Darkest Deeds: Cavalieri Della Morte

by Kenborn, Cora

  Dmitry’s face twists in annoyance. “He was a paying customer and not the first one to complain about you. You are here to act like a whore, Ava, not a princess.”

  His words echo in my head and my stomach roils. My hand shakes around the hairbrush as a haze blurs my vision.

  I close my eyes and sink. Drowning is the only escape. Down, down, down.

  “You want to act like a whore, I will treat you like one.” His voice is rough, and I risk a glance at his face, immediately wishing I hadn’t. His eyes are almost black. Cold and empty—like his soul has been swallowed by Satan himself.

  “No, please! We’re just friends, I promise.” Screaming is a mistake. The moment I open my mouth, my lungs fill and nothing’s left.

  “I see the way you look at him,” he roars, ripping the pinned orange blossom out of my hair and grinding it into mush on the concrete. “But it does not matter now. He will not take what is mine. I will ruin you. Do you hear me, whore?”

  “Ava, what the fuck? Are you high or something?”

  I blink, the memory fading away as bile churns in my stomach. Turning around, I throw my hairbrush, clocking him in the shoulder. “Don’t call me a whore.”

  The veins in Dmitry’s huge neck strain, but before he can respond, my attention shifts to the girl standing next to him. Her wide eyes blink like a deer caught in headlights, and she shuffles her feet nervously as I stare.

  I nod my chin in her direction. “Who’s this?”

  Dmitry rubs his shoulder while glancing at the waif beside him. “This is Rose. We are giving her a trial run.” He rakes his eyes over her like she’s a hot bowl of borscht.

  She’s a little bit taller than me, no more than a hundred pounds soaking wet, and she’s staring at me like Dmitry plucked her out of the front yard of a Norman Rockwell painting. Strawberry blonde hair hangs down her slender back while a set of wide brown eyes stare me down. It isn’t until that moment that it hits me.

  She looks like a younger me.

  With that one thought, the memory comes rushing back, and the room becomes too small. The air too thick. The pain too real.

  “Train her,” Dmitry says, pushing her toward me. She takes two timid steps in my direction, and I take two back.

  “I can’t.”

  “That was not a request, Ava,” he warns, a glint in his eye. As usual, I keep my mouth shut and stare at my shoes. Making his way toward the back door, he chuckles before turning the handle and slipping out. “There are no choices here. You of all people should know that.”

  I fight off a wave of nausea as the girl stands there staring at me like I’m about to lead her down the yellow brick road. But this isn’t Oz, and there’s no Emerald City. The only thing she’ll find at the end of this road is the entrance to hell.

  Ava

  I shove one leg at a time into a pair of cut-off shorts while watching the new girl pick at an invisible thread on her flowered peasant dress. She doesn’t belong here. Right now, she still has a soul, but if I don’t get her out of here, it’ll be claimed by the devil himself.

  “Are you even legal?” Tugging a tank top over my head, I slide my feet into a pair of worn-out Toms and sling my gym bag over my shoulder.

  She glances up, her eyebrows bunched in confusion.

  Sighing, I place a hand on her shoulder and steer her toward a plain bench near a set of rusted lockers. After nodding for her to take a seat, she slowly sinks onto the splintered wood.

  “Rose, is it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, Rose, no bullshit, got it?” She nods, and I continue before she can open her mouth again. “How old are you?”

  “Eighteen.” Her voice is small and breathy.

  “Rose…” That one drawn out word serves as her only warning.

  Her shoulders slump. “Sixteen.”

  “Listen, I don’t know what or who you’re running from, but I do know this isn’t the place to run to.”

  She tilts her chin. “Did you run from something?”

  Not yet.

  “We all have our demons, but this place,” I narrow my eyes and gesture around the decrepit room, “will suck you in and hold you under water until you drown. You’ll disappear.”

  Literally.

  “You’re a shitty trainer, you know that?” Her hand slides up, grabbing two of my fingers still resting on her shoulders. The familiarity takes me by surprise, and I jerk my hand away.

