by Lovell, LP
Even I don’t know what I’m going to do next, and neither does Arnaldo.
1
Una
I hand the guy behind the desk a fake driver’s license under the name of Sarah Jacobs. He glances at it and pops it on the photocopier before handing it back to me along with a key.
“N24,” he says, his tone bored.
“Thank you.” I hitch my bag higher on my shoulder before taking the elevator down to the parking garage. Space N24 is a sleek looking black Mercedes. I throw my bag inside before climbing in and starting the engine. I have no time to waste. In and out.
I pull out of JFK airport and head for the Brooklyn bridge. I need supplies, guns, ammunition, explosives, a bullet proof vest. I debated disappearing into Europe, but I just couldn’t stomach the idea of running away from that spineless Italian shit. Nero and Nicholai scare me infinitely more, but Arnaldo is nothing and I’m getting bored of killing his men for him. I’m about to willingly walk into the lion’s den so I can kill the pride male and mount his fucking head.
* * *
I’ve broken into Arnaldo’s house several times before and I know most of the entrances. Every hidden shadow and camera free nook. I’m going for distract and conquer. Approaching the main gate on foot, I pull my hood up higher, keeping my head dipped and my face shadowed. The second I slide my hands inside my pockets, I wrap my fingers around the two grenades, pulling them out and slipping the pins. I drop to one knee and roll them towards the gate in a smooth motion. The metal tinkers over the tarmac—the sound such an innocent prelude to the upcoming carnage. I spin around and hunch forward just as they explode. Heat hits my back and bits of debris fly past me. There’s a creaking of metal followed by a heavy bang as the gate collapses off its hinge. I’m up and running for the woods to the right-hand side of the gateway before the last bits of debris have even settled. Two guards stagger out of the small hut beside the gate and each gets a bullet in the head. I tuck my gun back into my thigh holster and duck into the woodland, following the perimeter wall to the rear of the property.
The back of the house is lit up like the fourth of July, which isn’t ideal, but the benefit is it’s lightly guarded. There is, however, a guard armed with a rifle usually on the roof. I think the explosion at the gate will be enough to distract the ground security, but assumption is death. I pull myself up onto the wide wall and pause for a second before dropping down on the other side. My feet hit the dew-covered grass with a soft whisper, and I linger in the shadow of the wall for several beats. I can’t see any movement on the roof, but that means nothing. The pool is in front of me, casting a luminescent blue light across the lawn. Palming my gun, I push away from the wall and sprint across the lawn to the nearest shrub, ducking behind it. My heart beats rapidly in my chest as adrenaline floods my veins. I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment and then move to the next perfectly trimmed small tree. I’m waiting on baited breath for the second when an unseen bullet rips through my chest, or perhaps it’ll be a head shot and I won’t know a thing about it. I hesitate for a second, brushing my palm over my stomach. If I die here today, then so does my baby, and that’s…that’s a life I’m not willing to sacrifice. This feels like the only thing that matters, perhaps the only thing I will ever do with my life that is truly worthwhile. The problem is I’m backed into a corner with no safe way out. I can’t bring this child into the world with Arnaldo on my trail because if I die, then this was all just meaningless. What happens in a couple of month’s time when I’m hindered by the pregnancy, when I can’t defend myself properly? No, I must do this right now. It’s the last chance I’m going to get. I’m Una Ivanov. I will survive, and then I’ll disappear like a ghost in the night, have this baby, and get back to doing what I do best. Killing. The child can have a loving family, a chance at normal. It’s the best I have to offer it.
