A Cruel Love: Cavalieri Della Morte

by Soto, S. M.

  Once a member of the Cavalieri Della Morte, always a member. That’s the motto we live by. Arthur and the men from the Cavalieri are as close to family as it gets. We’re as close as any assassins can be. One big, bloody, fucked up family.

  As usual, when Arthur came to me with a problem—in the form of a woman—that needed fixing, I didn’t ask any questions. Didn’t even bat a fucking eye. He knew I would do it, because I was loyal, and that need he sensed in me all those years ago? The need to kill and quench the bloodlust? That’s what I was good for, following out on hits, getting the job done cleanly with no questions asked.

  What I wasn’t banking on was opening that fucking file and seeing her face. She didn’t look like a problem, not the one he described her as. She looked like an angel, one that would cause problems for completely different reasons. I knew getting rid of her was going to be an unwanted issue the second I laid eyes on her.

  Blossom Jaymes.

  The blonde-haired, angelic woman was going to be a problem. I just wasn’t sure how I would handle her yet.

  Run Rabbit, Run Rabbit, Run, Run, Run

  As per usual, I park across the street from Blossom’s, only tonight, I’m a bit later than usual. Arthur called with another job for me. I needed to handle ol’ Marcus Briggs, a gambler in way over his head. Apparently, he owes our guys half a mill, and because the guy is such a stupid fuck, he actually thought he could make it with the two-day extension Arthur gave him. Little ol’ Marcus? Yeah, he didn’t bother putting together the funds. Instead, he fled with what he had, hoping he could outrun us. Outrun me.

  He didn’t.

  The evidence is painted in splatters along my leather jacket.

  I left New Orleans a while back; it was another one of Arthur’s ideas. He wanted his men where he needed them most, and Arthur thought I was the perfect fit to handle the bastards here. Every night it’s something new. A new job. A new kill. A new target.

  As I glance down at the time on the dash and look toward the windows, watching her, I try to remind myself why I’m here. Why I’ve been sent to kill her. She’s a loose end. She’s not so much a problem, more of a nuisance. One that needs to be snuffed out before she arouses questions and causes heads to turn in our direction.

  The issue in question? Her neighbor.

  Apparently, Blossom’s neighbor and friend, Janet, was into some shady shit. And by shady shit, I mean she was fucking half the mob and sticking her nose where it didn’t belong. That was until she dug too far, and Arthur had one of his men put an end to her snooping once and for all.

  The problem?

  Little miss Blossom Jaymes won’t let her friend’s sudden “disappearance” go without answers. Over the last two months, she’s spent at least an hour at the police station each day. She’s posted those god-awful fucking flyers around the city, like people actually care the broad is missing. Miss Jaymes is unknowingly bringing a lot of unwanted attention to herself—especially if she caught Arthur’s eye, who’s all the way in New Orleans.

  Since I’m his best and closest man to finish the job, he hired me. The fact that I’m even hesitating to kill the girl makes me want to walk straight into that fucking bakery and put a bullet in her skull. Quick, clean, and easy. Well, semi-clean.

  The only thing stopping me is that fucking awareness that travels along the back of my neck whenever I’m near her. That goddamn sensation is telling me to wait it out.

  I tell myself I’m hesitating because I have other things on my mind, much more important things. One of them being tonight is the night I’ve been waiting for. I’ve spent years planning and plotting each of the Irish’s demise. I’ve sat back and pulled strings, watching each of my pawns move across the board, letting them think they have the choice over their next move. Slowly, I’ve been plucking off members of the Irish mob, one by one. I’m of course saving the worse bastards for last. Instead of focusing on the single most important plan of my life, I turn to watch the woman through the bakery windows while I slip out of my car, unseen.

  Stray golden hairs fall in errant strands around her heart-shaped face. The thick chunks tumble out of her braid that is coming undone. She tucks the strands behind her delicate ears and continues through her nightly routine. I rest the back of my boot against the brick building behind me and settle into the dark shadow of the street, watching her. The main street is always quiet here. Her shop isn’t smack-dab in New York; she’s more of a suburb’s girl—Jericho to be exact.