  “Yeah, well, I’m a shitty dancer, so you get the whole shitty experience. My best advice is to get the hell out of Miami, but if you’re hell-bent on staying here, then try waitressing. You’re less likely to end up a statistic.”

  “You mean homeless?”

  So innocent.

  Patting her leg, I grab my bag again and head toward the exit. Just before I walk outside, I toss her a wistful look. “Go back to Iowa, Rose. There’s no place like home.”

  “Wait, how did you know I’m from—”

  Letting the metal door slam behind me, I lean against it and breathe in the night air. It’s unusually quiet outside, and the silence is unnerving. Not to mention it’s pitch black. My car is less than a hundred yards away, but I’m almost running, and I don’t know why.

  Two steps, three steps, five, seven, ten.

  There’s no reason to panic. I deliberately slow my gait and time my breathing to match. I’ve almost got everything back to normal as I reach my car.

  “Get a grip,” I mutter. Stopping at the trunk, I fish for my keys in my bag, bouncing from one foot to the other until I finally find the right one.

  About time.

  Shifting to the right, I take one step and freeze. My heart slams against my ribcage so hard I think it’s going to explode. A man steps out of the shadows, and a terrifying thought races through my head, snowballing into waves of panic.

  It can’t be him. I imagined him.

  His walk is slow and confident as he saunters toward me, his face shrouded by darkness.

  Shit, is he smiling?

  My brain screams at me to run, but as his slow stride continues, the heartbeat threatening to shatter my chest climbs into my throat.

  I hear him before I see him.

  “Ruby, if you can fuck half as well as you can throw a kick, I’m willing to hold your ass down until I break that wild streak you got.”

  Lumberjack.

  I unfreeze at the sound of his voice and slide my hand into my open gym bag. Tightening my grip, I find my voice and hope it sounds as steady as it does in my head.

  “I’m surprised you’re still upright. I thought you’d be sleeping it off by now.”

  He takes another step forward. “That’s cute coming from a dirty whore.”

  Strike one.

  I plaster a smile across my face. “You didn’t think I was so dirty when you were trying grab my ass.”

  Another step forward and a sneer. “A starving man will eat out of a trashcan, honey. You think we don’t see that.” He trails a finger down the ridges on the inside of my arm.

  Strike two.

  “I don’t think you could get it up if you tied a string to it and wrapped it around your head.”

  We’re almost nose to nose and his breathing escalates. “I watched you eye fuck that big bouncer. You got daddy issues, bitch?”

  Strike three.

  Without warning, I slam my knee between his legs and give a sharp upward thrust. While he’s howling, I grab his pinkie and bend it back as far as I can until he’s caught in a distorted backbend. Jerking my hand from my bag, I shove a ten-inch blade against his throat. His eyes widen in shock, fear, and maybe slight disbelief.

  The unleashed power fills me with adrenaline. “Now I’m going to do all the talking and you’re going to listen, got it?”

  He closes his eyes, nodding furiously as beads of sweat roll down his temple.

  “Ah, ah, ah,” I scold. “Eyes on me.”

  He opens his eyes and tries to focus, his pupils dilating more with
every syllable.

  “You’re going to leave and never show your face here again, or you and I are going to have a serious problem. Do we understand each other?”

  More nodding. More sweating.

  “Say you understand.”

  “I…I…” He clears his throat, his voice high and soft. “I understand.”

  I slowly pull the knife away from his neck and step back. Within seconds he peels himself away from my car and disappears. Standing alone, my adrenaline high plummets. Familiar throbbing wraps my head in a vice, and I press the back of my hand against my eye, blindly stumbling toward the car. Opening the driver’s side door, I slide behind the wheel and manage to close it behind me.

  Squeezing my eyes shut, I try to block the overwhelming fear I can’t escape. For eight years it has been my companion during the day and my demon every night. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.

  Seven.

  Laughter bubbles out of my chest, and I begin to shake. Within seconds, the laughter dissolves into familiar tears as I watch them fall onto my lap. My focus turns to the weapon I’m clutching. Through a haze, the shine of the sharp point catches a gleam of moonlight, and I see the white petals of an orange blossom reflected in the flat end of the knife’s blade.