With a new-found resolve, I sprint the last few meters to the house, pressing my back to the wall. The rear of the house doesn’t have many cameras. Honestly, Arnie should really up his security. I slip the backpack off my shoulders and dig inside, pulling out a few blocks of C4. I place them beside the French doors and then take a deep breath before darting in front of the glass to the other side. A thin wire spans the window to the two blocks that I now place against the opposite wall. Brash? Maybe. But the fact is, Arnaldo has an army, and I want to draw them out. I can’t get to him if he’s protected. I could have asked Sasha for help, had him hack the security system, and black out the cameras. I probably could have killed Arnaldo without my presence ever even being noticed, but that’s not what this is about. I want him to sit in his office and watch his precious house get blown to bits. I want him to witness his men die, one after the other, until he comes to the stark realization that I’m coming for him and there’s no one left to protect him. Nowhere left to run. This is about more than just killing him. This is a message: no one hunts death. He’s not the first to underestimate me. Of course, he won’t be expecting me to come here. Even if it weren’t physically suicidal, politically, it’s dodgy ground. The Italians might see it as fair. He came after me so I went after him. Or, they might make me enemy number one, in which case, the entire Italian mafia will be after me. But I have the backing of the Russians….I think. And I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t have an unnatural amount of faith in Nero. Fuck knows why. He’s a capo in the very same mafia, but he’s also their bad boy. A wild card, and, in his own words, I am his. Honestly, he’s just as likely to shoot me as side with me, but a girl can hope. And let’s be honest, I have an ace up my sleeve, or should I say, in my uterus.
I move around the corner of the building and take the simple flip phone out of my pocket. I press the number one for three seconds and then everything seems weightless. I’m well away from the blast range, but the heat washes over me, throwing me back onto the lawn unceremoniously. I roll to my feet and pull both guns from my thigh holsters as I jog toward the back of Arnaldo’s house. Bits of rubble collapse from the gaping hole which has torn the back wall clean away from the house. Through it I can see the first floor and the now burning kitchen beyond on the ground floor. Half the wall is scattered over the lawn, pieces of burning Masonite making it look more like a war zone than a Hamptons mansion. I stay close to the building, using the flames, smoke, and dust for cover. Anyone coming from the gardens will struggle to spot me. Anyone on the inside…well, they can’t shoot through the wall at my back. I shoot at anything that moves, just about making out shadows through the barrier of smoke. I point, shoot. Point, shoot. Reload. And so it goes on, until the bodies pile up just as fast as the bullet casings and finally an eerie silence permeates the air around me. The only sound is the steady crackling of fire, backed by the occasional crumbling of the building.
I wait a beat before releasing the clips from both pistols and re-loading them. I hop over the pile of brickwork and through what used to be the French doors, navigating desecrated kitchen units. My muscles ache with tension as I move into the hallway. The house is too quiet. This feels too easy. I know my feet are barely whispering over the tile floor, but to my ears it sounds painfully loud. My heart pounds in my chest, my pulse hammering against my ear drums in a mocking beat.
I pause when I hear the tiniest movement from the darkened doorway ahead of me. It’s enough. I drop to the floor in the blink of an eye and fire off two shots. There’s a cry of pain, but I barely register the result as footsteps barrel over the ground a few feet away from me. I scarcely make it to my feet before I have a gun in my face. I grab the man’s wrist, shoving his hand off to the side as I plant my gun in his gut and pull the trigger. His gun goes off twice before his arm falls limp. He’s not dead, but he makes the perfect body shield. He slumps against me and I take his weight, sliding my arms beneath his and firing at four guys who are all coming at me. Bullets hit my friend here and he grunts before he goes completely limp. I stagger under his dead weight and then hear the tell-tell clink of a grenade pin. Fuck. Something hits my
boot and I throw the body down on top of the grenade before running for the nearest doorway. I don’t make it. A hand flies out, punching me in the throat so hard I’m pretty sure he just collapsed my oesophagus. The grenade goes off, the bang loud enough to make my ears ring. Something wet hits my face and I blink, crawling around on the floor and gasping for air until my vision spots. I make out a pair of boots in my line of sight and force myself to focus, to calm. I drop the small pin blade from the cuff at my wrist and palm it conspicuously.