  Her lips move, like she’s talking or singing to herself. The urge to slip closer, to get a better look at her face and her body is all consuming. I don’t know what the fuck possesses me to do it, but with my cig firmly pressed between my lips, I cross the darkened street, lit by flickering yellow and orange streetlamps. With my hands shoved in my jacket pockets, I push inside the shop, easily I might add. Internally I berate her for leaving her shop door unlocked so late at night.

  The sounds of a bell chiming has her spinning toward me in surprise, completely startled.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, but we’re—” She stops midsentence when her gaze collides with mine. Those rosy, plump lips drop open in an enticing little o that makes my cock stir to life. Heat rises to the apples of her cheeks, coating her face and neck in a wash of bright red. I didn’t notice it before, maybe because I’ve never been this close to her, but her eyes are…unique.

  Heterochromia.

  One eye is a bright green. The kind of green you’d associate with the forest or grass. But the other eye…that eye is a blend of cornflower blue with an intricate ring of hazel surrounding the pupil. I cock my head to the side, assessing her.

  She’s different. I can tell just by staring at her. Just by watching her fidget uncomfortably under the weight of my gaze. My original plan was to come in here and finish her, quick and easy, but now that I’m standing here, I don’t have any inclination of pulling out my Glock and ending her life. There’s no doubt in my mind that I still can, without so much as any movement from her, but what’s really fucking with me is the fact that I don’t want to.

  I don’t want to shoot the blonde woman with the eyes that are two different colors—not yet at least.

  She finally seems to snap out of whatever spell she was under because her mouth snaps shut, and she nervously tucks those invisible stray hairs behind her ears. A nervous tic.

  “C-can I help you with s-something-g?” Her stutter is violent. Her nervousness bleeds through her voice. I can’t tell if she stutters like this all the time, or if it’s just around me—a stranger standing in the middle of her bakery during closing hours. I find myself enjoying the thought of my presence doing this to her. For some reason, the blonde woman intrigues me. Her reactions. Her sweet expressions. There’s a part of me that feels like I have her all figured out—a sweet, independent woman that comes from a good, loving home. She’s probably a daddy’s girl through and through. I’d bet my left nut she indulges her parents that she loves so fucking much in weekly dinners or weekly video chats. It’s written all over her. She’s a princess. A princess with a darkness lurking deep within the depths of her oddly colored eyes.

  There’s much more than what’s on the surface. Why I care what’s beneath? That’s the bigger issue. Women don’t intrigue me or pique my interest, only when it comes to a quick fuck. Maybe a quick fuck with Blossom Jaymes is all I need.

  I eat up the distance from the door to the register, and surprise lights up her eyes. They widen, and I see the moment they latch onto the cigarette hanging out of my mouth.

  “T-there…there’s n-no smoking in h-here.”

  I smirk.

  Taking the cigarette from my mouth, I drop it to the pristine tiled floor and crush it beneath the toe of my boot. She gasps. Completely outraged. Shocked beyond belief. The sound stirs my cock.

  You know what also stirs him awake? The way she was staring at my lips just now, while I was pulling the cigarette away. She wouldn’t know how to hide her arousal e
ven if someone coached her how to do it.

  I like that. A lot.

  I rest my forearms against the glass of the display case, leaning into her personal space. She doesn’t jerk back in fear like I would expect her to. No. Instead, she stands her ground, staring at me with those wide, innocent eyes that are one of a kind.

  I look down my nose at her. She’s a tiny little thing. From my vantage point, she barely makes it over the countertop. She can’t be more than five one, five two. For some reason, the image of her tiny body fitting into my arms, those thighs wrapping around my waist as I slide into her slick heat, assaults me. It’d be so easy to fuck her. Rock her pussy over my cock. I bet she’d bend to my will perfectly.

  “I want some sweet shit,” I say, my voice sounding like gravel. Her eyes widen and those plump pink lips part, and I’m certain she thinks I’m talking about something else entirely. The corner of my lip itches to turn up into a condescending smile, but I tamp it down. Instead, I pointedly look down at her goodies displayed in the glass.

