The Devil’s Scar_A Mafia Hitman Romance

by Zoey Parker

  It was totally exaggerated anyway, right?

  I closed the door to my apartment and dropped my bag off on the floor beside the door. I’d worry about the heavy books inside it later. For a little bit, I just wanted to be grateful that I had completed my exam successfully and feel at least a little sure that I’d done well.

  I went to the fridge first before realizing there was nothing in it.

  Frowning, I debated takeout. I didn’t have a lot of free cash—I had financial aid since my dad’s farm had been doing so poorly and I worked part time at a little coffee shop down the street—but I could afford to eat out every once in a while. But I’d rather have something in the fridge for later.

  Besides, nothing sounded good except really bad Chinese, and that wasn’t good for me. I was trying to avoid the freshman fifteen—which was more like the freshman forty, but since I wasn’t a freshman anymore it didn’t really count like that, though the same concept applied.

  So instead, I decided I would grab the spare cash I kept hidden and run down to the store to buy groceries.

  I should probably add tampons to the list, I added mentally as I went into the bathroom to check the mirror cabinet where I kept my little stash. As I was grabbing it out of the case that was supposed to be for dental floss, I accidentally knocked over the box of tampons. They scattered across the floor and I cursed as I knelt down to gather them up.

  That was when I noticed it with a frown. There were a lot of them. Like, way more than there should have been. As I stuffed them back into the box, I started counting backwards. When did I buy them last? Usually I had to buy them every month, but I couldn’t remember buying them that month. Or last month.

  My frown deepened and I ended up leaving them sitting in the box as I hurried over to the calendar over the sink.

  The days for my period were marked with red circles, colored in whenever I started day one.

  Except the last two months they weren’t colored in. In fact, I was coming up fast on what should have been my next period, and with a sinking realization, I understood that this was not good. This was definitely not good. A couple of years ago, I wouldn’t have freaked. I didn’t have sex very often—I’d only been with two guys, the last one was three years ago—so I didn’t think about it much, but now a glittering hot memory flashed through my head of that night club and the dancing and the guy who’d taken me home.

  The sexy, gorgeous man who I sometimes still thought about even though it had been two months ago and I hadn’t heard from him again.

  My shoulders slumped. Two months ago. No period. And now I was feeling sick in the morning. I grabbed my cash, ran to the corner store, bought Twinkies, Doritos, a six pack of cola, and several bags of unpopped popcorn, a pregnancy test, and a box of the good kind of chocolate. The sales lady gave me a pointed look, but didn’t say anything as she rang up my goods. I went home and before I’d even unpacked anything, I stuffed a whole Twinkie into my mouth, washed it down with the large soda, and went into the bathroom to pee on a stick.

  It was the longest two and a half minutes of my life. Right until the two seconds it took me to register that there was a single pink line indicating positive.

  Chapter 2

  Nikolai

  Two Months Earlier

  I had little left of my Russian accent, though I clung lightly to what remained of my heritage. Mostly it was a name, a love of vodka, and ties to the family business here in the USA. I was good at my job, though it was hard to say whether or not being good at it counted as enjoyment. It wasn’t the sort of thing one was supposed to enjoy.

  But still.

  Most of the time people thought of mobsters as old school gangsters, complete with Tommy guns and pinstriped suits. That was mostly old hat at this juncture, but some things lingered with the times. Useful things. Like contract killers, men hired to take out “problems.” Men like me.

  We met at an Italian bistro—not that it mattered since the food was all Americanized in the end, and no one cooked like my mother did anyway—Bella, Bella, and made it through the entire meal without talking a bit about business. Pasta, tossed salad, dinner rolls, and some sort of soup that was probably the closest thing to homemade cooking in the entire place. It was the only thing I finished, though I insisted on a to-go container just to make sure Mickey, who I thought was Italian until I learned that Mickey was actually just a nickname for Mikhail so as not to invoke any negative connotations to his name, didn’t get insulted by my lack of appetite. He’d have told me he wasn’t offended, but he would have been a liar, so I was going to take home two containers of processed crap just to make sure our business affairs stayed smooth.

  When Mickey was finally finished, he dabbed at his double chin. There were three wise guys in town who were of any note. Mickey here, with his round frame and mushy gray beard that couldn’t decide if it was trying for salt and pepper or just going that dirty gray color. His eyes were a watery blue color that reminded me more of home than anything else, but were always shrewd, even when the rest of him was trying to be jovial and kind. Then there was Grigory, who was tall and thin and liked to fight with Mickey over having such a ridiculous nickname, even though they grew up together and it didn’t really bother him anymore. He’d say, “It’s not traditional, Denis, not even a little.” And finally, there was Zackary, who sounded like he should have been a huge, giggling fat man, but was actually just shaped like a box. A box with sparkling gray eyes and the promise that things would go badly if you pushed him into a corner.

