by Skyla Madi
“No, thank you.” I peer up at him, squinting. It’s much brighter out here than it was an hour ago. “I really have to get to the hospital.”
He frowns. “They think you’re sick.”
“I’m a doctor. I’m pretty sure I can think of one super brief, super quick illness that only lingers for a short period of time.”
His charcoal coloured eyes glisten with amusement. “You’re so smart. I ever tell you that?”
“No. Never.”
Christiano cups my face in his big hands and kisses me deeply, so deep I forget what my problem is…until he speaks again.
“Go home,” he whispers against my lips. “Pack your things. We’ll be there in two days to move you out.”
I pull back, horrified, and his eyes flare, daring me to open my mouth and contest him.
I swallow hard. “So you’re just going to force everything now? What happened to giving me time?”
“I am giving you time. Two days.” He pulls me in close and kisses me again, harder this time. “Someone is watching you, Cammie and I don’t know who it is. I’m doing this to keep you safe, all right?”
I slide my teeth together. My bubble has burst. I’m his bitch now and he goddamn knows it.
“See you in two days.”
Releasing me, he squeezes my hand before I descend the stairs and slip into the black town car. I close the door behind me and wave Christiano off before dropping my face into my hands. Why am I so stupid? Why am I so weak? So afraid? Mae warned me this would happen…she also slept with Christiano three years into our “relationship,” so forgive me for not putting much faith in her words.
“Rough morning?”
I jolt upright as the driver startles me. I notice immediately that this town car has a divider. It’s nothing out of the ordinary, it’s just the cars with dividers were usually only used for when Marco would travel, or if Christiano wanted privacy whenever we travelled together.
I tilt my head as a tiny electric motor whizzes and the leather board is lowered, exposing a dark, black screen I can barely see-through.
“Tony?” I ask, squinting to catch a glimpse of my driver as we pass the mansion’s gate and slip onto the road.
For the briefest moment, I convince myself that maybe Stefan Valentino is driving the car, but that thought is quickly squashed when the driver doesn’t respond. They rarely do. He pulls up the divider and that’s the end of the conversation. Typical.
Exhaling, I sit back. “Rough doesn’t even begin to cover it.”
I reach in front of me for the bottle of Scotch on the mini table sticking out of the back of the passenger’s seat. I ditch the thought of using a cup altogether, because who needs those limiting pieces of glass when you’re as mad at yourself as I am? I screw the lid off of the booze and toss the lid to the floor.
“Don’t bother taking me to the hospital,” I shout to the driver. “Drive me home so I can drink until I pass out.”
Without a word, the driver veers left and onto the M1 that leads back to my apartment. I take another large swig of Scotch and grit my teeth against the burn.
Why does the universe hate me?
Chapter Six
The Scotch wore off by late midday and I was out cold on my couch by one p.m. Not my proudest moment as a semi-functioning adult, I’ll admit, but hey, who’s perfect all the time?
Groaning, I roll off of the couch in the dark. I slept all day? Damn. I know one thing for sure and that’s that I’m never drinking Scotch again.
I haven’t skipped anything important just to drink alcohol since I was twenty years old…I guess having a gun pressed to my face by my criminal fiancé who is forcing me to move in with him is enough to set me back nine years.
What am I going to do? I can’t go there. I know what will happen once I move into that mansion? We’ll get married and he’ll make me quit my job. After that, I’ll be forced to give birth to a busload of little demons and then be expected to raise them in an incredibly dangerous and hostile environment all while I get fat and turn to wine for comfort. In the meantime, he’ll be banging strippers like he does now, and will probably end up in prison, leaving me to shoulder all of his problems, like always.
What a life. My parents will be so proud to find out I’m marrying ‘the murderous monster’ they demanded I stop seeing. They won’t come to the wedding. They swore to that five years ago when Christiano first showed me the ring. I don’t blame them. Why would they want to eat cake and watch their only daughter be depressed on a day she’s supposed to be her happiest? I wonder if Christiano will let me wear black.