  She coughs suddenly, clearing her throat like she’s trying to regain her composure. “I’m sorry, but we’re closed.”

  I raise a single brow, challenging her.

  What’s even more surprising is when she meets that challenge head-on, crossing her arms over her well-endowed chest like that’s the end of the conversation. My eyes dart down to said chest, appraising the swell and curve of her tits. They’re more than a handful from what I can tell. I can already picture what the little buds would look like. A soft rosy pink, just like the color of her cheeks.

  I dig a hundred-dollar bill out of my wallet and slide it across the counter toward her. “Still closed for business, sweetheart?”

  Her eyes flare at my words, and when she drops her gaze down to the money, her eyes bulge and I see her chest freeze, like she’s stopped breathing.

  “No,” she squeaks and makes quick work of slipping on clear gloves from behind the counter. I look down at the display case, not really caring about any of this sugary shit. I point to the first thing I see. A chocolate whatever the fuck.

  With trembling hands, Blossom grabs the chocolate treat with tongs, and I watch the offending food shake violently as she tries to get it safely inside the bag. It doesn’t make it. Instead, it slips from her grasp and plops to the floor. The chocolate confection splatters at her feet, and when I glance at her, I see the fall of her shoulders and the quaver of her chin. Her trembling is visible and annoyingly unavoidable.

  My brows dip into a frown as I watch her try to scoop up the mess on the floor. She looks close to tears, and I don’t fucking like it. Why is she crying over a goddamn dropped pastry?

  Christ. I’m not equipped to deal with others’ emotions. Especially not that of a woman.

  And because I’m an asshole, I don’t offer my help. I opt to continue watching her, the weight of my gaze drooping her shoulders even more. She inhales a deep, stabling breath before she changes gloves and tries again. This time, the pastry makes it inside the nondescript white bag, and she slides it across the glass toward me.

  “I’m sorry.” She says it so quietly, I almost don’t hear her. But I know she said it, because when I meet her eyes, I see how sorry she really is. For dropping a pastry? Wasting my time? Being so nervous? I don’t fucking know. But it’s irritating.

  How fucking sensitive do you gotta be to cry over this shit? Would she cry over spilled milk? I wouldn’t doubt it. Seems the princess needs to grow a backbone and not let every little thing get to her.

  My lips thin and I reach back into my pocket for my wallet, pulling out another hundred-dollar bill. I slap it on top of the other that’s still sitting there and meet her gaze head-on.

  “Don’t apologize. Ever.” I glower, keeping my voice stern. “Keep the rest of it.”

  With those as my parting words, I snatch the bag off the counter and stride out of the sweet-smelling shop. I can feel her eyes on me as I walk out. I know she’s probably wondering what the fuck just happened in there. And so am I.

  I’ve never done anything so stupid. So fucking reckless when it’s come to the job. What the hell was I thinking?

  No pussy is worth this mess.

  My fingers twitch, itching to grab for my Glock, but when I glance back and I’m met with the stark intensity and swirling colors of her eyes, I can’t summon myself to curl my fingers around the cold steel.

  I grit my teeth in frustration.

  Knowing she’s still watching me, it makes it a whole hell of a lot easier to do this—I toss the bag with the treat in it on the ground and cross the street, heading straight for my Porsche.

  I don’t look back at the quaint little shop as I peel out, not even once.

  * * *

  I pull the Porsche into an empty garage, parking right next to a blacked-out Camaro. Popping the trunk of the Camaro, I grab the black duffel and lift the board inside the trunk, revealing a compartment. I sift through the firearms, taking in the extended mags, submachines, and everything else I might need for tonight. With my weapons holstered, I slip out of the nondescript garage and stick to the shadows. On the outside, it looks like an old, dilapidated automotive shop, so it doesn’t raise any questions about what goes on inside the shop.

  I turn the corner and sure enough, there they are, crowded in front of the beat-up town house, just like clockwork. I close in on them and the house but pause when I see the young girl being passed around between the men. They’re high—I see the lit blunts and the bottles of cheap liquor being passed off. This fucks up my plans. Really fucks them up. Killing a woman in the way of my plans? Sure, I don’t have an issue. Chances are, if she’s around these bastards she wants to be. But this girl? She’s young. Too fucking young, and it’s obvious she doesn’t want to be there.