  All three of these men were the kind of people you wanted as friends, not enemies, but usually it was just better not to know them altogether. At least, it was better if you didn’t want to walk a fine line that was usually on the wrong side of the law.

  As it stood, I did know them and the three of them always had some sort of job for me. Tonight, it just happened to be Mickey, and I wasn’t complaining. Mickey was a practical man, despite his show of excess and luxury. He understood the price of a thing and was willing to pay that price if it meant a good job done in the end.

  That was what people were paying me for in the end: a good job. I was the best in the business and that came with a rather impressive price tag.

  “He’s some kid,” Mickey finally began to explain to me, getting into the meat of the job. “Some kid who was just supposed to be a contractor. Good, wholesome kid. From some farm in the middle of fly-over-America, the places no one cares about. A corn-fed boy, you know?”

  I nodded. These were the sorts of people you always had to be on the lookout for, though I didn’t bother pointing that out to Mickey. He hired this kid because he was cheap and seemed so honest, but in my experience, it was always the innocent, small town farm kids who moved to the big bad city you had to be wary of. They never understood what it took to make it in the city and it made them do funny, unpredictable things.

  Like this homegrown kid had apparently done.

  “So, we hired him to do a little work for us, right? Good, paying work. Just needed someone to come in a put up some new framework. Some structure. That old hovel isn’t working anymore. We need better. So, we hire him to put up a new business home for us and you know what he does?”

  I knew for a fact that he was talking about a sort of unofficial headquarters for the mob, a place where they could hold meetings and discuss “delicate things” amongst themselves without any prying ears. And I also knew no one would call it a hovel except for Mickey. It was bigger than the library in New York City and it was just as beautiful. But they had a rat problem recently, and I wasn’t talking about small rodents.

  “He steals from us.”

  And there it was. Why I was here.

  There were three things you didn’t do where the mob was concerned. Go to the cops was number one, which I was pretty certain applied to any sort of criminal organization, period. Go to other mobs—the Italians or the Irish, for example—and give them your business. That was pretty straightforw
ard, too. The mob was all about loyalty, and going against your own people didn’t get you in good with the other people anyway, so no one fucked with that one much either. But the last one was the one people had a hard time with. It was also the one that very quickly got you killed, regardless of who you knew.

  Number three was stealing, and you never got away with it.

  “Do you have a name for me?” I asked, my accent slightly thicker since I’d been spending the evening with Mickey, who took pride in sounding as Russian as possible. Mostly a show since I knew his English was near perfect, but he was from the Motherland, so it wasn’t exactly fake either.

  He slid a piece of paper across the table. Before I even opened it up I knew it would have two things on it: a name and a number. The number was the price Mickey was willing to pay and the name would be the homegrown corn fed Iowa or wherever middle state he was from boy I was to kill.

  I opened the paper and saw it: Logan King. One hundred thousand. Not a bad price in the slightest. The kid must have taken a lot of money from Mickey for him to be willing to pay that much for his head. I noticed that beside the number there was a little plus sign and an additional number, fifty thousand. My eyebrows rose slightly in surprise. This was clearly a bonus; it must have been for doing it in a timely manner.

  “You have a date for me?”

  Mickey nodded. “Three months. Anything longer and the deal is off. Anything sooner and you get the fifty.”

  “All right.” I agreed to the deal because I didn’t like to go too long without working and the money was good for a relatively easy kill. Mickey wasn’t paying for difficulty; he was paying for time and for his own money. I could appreciate that.

  “There’s been a sighting of him,” Mickey continued, leaning back in his chair as I held the note between my fore and middle finger and placed it over the lit candle. It burned, ashes falling to the deep red tablecloth as Mickey spoke. “A bar, local. Shadow.”

  “How much money was it?” I asked before I get up to leave. I knew where Shadow was; I’d been a time or two.

  Mickey studied me for a long moment, as though debating just how much he should tell me. Finally, he said, “Six and a half five million. And I want it back.”

  I nodded once and then I was gone.

  ***

  Shadow wasn’t exactly seedy, not in the true sense of the word. A seedy bar was one of those places where the bathrooms were disgusting and the beers were overpriced, even though they were cheap everywhere else. They were the kind of places where people went for fights and brawling and just getting tossed because their lives were just that meaningless and empty.

  This was not quite that.

  Shadow was located in an older building. It had a small redbrick facing with a black door and a red light above it. Upstairs was a strip club, amongst other things, but even that was “fancier” than just that. Inside was dark, only dimly lit with tones that ranged from red to blue to purple. The tables were all booths, tucked into corners with leather seating. The bar was well taken care of, the bartender wore a button-down shirt and a vest, and the glasses were clean. It was a nice place—except it wasn’t very nice. Dangerous people liked to come here and I’d seen more than a handful of girls dragged through the doors, so far gone that they were more being carried than walking. Some were escorts, but many were just young women pretty enough, and unfortunate enough, to catch the eye of some local man with too much money and not enough dick.