  As if burned, I drop the knife in the passenger’s seat and unlock the door. Flinging it open, I vomit until I’m so weak I can do nothing but slump into the seat.

  He’s back.

  Niko

  She should’ve slit his throat when she had the chance.

  It’s the only thought rolling around in my head as I lean against the Audi at three a.m., watching the blond asshole try to unlock the door to his house. I’m not surprised it takes him three times. If he has as much trouble aiming his dick as he does a key, it’s no wonder he has to force women to get laid.

  Yeah, I watched them in the parking lot, so what? I didn’t like the way he talked to her and thought he needed a reminder on how to mind his fucking manners. She told him no, and he didn’t listen. Case closed.

  I know what I am, and it sure as hell isn’t anyone’s hero. My moral compass doesn’t point anywhere but straight to hell.

  His mistake was trying to touch what’s always been mine.

  I chuckle as he finally stumbles inside and slams the door behind him, not bothering to turn on the lights. He’s making it so easy I’m almost insulted. A little challenge would be nice, but I guess that’s asking too much from a guy who fell out of a cab and puked on his own shoes.

  The first thing I notice when I approach the door is that the keys are still hanging outside the lock. Did I say almost insulted? Scratch that. I’m offended as hell now. So offended that if I were getting paid for this, I’d return the money and call it a gift to society.

  Once inside, I slip off my jacket and dig into the inside pocket before draping it across the dining room table. Some people’s blood is worth soiling quality leather, and some isn’t.

  Guess where Zachary Harrington Winthrop’s blood ranks.

  It’s dark, but I have no problem making my way down the hallway toward the bathroom. When I get there, I find him taking a piss with his hands braced against the wall.

  “Now that’s a shame.”

  He lets out a yelp, spinning around so fast his legs get tangled around the toilet and he falls onto seat, his limp dick flopping onto his thigh. “Wh-who the hell are you?”

  “Zach,” I say, ignoring him, “you don’t listen too well, do you?”

  “How’d you get in my house?”

  “Answer my question first.”

  He lifts his chin and meets my eye as if sitting bare assed on a toilet staring up at an intruder is a minor annoyance. “I’ve never spoken to you in my life.”

  I fight a smirk. The booze has inflated his balls. Good. This night may not be such a waste after all. “Well, you’ve got me there.”

  “Then what—”

  “You’ve never spoken to me, but I’ve said plenty to you. Maybe not verbally, but I know you saw me tonight, Zach. You felt my eyes on you, because you looked right at me after you tried to grab her ass. Then to make it worse, you insulted her.”

  Wrinkles line his forehead. “You mean Ruby?”

  I nod.

  “Wait, you’re pissed off about a stupid stripper who’s probably blown every guy in that place?”

  My lip twitches, and I suck a breath through my teeth. “I thought I made myself clear at the time, but like I said, it seems you don’t listen too well.”

  “Man, I didn’t do shit—”

  I like playing with my prey as much as the next guy, but my patience has limits. Shifting my thumb on the handle of my knife, I press the button and release the blade. Zachary’s blood-shot eyes bug out of his head, and his hands shoot out. However, instead of grabbing for my wrist like a sane person, they slam down to cover his dick.

  Leaving the jewels to fend for themselves.

  Well, I did say the booze gave him inflated balls. I guess he thinks it makes them invincible too. Who am I to disappoint?

  Before he can open his mouth again, I jam the blade through his right nut until the tip breaks through the other side, pinning him to the seat. There’s blood everywhere, oozing both onto the floor and steadily dripping into the bowl. The piercing screams and garbled curses should worry me, but I’ll be gone before anyone can do anything about it.

  “‘If you can fuck half as well as you can throw a kick, I’m willing to hold your ass down until I break that wild streak you got.’ Sound familiar?”

  “You followed me outside?” he pants, each word broken by groans and gulps of air. “Who are you? Her fucking bodyguard?”

  I smile, enjoying this more than I should. “Like I said, I thought I’d made myself clear.”