I crawl along the floor until the tips of my fingers connect with a wall. I squeeze my eyes shut and let out another groan as I push myself to my feet. Christ. I feel like hell. I molest the wall with my clammy palms in search of the light switch and, when I hit it, I cower away from the brightness, shielding my face. I hope the Russo mansion’s lighting has the ‘dim’ setting because God knows I’m gonna need it. If I’m living there, I’ll stay in their wine cellar so I can drink myself to death.
Somehow, I manage to keep myself upright all the way to the bathroom—even in the shower too. When I get out, I dry my hair and slip into a red nighty. I contemplate taking Ritalin to keep me awake, but opt for Xanax instead. When I’m done, I check my phone and see that I’ve missed five calls from Christiano between midday and eight p.m. Surprisingly, he hasn’t kicked down my new door yet, so it can’t be that important. I also text the hospital’s on-call department and let them know they can call me in any time tonight if they need it—even though I feel like absolute crap. I have to make up for today. I really let the team down.
I walk around my apartment, waiting for the Xanax to kick in. I pick up a text book on genitourinary oncology and sit out on my balcony to enjoy the cool night time weather. Before I sit, I walk over to the edge and carefully watch the building opposite me. There are no silhouettes, no tiny flash lights, and I feel…alone.
Perfect.
Satisfied that I’m not being watched, I relax into my outdoor lounger and open my book. I flick through the pages and look at the diagrams for well over an hour, but to be honest, I have no idea what is going on. I can’t focus on a single word and every so often, I become distracted and my gaze flitters across the gap.
Dropping the book against my chest, I close my eyes and the inappropriate thoughts I had in the town car today float back to the front of my mind. I try to analyse them, I try to analyse myself, but how can I do that when the thought of having Stefan sexually feels so…right? Has Christiano messed me up that much that my mind thinks romanticising a man who wants to kill me is normal? It’s not.
It’s masochistic and psychotic.
Why couldn’t I have met Todd from paediatrics before Christiano? He’s a nice guy—a little bland, but he’s good with kids and doesn’t murder their parents in front of them. At this point, what more can I ask for?
∞ Stefan Valentino ∞
Moretti doesn’t make anything easy for me. Of course he gives me a contract to kill the most beautiful woman I’ve ever fucking seen. I’ve been following Cammie Connors around for weeks, learning as much as I can about her for Moretti. He’s convinced there’s more to ‘Christiano’s whore’ than meets the eye, but I don’t think there is. She’s either innocent or really good at hiding things.
Franco Moretti thinks that because the Russos have kept her around for so long she must be a big part of their plans to take their business to the United States, but I beg to differ. It took me a while to figure out, but here’s my take on Cammie Connors and her role in the Russo family. I can’t speak for the accuracy of the information I’ve received, considering I had to flirt with Cammie’s ex-friend, Mae, at a filthy bar on the south-side of Sydney, but regardless, I think I’ve been able to piece together the origin of this Russo/Connors horror-romance.
They met ten years ago at a Russo-owned restaurant in the heart of the city. There, Gabriella Russo cho
ked and Cammie saved her life. Instant attraction bloomed between Christiano and the pretty, young med student but, over time, the infatuation has broken down and Cammie can’t leave because of Christiano’s obsession with her.
Obsession being the key word here. Cammie has nothing to offer Christiano. Her family—Dad, Mom, and two older brothers—are of average wealth who live in a mining town in Western Australia. Outside of being a doctor, she has nothing.
No power. No capital. No worth.
This means one of two things: A. Christiano is so fucking in love with this woman that it doesn’t matter if she can’t bring anything to the table for the family; or, B. She’s involved in the business in some other way.
I’ve gone through her house and searched through her things a hundred times and I’ve found absolutely nothing to support the fact she’s involved with the Russos outside of patching them up when they need it. I’d even go as far to say that Dr. Cammie Connors is nothing but a good girl trapped in a bad situation.