  Not that every woman who was in there didn’t want to be there. In fact, a lot of women came there hunting specifically for the “right kind of man,” which equated to a lot of money and a short lifespan, if possible. I didn’t care so long as they were hot and game to go to bed.

  I didn’t do relationships.

  Not that any of that mattered tonight. I was on the hunt for Logan King and this was the last place he’d been seen—which told me Mickey was on the mark; the boy had stolen a lot of money.

  After my meeting with Mickey, I’d done a little research. Strangely enough, research started with Google and Facebook these days. All that free online information just floating around, waiting for crooks like me to mosey along and take what they need. It was a damn shame, really, and one of the main reasons I would never get a profile page online. Not for anything. I did have a fake one for a beautiful woman who didn’t exist for the purposes of adding people or searching the web. I had noticed that beautiful women were much more likely to get responses than hit men were.

  I’d gotten some good information at least. Logan was just under six feet, had blond hair and blue eyes. Apparently, the only shirt he owned was a plaid button-down, and he was known to wear cowboy hats. If he got any more country, I’d have to assume his dog died and he spoke with a twang.

  He’d moved to the city not too long ago and had a younger sister in college. She didn’t appear in pictures, at least none of the ones I could view, but I did a quick look to make sure he wouldn’t be hiding out with her. As far as I could tell, he wasn’t. Probably she had nothing to do with any of it, so I’d focus on the boy first and go to his little sister only if absolutely necessary.

  I didn’t like dragging in people who weren’t responsible, though sometimes that was just part of it. I didn’t like killing women either, but I would make exceptions for those who’d done the same dirty deeds as the men I killed. Why be a misogynist like that? But I didn’t think she was involved, so I’d do my best to keep it that way. Especially since I had this little farm girl in my head with pigtails and rosy, freckled cheeks, only four years old, even though I had found out she was in her twenties.

  Sometimes that was just how I pictured people until I got a real image of them in my head.

  My eyes scanned the room, searching him out, but weren’t having much luck. There were no plaid wearing, cowboy-clad blondies in the room as far as I could tell. In fact, I wasn’t seeing a whole hell of a lot of blond at all tonight. Well, not on the men anyway. There were definitely a lot of busty bottle blondes with fake tans and probably fake boobs, too. Not that I minded. Fake boobs felt good, too. A little weird at first, but nice and heavy in the palms and always with erect nipples. There was a lot to be said for that.

  I spent the next three hours at that bar, just waiting. Watching as people came and went, I mentally compared their faces, clothing, and body type to the Logan’s. No dice. Finally, it was starting to get late and I was beginning to think this was all a bust. Logan might have been here at some point, but not tonight. Not now.

  Frustrated, I gave up and waved down the bartender.

  “Sir?” he asked politely. He recognized me, but didn’t know me by name. Probably, he had sense enough to not want to, either.

  “Vodka, neat,” I told him, and the man nodded before pulling out a clear bottle of the good stuff. Ah, a little taste of home. The bartender put the tumbler down on the counter in front of me. I swirled the clear liquid around quickly, then downed it in a single gulp. I tapped the counter, indicating I wanted another, and the bartender obliged quickly.

  This one I sipped at, my eyes going over the room again automatically. I was still half looking for this Logan guy, though by now I’d accepted I wasn’t likely to see him. Wherever he was, he was long gone from here.

  Still, I couldn’t help but be vigilant as I drank.

  That was why I saw her. She was a pretty little thing, her curves proportionate, but just naturally like that instead of filled in by surgical procedures and shaped by doctor’s hands. She was born that way, developing into the kind of woman men salivated over. Which they were doing right now.

  Her hair was a soft blonde, closer to wheat or honey than the platinum color you could only get from a bottle. It was long and thick stopping just above her hips, straight as a wooden board. Her hips were full, more noticeable thanks to that tiny waist which slowly flared upwards into two perfectly round, perky tits. I lingered on those longer than the rest of her, indulging in the small press of cleavage that w
as visible beneath her dress. A soft white summer dress that stopped not far above her knees. It was a spaghetti strap, but otherwise it was really quite modest. Too modest for a place like this in fact. As were her flat, ballerina style slippers. She looked like she belonged on Broadway performing Swan Lake, not slinking around some bar to take shots.

  Her round, apple cheeks were flushed and dotted with a dusting of adorable freckles. I suddenly wondered if those freckles were elsewhere, too. My eyes slipped down the long column of her neck, searching now, until they once again landed on her full breasts. I thought I saw a few freckles there, too, and I couldn’t help but grin slyly into my glass.

  I’ll bet they’re between your legs, too, sweetheart, I thought to myself.

  She walked around almost shyly, her eyes blue and bright, searching out the deep corners of the place, examining faces and expressions and clothes like she’d never seen any of it before. She was smiling so widely that her cheeks probably hurt, showing barely shiny pink lips and a row of pearly white teeth.