  “Fine, I got it,” he sputters, pain overtaking his earlier confidence. “She’s your favorite. It—it won’t happen again.”

  I lean forward, the tight smile fading from my lips. “Wrong again, Zach. You’re not very good at this, are you? I don’t pay for pussy. I told you, I don’t like repeating myself.”

  An agonized cry rips from Zachary’s throat, and my pulse races at the sound of it.

  “You’re right about one thing though,” I offer, grabbing his chin and turning his eyes toward mine.

  “I am?”

  “Yeah. It won’t happen again.”

  Three seconds is all it takes to jerk the knife from his ball sack and drive it into his carotid artery. The only acknowledgement Zachary gives that his life is over is a twitch.

  One twitch and then nothing.

  Retrieving my jacket, I pull a crushed orange blossom from the inside pocket, toss it on the floor, and see myself out.

  * * *

  After a scalding hot shower, I dress in my usual black jeans, a black T-shirt, and black leather jacket. I’m not particularly obsessed with the color, it’s just practical for slipping in and out of places undetected. Plus, it matches my mood.

  Once I’ve downed a heavy breakfast, I spend the rest of the next day memorizing guard positions and distance versus timing then burn everything in a dumpster outside the hotel. Leaving evidence around is a rookie mistake, and I’m not about to jeopardize a damn thing. This job means more to me than five years of Bratva training and six years of contract work combined.

  Which is why this last hour has crawled by so slowly. I’m constantly checking to see if my watch is broken. I’m pacing the floor, bouncing on my toes, reloading my supply bag—anything I can do to pass the time and calm the storm raging inside my mind. It’s a losing battle. My thoughts wander exactly where I don’t want them to go.

  Our fingers brush as Ava takes the stem. “An orange blossom?”

  I point to the white petals. “Count them.”

  Thick red hair falls over one eye as she carefully bounces a finger off each one. “Five.”

  “Right. Five petals—one for each year we’ve been friends.”

  “Friends.�
� She repeats the word slowly, her bright grin fading. Twirling the stem in her fingers, she cautiously glances up through her long lashes. “But what if we need more petals?”

  Hooking my finger under her chin, I lift it, the tears in her eyes driving a knife through my heart. “Then I’ll get more flowers.”

  More petals. More flowers. There’s nothing I wouldn’t give her. Nothing I wouldn’t do for her. No one I wouldn’t kill for her.

  “What do I have to do to keep this one?”

  “Nothing, pchelka,” I assure her, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “Presents are free.”

  She sighs as a single tear escapes, tracing my lips. “Nothing is ever free, Niko. There’s always a price.”

  There’s always a price.

  The words echo inside my head as I exit the parking garage. Turn after turn, adrenaline surges through my veins mixed with a potent shot of justice.

  She was right. There is always a price, and I paid it.

  In another life, Ava’s father, Sergei, was my mentor. I trained by his side and hung on his every word. The man ruled without consequence. He took what he wanted, killed who he wanted, and ruined whoever got in his way.

  I spilled blood for him. I pledged my loyalty to him. Then I was led to slaughter.

  That was the day I learned blood is thicker than loyalty, and sins of omission are deadlier than any blade. Which is exactly why I have no regrets over accepting Arthur’s offer.

  Payback’s a bitter bitch.

  * * *

  Seven’s so crowded tonight that if another asshole bumps into my chair, I might be tempted to rip out his throat. And I just finished burying one body, thanks.

  I scrub my hands over my face, exhausted and groggy. Less than twenty-four hours after walking out of this place, I’m back in the same chair, facing the same stage, watching the same girls. In fact, I’ve been here for well over an hour now. However, patience is a virtue, and after eight years, I’ve become one virtuous motherfucker.

  Lifting my glass, I take a generous drink, almost downing the damn thing in one mouthful. I have no doubt it’s bootleg Beluga vodka. Probably shipped straight from Siberia in unmarked crates and unloaded on a deserted shipping dock in the middle of the night. The kind that goes down like water and sneaks up on you like a fucking ninja.