It’s almost amusing that the fearless Christiano Russo would choose a woman who wants nothing to do with that side of his life. How can he crown his future queen when she refuses to sit at his throne?
I haven’t pleaded my case to Franco yet, but I’m convinced Cammie doesn’t know a thing about the gigantic heroin shipment the Russos are bringing in or their plans to go international. I’m also convinced this contract is for Franco Moretti to get revenge for the murder of his wife, Abelie. Christiano Russo was the one who did it, after all. Now, normally, I don’t do revenge kills. There are two sides to every story just like there are two sides to every coin…but he’s paying me a lot of money to do it—quadruple what I’m used to—and I just so happen to like money more than I like people so, heads or tails, Cammie Connors is as good as dead.
Taking my face away from the scope, I shuffle forward on my elbows and line her up again. For once, she’s relaxing outside and I don’t have to shoot through glass. I lower the scope of the gun from her head to her long, bare legs.
She has beautiful legs…
It’d be a lie if I said I hadn’t imagined them wrapped around me on a nightly basis.
Shaking my head, I force the sight back to her head and I hold my breath…
My finger twitches against the trigger, but I can’t bring myself to squeeze it. Damn it! I exhale and curse under my breath.
Betrayal.
If Moretti was here, he’d put a bullet in the back of my head for hesitating.
My phone vibrates in my pocket and I lower my gun. Shifting onto my left side, I grab my phone. Speak of the devil.
“Yes?” I answer, tilting my head against my shoulder to hold my phone against my ear.
“Have you done it?” Giorgio’s voice is dark and mysterious, irritating me instantly.
Giorgio is one of Franco’s Capos and one of the many, many pains in my ass.
“Rome wasn’t built in a day.”
“You’re not building Rome,” Giorgio mutters. “You’re killing a whore.”
I bristle for no fucking reason. Whore. They keep calling her that, but I’ve found no evidence of it.
“Does your mother know how you feel about her?”
Giorgio roars into the earpiece and I find myself grinning as he tries to articulate all of the ways he’s going to kill me. He’s creative, I’ll give him that.
My fun ends when the next voice that comes through doesn’t belong to an offended Giorgio, but an unimpressed Franco. “Is it done?”
Unease burrows in my stomach, but I don’t dare let it cross into my voice.
“You know I like to play with my food,” I tell him, lifting my gun to watch her again.
She bends one of her soft, milky legs at the knee and her red silk nighty falls a little, exposing such a delicious strip of thigh, barely an inch or two from her pretty pu—
“This is one is taking longer than usual, Valentino.”
I sigh, lowering my gun. “Have I ever let you down?”
“No.”
“Then trust me,” I say. “Cammie Connors will die tonight.”
“I hope so,” he bites out before hanging up.
I stuff my phone into my pocket. That’s the difference between regular criminals and trained professionals like me. They have no patience, whereas mine is infinite. I don’t know why Franco is pushing this. He only handed her kill order to me yesterday afternoon, and that’s weeks after he had me follow Cammie around without ‘laying a finger’ on her. I planted my signature white roses, as I usually do, to send her scrambling in a panic. Instead, she smelled them…as if they were a gift, not a warning.
I find myself lifting the gun again and watching her some more. It’s not a coincidence that she became aware that I was following her.
I made myself known on purpose.
I allowed her to catch glimpses of me.
I stood in plain sight with the sole purpose of burying myself under her skin. Why? Because she has beautiful skin and I wanted to make her shiver.
Cammie’s damp, caramel hair hangs over one shoulder and her eyes are closed. I’m surprised Christiano hasn’t shown up and manhandled her like he did the night before since she slept most of the day and ignored her ringing phone.
I slide my teeth together and lower my gun for the final time. The way he broke through her door and shoved her against the glass last night…I had my handgun pointed at his head. If I pulled the trigger, I wouldn’t have missed…
…but it’s immoral to kill a man without payment.
Besides, his name isn’t the one on the kill order.
Hers is.