“Kiss of Death, my ass.” The heavily accented voice mocks. I manage to draw a small amount of air into my lungs and move. My hand flashes out and I drag the blade over the back of his ankle, severing his Achilles tendon. He goes down hard, his leg giving way beneath him. “Fucking bitch,” he curses. I crawl across the floor until I’m half on top of him. His hands go to my throat, and he grits his teeth, his dark eyes focusing on mine as he grips my neck hard. I manage a small smile before I jam the tiny blade into the side of his neck and then yank it towards me. His jugular opens like a tap and blood sprays across the tile floor. His grip on my neck loosens as he slams a palm over his own throat. But no amount of pressure will help him now. He’s dead. Climbing to my feet, I brace my hands on my knees, still unable to catch a full breath. I slide the blade back into the cuff and pick up my guns from the floor. Arnaldo’s office is on the other side of the house, and who knows how many soldiers he has between me and him.
I’m surprised when I only encounter a handful more guys. I guess Arnaldo’s running low on soldiers, seeing as I keep killing the ones he sends me. The mafia are nothing if not arrogant, sitting here in their mansions, thinking no one will dare attack them. His few remaining men go down easily enough and soon I find myself standing outside Arnie’s office. The second I open those doors; it’s going to rain bullets. He wouldn’t have left himself completely undefended. He always has at least two men with him at all times, and given the situation, I’d expect more. I fix my gaze on the small camera just above the door. I know he can see me.
Narrowing my eyes, I take two more grenades from my rucksack and lift them to my face, placing my lips against the cool metal as I stare at the camera. A red lipstick mark remains on the metal. My calling card. Fitting, really, in my potentially last blaze of glory. Smiling, I drop the grenades, allowing them to roll towards the doors. I spin away, ducking behind one of the thick marble pillars that adorns his hideously ostentatious hallway. The second they detonate, I’m moving towards the mangled office doorway, guns drawn and bullets flying. A bullet tears through my thigh and I grit my teeth, ducking beside the doorway.
Glancing down, I curse under my breath at the blood running down my leg, soaking my pants. “Come now, Arnie. That’s no way to treat your guests,” I call.
“You are an enemy at the gates, Bacio Della Morte. You may be revered as a killer, but you will die like a dog.”
I laugh. “Maybe, but I sure fucked up your shit on my way out.” I back away from the doorway, limping as I go.
“Bricks and mortar…” I take a running start, pain lancing up my leg as I do. When I’m a couple of feet away from the doorway, I drop to my knees. The blood pouring from my leg helps me to slide across the marble floor. I take two shots, before coming to a stop on the other side of the door. A second later and I hear the muted thud of bodies hitting the floor. Two. Two bodies. I don’t know how many there are though. They could be hiding behind the very walls I now take shelter against.
“Was that bricks and mortar?” I ask through gritted teeth. Resting my back against the wall, I drop to a crouch, pressing my palm against the hole in my leg. I reach beneath my hoody and grab the bottom of my tank top, tearing a thick strip of material away. I tie it just above the bullet wound as tight as I can get it. Closing my eyes, I rest my head back against the wall, and take a deep breath. I know I’m out, but I release the clip on each gun, checking them, just in case I miscounted. I haven’t. Fuck. I drop one gun on the floor, keeping a hold of the other. It may be empty, but he doesn’t know that. I take the dagger from my thigh holster and palm that in my other hand as I stand. I step into the doorway of the office without hesitation, because perception is everything. I’ve watched Nero walk into a room full of armed men and completely unnerve them simply because he’s so confident, so utterly in control of everything around him. I try to channel his sense of power and entitlement. Arnaldo sits behind his desk, seemingly alone aside from the two dead guards either side of his desk. With a grimace, he lifts his gun and I throw mine at him. It clocks him square in the forehead, leaving him dazed enough that I cross the space to his desk and ram my knife through his wrist, pinning it to the wood. He screams like the little bitch that he is, his fingers going slack around his weapon as his nerves are severed. I pick up the gun and he watches me, his expression masked in pain, sweat dotting his brow. I slide onto the desk in front of him and grab a handful of his greying hair.
“You came after me, Arnie,” I tut.
“You aligned with him.” He spits the words. Blood spreads over the desk, trickling over the edge of the wood and hitting the floor in a steady patter.
I shrug. “I sell to the highest bidder. He paid more.” He paid me with something money can’t buy. My sister.