  For fuck’s sake.

  I sigh and rake a hand through my hair. I’m just about to say to hell with it when I hear the sound of gravel crunching behind me. As if someone is trying to keep quiet. My face tightens, and I feign another step forward only to pivot on the soles of my feet and strike the man sneaking up behind me. But he’s expecting it. He dodges the blow, and his fist comes sailing toward my face. I duck and jab at him, landing a harsh blow to his temple. He catches me with a hit to the eye and another to the gut. Finally having had enough, I grip him by his shirt and slam him up against the wall. He fights, knocking me in the face, and we struggle.

  Getting the upper hand, I snake my arms around his neck and squeeze until I hear the distinct pop. By the time I let his body drop to the floor, I’ve already been discovered. Shots ring out and with a sigh, I yank out my Glock, firing off shots into each man who’s aiming at me. A hiss escapes my lips when a bullet grazes my arm, flaying the fuck out of my skin.

  I spot the young girl huddled in the corner and try to salvage my plan. Most of the men have already tapered off in different directions, and the ones who have stayed? They aren’t the ones I need dead. Fucking low-level pieces of shit.

  When the last body hits the ground, I glance around the quiet, ghetto neighborhood before closing the distance between me and the girl. She’s younger than I realized. Barely even a fucking teen. With a growl, I help her to her feet, raking my gaze over her, making sure she isn’t wounded.

  “You hurt?”

  She shakes her head, and I take that as answer enough. Guiding her down the rickety steps, I drag her after me, on alert. I need to get her out of here. I need to think of a brand-new plan after how epically this one went to shit.

  * * *

  Two days later, I’m parked in my usual spot, watching little Blossom Jaymes from the privacy of my car. It’s officially been two weeks since I was given her file. Two weeks of watching. Two weeks of my finger resting over the trigger, unable to pull it.

  I got here a little earlier than I usually do. I’ll never admit it out loud, but I sped through one of my kills tonight, just so I could see her, the intriguing woman I can’t help but piece together from
afar. Worst part is? I was looking forward to it. To seeing her through the glass, watching her nightly routine. I don’t waste my time berating myself. She’s just an itch I need to scratch. This fascination with her is just my basest need to fuck her.

  I’ve debated leaving my dick in pants and simply putting a bullet in her skull, but each time I raise my Glock and aim, she does something that gives me pause. She tosses her head back in the most enticing way when she laughs with her customers. When she’s concentrating on something, she nibbles on her bottom lip until it’s raw, just begging to be sucked into my mouth. She gives back even when she doesn’t have to. She helps the older couple each morning as they shop for flowers at the florist next door. She’s beguiling. And fucking annoying. Yet, I’m still here and she’s still alive.

  I would’ve come to watch her sooner, but with the aftermath of the other night, I’ve been laying low. Plotting for next time. I didn’t have time to park here and watch her; there were much more important issues that needed to be handled.

  Tonight, she’s dressed in a pair of jeans that hug her ass to perfection, which is surprising. In all the time I’ve watched her, she always wears these awful, baggy clothes. But today, she’s dressed…differently, if not a little more feminine than usual. Her lips are moving, and those goddamn hips are making little circles, like she’s dancing to her own singing. It’s fucking distracting.

  Blossom sways around the shop with her mop, using the plastic pole as a microphone every now and again. The display is cringeworthy and dare I even say…appealing. It makes me want to go in there, snatch that fucking mop out of her hands, and break it in half before bending her over her own counter and fucking the shit out of her.

  By the time I grab a cigarette and light up, she’s already finished her chore of mopping and has moved on to surface cleaning.

  I let out a knowing grunt when I see her tossing the disposable towel she wiped the counter down with in the garbage before she grabs her purse, much like she always does at 11:00 p.m. She glances out of the window, toward me, but I know she can’t see me. Each time I watch her, I bring a different vehicle to avoid anyone noticing. Chances are, she can’t see anything. And neither can anyone else.