Exhaling, I pull back the sleeve of my jacket and look at my BPM monitor. Shit. I push myself to my feet. My heart rate is too high. If I don’t hit her in the right spot, there’ll be too much blood splatter. I pace briefly, forward two steps, back two steps. How should I go about this?
I stop and place my hands on the railing to watch Cammie.
She waved at me the other night. It was only a cute flick of her wrist, but it made my whole night. How pathetic.
Growling, I shake my head. She has to die.
She has to.
I pull my leather gloves from my back pocket and slip them on. If I can’t shoot her then I guess I’m going to have to go in and get things done the old fashioned way.
Chapter Seven
∞ Cammie Connors ∞
I flick through the textbook for another forty minutes, not soaking up any of the information. All I can think about is how I’ve attracted men that weren’t good for me my whole life.
I wonder if I’ll have the chance to talk to Stefan before he kills me. I’d love for him to kick my high hopes of him down a notch. I bet he’s just like Christiano. I bet he’s just as vile, just as entitled as that selfish little—ring! I jump, gasping as my phone rings from somewhere in the kitchen. I toss my book to the floor and dive out of the chair. Don’t hang up! Don’t hang up! I run inside, flicking on the kitchen light as I go and leap for my phone. I check the screen. An unknown number. The hospital, most likely.
“Hello, Cammie speaking.” I glance down at the handgun on the bench.
Yeesh. I can’t have that just sitting there. I rip off a single paper towel from its roll and cover the gun. Out of sight. Out of mind.
“Doctor Connors, Hi. My name is Hayley and I’m calling from St. James’ on-call department. How are you?”
I’m down the hall and in my bedroom before she finishes her greeting. “I’m good, thank you.”
“I hate to bother you, but we could really use an extra hand in the emergency department tonight. I know there’s a note here saying you are unwell—”
“No, no. Don’t worry about that,” I say, flicking on the light and opening my wardrobe. “I’m feeling much better now.”
“Oh, that’s great to hear. Do you think you can make it here within the hour? I’ll have the six D consultation room set up for you straight away.”
I glanc
e at my phone screen. I should have missed peak traffic by now. “Within the hour should be fine.”
“Perfect. Thanks, Cammie. We’ll see you when you get here. Have a good shift.”
“Thank you, Hayley. Enjoy the rest of your night.”
“Bye.”
I toss my phone onto my bed and flick through my rack of hanging dresses. Changing my mind, I opt for a long legged navy romper instead. A lot of people don’t like the long rompers, but if you wear it with the right belt and shoes, it’s a classy look. To match, I grab my navy stethoscope and drape it around my neck. Most doctors I work with don’t care much about coordinating their outfits, but it’s the little things that make me happy.
In the bathroom, I change as quickly as I can and apply minimal makeup. I’m halfway through brushing my hair when all of the lights in my apartment shut off.
All of them.
Gasping, I drop my hairbrush and it crashes into the sink. My heart rate skyrockets, thrumming in my chest like the wings of a caged bird.
It’s him. He’s here.
Hairs prickle over my entire body and heat blooms under the surface of my skin as I lift myself onto the tips of my toes and exit the bathroom.
Holding my breath, I slowly make my way down the hall. He whistles then, gently, and the sound reverberates down the long hall and pierces my flesh. I freeze. Is this it? My end? I swallow hard, desperate to moisten my dry mouth—unh! I grunt as I’m shoved into the hallway wall. He’s quick, so quick he cradles the back of my head with his hand to stop it from smacking against the partition before clamping the same hand around my mouth.
I breathe through my nose, quick and panicked, and the leather smell of his glove overwhelms me. He cranes his neck to keep his face level with mine and, in the faint light, I can just make out his dark eyes as he surveys my face.
“Don’t scream,” he warns, and the sound of his voice sets fire to my blood.
It’s as rough and as aggressive as I imagined it to be. Just as terrifying too. Cautiously, he removes his hand from my mouth, and the smell of leather is replaced by the aroma of his expensive cologne.