“You’re going to die. Your Russian sugar daddy can’t help you this time,” he growls, wrapping his fingers around the hilt of my knife. I’m impressed when he wrenches it free from his arm and makes a sloppy dive at me. I grab his wrist and thrust my palm into the centre of his forearm, smiling when I hear the satisfying crack of his bone followed by an agonized cry of pain. The knife falls to the desk and he clutches his arm which is now bent at an odd angle. Men like Arnaldo are not to be taken lightly, but the fact is, they are power players, men who sit behind desks calling shots and rarely killing themselves. When the occasion calls for it, they pull a trigger. He’s no match for me and he knows it. I see the defeat in his eyes. The resolve. Gripping a handful of his hair, I wrench his head back and force him to look at me.
I smile, lifting my knife to his throat. And then I look him right in the eye as I drag my blade across his throat. His eyes go wide and a gurgled choking sound slips past his lips. Blood spills out, gushing down his body like a waterfall.
I grip his chin and his fading eyes meet mine. “I don’t need help. I’m the kiss of death.” I press my lips to his forehead, and when I pull away, that futile last breath leaves his body in a hiss.
I usually feel a small thrill when I kill a target, this time though, I truly feel nothing. Arnaldo was not a mark. He was not a pay cheque. He was not the enemy of some faceless client. He made himself my enemy. This was personal. This is what happens when you seek out death. She comes for you. And now, I leave. I just killed the under-boss of the Italian mafia, and there are consequences to that. Even death must know when to run.
2
Nero
Rage. It’s my constant companion, driving me to the edge of sanity with each passing day. And Una Ivanov is the fucking cause. I know she can look after herself and she sure as shit doesn’t need my protection, but the price on her head is high. High enough to even the odds against her dramatically. I’m out of the loop because Arnaldo has decided that she’s a traitor. He knows I was working with her, though, of course, he can’t possibly prove it. I just have to bide my time where he’s concerned. If I know anything about Una—the more he backs her into a corner, the worse he’s making it for himself. It seems he’s forgotten who he’s dealing with, and if she doesn’t remind him of it, then Nicholai Ivanov damn well will. The crazy Russian won’t take it well when he hears his favorite pet is being hunted like a dog.
Nothing is playing out the way I planned. Not at all. Because I never factored in the possibility of giving a shit about Una. She was supposed to be by pawn and instead, she became my queen. My vicious little queen…until she ran from me. Since the very first time I saw her, I’ve wanted her, craved her even, but this is different. What is
that saying? You don’t know what you have until it’s gone? Well, I couldn’t possibly have predicted just how much she had gotten under my skin until she left. I should let her go. She’s a weakness I don’t need. Not to mention the amount of heat that’s on her, but every time I think about walking away, about the possibility of her being killed, or worse, surviving…moving on, fucking someone else – I can’t. She can’t. She’s fucking mine and no one else touches her but me.
“Nero,” I turn from my spot at the window and face Gio who’s standing in the doorway to my temporary office in the London apartment.
“Have you found her?” I ask.
Frowning, he folds his arms over his chest. “Not exactly.”
* * *
It looks like something out of a horror film. Five bodies and what looks like the blood of ten. The carpets. The walls. The couch…everything is crimson. I move through the apartment, my eyes skimming over the few possessions Una left behind. There’s nothing personal, nothing that would give her away as ever having been here—except the blood bath in the living room. The en suite bathroom has a couple of bottles of shampoo, a razor…I pick up the shampoo and open the lid, inhaling. Vanilla. The smell instantly reminds me of her, though it’s missing the lacing of gun oil that always seems to cling to her. I leave the bathroom and pause in the bedroom doorway, glancing down at the dead man sprawled haphazardly just inside the room. The hilt of a knife protrudes from his forehead, buried so deep, there’s barely any blood. I bend down and yank the knife out of his forehead. The sound of crunching bone reverberates around the room. I inspect the simple yet delicate dagger, smiling as I imagine Arnaldo’s kill team creeping up on Una in the dark only to find themselves the victims of a nightmare.