by LP Lovell
The bright lights of the city below cast a faint glow throughout the room that throw shadows across the pale grey carpet. My pulse is still pounding, and my skin feels sticky with sweat, so I get up and silently move to the bathroom on the far side of the room. Without turning the lights on, I start the shower and strip before stepping under the hot water. Letting the darkness and water wrap around me, soothing the tension in my body. I should hate the dark, but I love it. The dark allows us to just be, to hide all the flawed, unsightly parts of ourselves. With the light comes the truth, the reality of our shitty existence. When I’m done, I step out onto the mat and wrap one of the thick towels around me.
After a nightmare I’m always left wide awake and unable to sleep, so I leave the bathroom and venture out into the apartment in the hopes of finding a laptop or data device of some description. To my surprise, I find all my stuff resting against one of the couches in the living room. George hops up from his bed in the corner, while Zeus studiously ignores me. Slinging the black duffel bag over my shoulder, I head back to my room, but pause when I hear a low whine behind me. George stands, watching me go with the most heartbroken expression on his face. How a supposed guard dog can be as cute as any lap dog I don’t know, but he is.
“Come on,” I whisper. He keeps his head low as he walks over to me and then follows me up the stairs, looking sheepish the entire time. “You’re such a baby.” I laugh.
Returning to bed, George curls up at the end while I dig around in the duffel bag and find a laptop at the bottom. I have a couple of locations in the city just like the storage locker in Brooklyn, as well as others around the world. Guns, passports, money, a laptop and a change of clothes to hand are always needed. You never know when a job might go wrong, and of course there’s the rogue scenario. Pissing off the wrong people might result in someone putting a price on my head. The second that happens I have to disappear and run for Russia, and it’s not like I can just pop home and pack a bag before I do it. This life is one where you’re constantly looking over your shoulder, but it’s the only one I know.
Sometimes, I’m sent after targets who seem to straddle both worlds. Cartel bosses who have a wife and kids that they kiss goodbye every morning before they step outside and kill people, peddle drugs and sell whores. I know better than anyone how that always ends, with widows and orphans. But when I see them playing at having a normal life, it confounds me. I don’t understand the motivation to be normal, to have the standard…the human compulsion to love and be loved is such a crippling weakness, and yet, even the worst of humanity still want such a simple thing above all else. No, I can’t do normal. I like the rush, the thrill of not knowing whether today might be my last. It makes each kill that much better. Every time I go after a hit, it’s kill or be killed, and every time I succeed, each time I win, it makes my grey world a little brighter. My entire life is a game of survival that I am determined to conquer.
Removing the brand new laptop from the bag, I open it. In the side pocket of the duffel is a memory stick. There’s nothing on it, of course, all the information I have on the many crime organisations I work with is on my person at all times. I grab my necklace, a simple silver leaf, about half an inch long. It looks inconspicuous enough, but it’s actually a locket of sorts. Inside is a tiny memory card, the kind that goes in a cell phone. I pop it into a slot on the memory stick and insert it into the USB drive. Years of information starts downloading onto the computer drive.
Four names. Four hits. I work, pouring over information until the sun starts to bleed across the grey morning sky. I learn my targets, their connections.
Finnegan O’Hara is Irish and honestly, has a knack for pissing off a lot of people. He’s IRA, high up in the Irish mob in Europe and has a huge amount of influence in all forms of trafficking in and out of Europe. He’s bought off any port that can be bought and basically has the monopoly on imports and exports. If the Italians want to run drugs through Ireland, which is the easiest export point on the continent, then they have to go through Finnegan. The Italians, the Armenians, the Russians…everyone has an issue with him, because he’s an arrogant prick who seems to have a complete disregard for the common courtesies of the business. Someone was bound to gun for him eventually. Nero seems less restrained than a lot of the mafia that I usually deal with. It doesn’t surprise me that he’s taking him out.
The other three: Marco Fiore, Bernardo Caro and Gabrielle Lama are all Italian. Marco is an associate, a businessman. Bernarndo is the other New York capo and Gabrielle is his right-hand. Bernardo was a well-known friend of Lorenzo’s and has rallied against Nero. That explains the big red cross on his back.
Marco Fiore has me confused though. He was loyal to Leonardo, loyal to the family. I’m not aware of any feuds between Nero and this guy, but then I didn’t even know who Nero was until I met him. Even now, I’m not sure how he fits into all this. Lorenzo and Nero were both the sons of Matteo and Viola Santos. Lorenzo took the name and yet Nero has his mother’s maiden name, Verdi, a powerful family in their own right, but with no real weight here in America. Nero had his brother killed, which is about as dysfunctional as it gets. So is it simply a family feud? If so, it’s escalated pretty far, and Arnaldo is aiding it, so what’s his play?
Fuck, this is enough to give me a headache. Why do I even care? I never ask for a reason behind a job. Really, these are hits like any other, except that the payment is my long-lost sister, and my employer insists on me living with him. And of course, there’s the fact that I’m quite literally laying my head on a chopping block, but again, do the reasons matter? The only reason I’m doing this is to get to Anna. It matters though, because it’s right there, like an alarm going off in my mind. I rely on my instincts, and my instincts are telling me that Nero is not simply the stung son of a capo, out for revenge. There’s more to this. What am I not seeing?
