to lift my eyes up to his, I don’t see anger or rage.

  I see adoration.

  Joseph looks at me with a face so warm and loving that it’s almost frightening in its own way.

  He nods at me.

  “You have quite a talent there,” he says. “Great aim, good timing, no hesitation. No mercy when none is needed. Those are rare qualities, aren’t they?”

  He directs his question at Victor and Frank, who both nod reluctantly.

  “It might be a waste to have you out on the street selling shit for us,” Joseph continues. “How about we put that talent to better use?”

  I look up at him, incapable of comprehending what’s going on. I have never heard such praise before. A talent. Something I am good at, useful. Special.

  That first shot and the unexpected praise that came with it—that’s how it all started.

  ***

  The memories still haunt me. Every dead body I ever had to lay eyes on since that day. My choice of weapon was no coincidence. A sniper rifle minimizes the contact I have with the victims. They remain far away from me, even in death. No close-up images come haunting me if I manage to keep this valuable distance between me and my hits.

  I made money with my talent and I never thought about it twice—until Joseph was killed and they all came after me. Not the mobsters, but the people I had killed. It felt like a cruel kind of redemption, but probably one that a man like me deserves.

  It has to stop.

  I have come so close. I won’t let her ruin it.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Nike

  “Hello beautiful,” he greets me, kissing my hand like a true gentleman. I blush at the gesture. This is new. He has always been weirdly flattering and charming from the beginning, but kissing my hand is something he has never done before.

  “Why so extra attentive today?” I ask, trying to adopt a confident tone even with my voice being as shaky as it is.

  “You think I need a reason to charm you?” he asks. There’s always a sizzling undertone of threat in his voice when he says these kinds of things. It adds a spice to him that I cannot file under anything I have experienced with other men before. As if he is hiding something under his perfect exterior. I’m sure he is, because we all have our little secrets—I, of all people should know. But with him it is as if these extra layers are within my grasp, yet so far away. Despite his sometimes mysterious behavior and the subtle hints, he has never opened up to me in any way and I still feel as if I know hardly anything about him.

  He takes my hand and leads me inside the restaurant that will be our dinner place for tonight. We have been here before. An Italian place that manages to serve traditional and simple recipes in a very elegant way. I could never afford it on my own and was hesitant the first time he took me here, but he insisted on inviting me, adding to his classy gentleman charm.

  He orders two glasses of champagne for us when the waiter takes our order. Something must be up with him tonight.

  “Champagne?” I ask, tilting my head to the side as I look at him quizzically. “That’s unusual. Seriously, what’s the occasion?”

  He casts me a mysterious smile. “I felt like it.”

  “Why all of a sudden?” I ask. “Usually, you don’t even have a glass of wine with dinner.”

  His eyes flicker. He looks at me as if I caught him doing something bad.

  “I mean, not that there’s anything wrong with that,” I add. “It’s just something I noticed.”

  “What did you notice?” he asks, sounding suspicious.

  “That you don’t drink much,” I say. “Or… ever. Now that I think about it.”

  It has never struck me as weird or conspicuous, but now that I think about it, he never had even the smallest drink in my company. It’s unusual for a man like him not to drink, ever. At least to me it is. There are very few people who would refrain from alcohol altogether.

  Reformed alcoholics, for example.

  Could that apply to him?

  Oh God, did I just poke at something unpleasant here? Is that why he looks as if he got caught with his hands in the cookie jar?

  “I’m sorry if I—”

  “No, no,” he says. “Nothing to worry about. I’m just surprised you noticed.”

  We exchange a look.

  “Does it strike you as odd that I don’t drink?” he asks.

  I shake my head. “No, I wouldn’t say odd. Just… rare.”

  He chuckles. It’s a deep sound that has a condescending note to it.

  “I guess you could say that,” he says. “But I can assure you that there is nothing wrong with me in that regard. I just happen to drink on very rare occasions. It’s not a habit of mine like it appears to be for you.”

  He winks at me to show that he is teasing me, but I still feel uncomfortable with his words.

  “I don’t know if habit is the right word,” I say. “If it is a habit, it’s certainly not a good one.”

  As if the universe likes to mock me even more, the waiter shows up with our champagne right at that moment, placing two stylish glasses on the table between us.

  Mars lifts his in an instant and beckons me to do the same.

  “To habits,” he says. “Good and bad.”

  We clink glasses and I take a careful sip, trying not to appear as thirsty as I really am. The champagne tastes divine, not as sweet as the sparkling wines I often drink but just as pleasant in its own way. I suddenly understand what people mean when they say that a drink is smooth.

  “To your liking?” he asks, noticing the pleased expression on my face.

  “A very good choice,” I reply, nodding eagerly. “I mean, not that you would know, with your little experience.”

  He furls his eyebrows, changing to that dark gaze I like so much. I enjoy teasing him just to see his face turn into that sullen and somewhat confused expression.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” he growls.

  “Well, as you pointed out, with my habit of regular drinking, I must be quite the expert in this area, while you…,” I say, adding a pause for emphasize. “You can’t possibly know a thing about this, since you never drink. In fact, you might have to be careful as this one glass might get you a little too tipsy already.”

  “You little minx,” he says, still with that deep growl in his voice and the sexy frown on his face. “You better watch your tongue, young girl. Don’t challenge me to prove you wrong.”

  “Prove me
wrong?”

  “I don’t need to follow your bad habits to tolerate alcohol better than a delicate little character like you can,” he explains.

  “Is that so?” I continue my ridiculous tease. I have no idea where I am going with this, but for some reason I find the thought of seeing this strong, tall men a little tipsy very exhilarating. It could be fun to be drunk together. Not too drunk, but lightheaded enough to tear down the walls he has put around himself. So that he would be silly enough to make him talk, to open up and to finally let me in on who this person is that has me so unraveled.

  “Why don’t we order another drink then,” I propose. “I’m sure they have a nice collection of wine and grappa here.”

  He looks at me, furling his eyebrows as he ponders my suggestion.

  “Scared?” I tease.

  “I have nothing to be scared of,” he says. “I was just contemplating the best choice of drink that would go with our meals respectively.”

  “Sure,” I say, winking at him.

  We do end up ordering red wine for our meals, something that he has never done before, at least not for himself. He argues that I should go with white wine instead, because it would be a better fit for my pasta dish. But I insisted on drinking the exact same drinks and exact same amount as he does.

  “How else would we know who is better at handling this?” I asked, and he just shrugged, ordering a bottle of red wine for us.

  The food is amazing as always. I am starving and have to contain myself to not dig in like a pig from its trough. I am still amazed how it is possible for some people to make such a mundane thing as pasta taste this delicious. I am sure Amanda could tell me a few tricks, even though she is not a starred chef herself.

  We chat along with our meal as we always do, but the conversation continues to remain on the surface, just like it has on any other date. I didn’t expect him to open up after just a few sips of wine, but by the time we have finished the bottle, I do feel quite light headed, while he does not show any sign of the alcohol having an effect on him.