I’ve been here five days, and honestly, I’ve barely seen Nero. He remains in his office most of the time, while I spend all my time researching names, locations, contacts. A job like this takes a long time to put into play, and I’m still not sure how I’m going to pull it off. George sits at my feet, waiting for the crusts off my toast while I sit at the breakfast bar. I absentmindedly hand him one while skimming over the floor plans for one of Bernardo’s nightclubs. The sun is just starting to rise and it paints the kitchen in hues of pink and orange. I assume Nero isn’t awake until I hear a faint rhythmical beat coming from somewhere in the apartment. Frowning, I get up and follow the sound, opening a door that is right next to the elevator. It’s a gym, with a treadmill, heavy bag, various weights and machinery. It must be one of the biggest rooms in his apartment, and this place isn’t exactly small.
Leaning against the doorframe, I watch as his feet pound the treadmill. I can see his side profile from where I’m standing, but he doesn’t seem to notice me. He’s topless, his tracksuit pants riding low enough on his hips that I can make out the line of muscle that sweeps down his side before meeting the V at the front. Every single muscle flexes and moves beneath his tanned skin as he runs. Sweat glistens over every inch of him, dotting along the back of his neck before falling between his shoulder blades. I grew up training with soldiers, mostly men. I see the male form as an asset. Muscles equate to strength, nothing more. But as I watch Nero, I note the graceful way he moves, the way each line and plane of his body blends into the next. He’s beautiful. There really is no other word. His body is crafted into a weapon, a destructive force of nature. And just as the perfect blade takes time to make, to balance exactly, that body is the product of dedication and sweat. He slams his hand over the stop button and the treadmill slows rapidly beneath him until he comes to a halt.
“You’re staring,” he says without looking at me. He swipes a towel over his face and turns to face me, his chest heaving. “That’s never good where you’re concerned.”
“I’m not planning on killing you, yet.” I step inside the room and lean against the wall.
>
He smirks as he steps off the treadmill and approaches. For the first time I see the tattoos on his body, script across his chest reads an Italian proverb, which equates to something along the lines of karma is a bitch. His right arm is covered to the elbow in an intricate sleeve, but I can’t make out the details without staring. He gets entirely too close as he reaches for his water bottle on the shelf right next to me. I flatten myself against the wall, but still his scent wraps around me. Sweat mixes with his body wash and he’s so close to me I could literally move my hand an inch and touch him. His damp hair falls over his forehead messily as he looks down at me.
“Or maybe you just like looking.” Lifting the water bottle, he places it to his lips and drinks, staring at me with an amused look in his eyes. A drop of sweat rolls down his throat slowly, and I can’t help but track its path down his chest. Something foreign settles in my gut and I clench my jaw. He makes me uncomfortable and yet, I want to touch him. I want to know if he feels as hard and implacable as he looks. He knows it though, because he brushes a hand over my waist, causing me to automatically tense, eliciting a smile from him. He thinks he’s simply making me uncomfortable, but it’s so much more than that.
I grip his wrist, pushing him away. “Don’t.” I warn.
His eyes pinch at the corner and he leans in until his lips are at my ear. “Or what?” he dares on a dark whisper.
Placing my hand on his stomach, I dig my nails into his skin hard enough to push him back a couple of inches. His eyes meet mine, my breath hitching as his abs tense and roll beneath my fingertips.
No one could ever argue that Nicholai isn’t a master in training his assassins. He used to tell me that some guy had trained a dog, taught it to salivate on command through simple conditioning. He would ring a bell every time he fed the dog, so the dog associated the bell with food. I was trained much the same way, conditioned into having set responses. We were deprived of human touch, of even the slightest form of affection. The only time we touched another person was during a fight, under raining fists rather than soft caresses. On the rare occasion we did receive some form of contact outside of the ring it was deliberately coupled with pain, usually an electric shock. Add into the equation a lethal set of fighting skills, and the nature of human survival, and you create a reflex killer. I will admit that reflex has saved my arse more than once; however, as I got older, things changed. Much of my job involves seduction, which I was also trained in. The result is a constant battle, the instinctual versus the necessary. My instinct is to tear Nero’s arm from his body, but…I don’t want to.
“I’m serious, Nero.”
“And yet, you’re touching me.” He counters, his eyes dropping to my hand splayed across his stomach. He makes no move to remove my hand or step away from it, he simply waits. His skin is so warm and smooth, and I realize that I can’t remember the last time I touched another human being voluntarily, not to aid a job, and not to kill them. I don’t know what it is about him. He’s not a soldier, not a brother in arms, or a boy I grew up with. He’s not really a client, and he’s certainly not a hit. He is… an anomaly, an exception, a strange ally. He confuses me whilst leaving me in awe of his savagery. He leans in closer and my nails dig into his skin. His powerful heartbeat pounds through his body, ricocheting up my arm. I blink and tear my hand away from him. Huffing a small laugh, he steps back very deliberately before leaving the gym.
I stand there, confused and extremely uneasy. Weakness. This is what weakness feels like. I think he likes it. He doesn’t fear me, so he wants to challenge me, wants to see me snap. Well, this living situation is going to get awkward real fast. When I go back into the living area he’s not there, and I guess he’s in the shower. When he appears again he’s fully dressed in an immaculate dark grey suit with a white shirt and silver grey tie.
“I have some business to handle, I’ll be back later,” he says briefly, whistling at the dogs who both leap up to follow him as he walks to the elevator.
“What? You’ll be back later? Are you serious?”
He pauses and spins back around to face me, a bored expression on his face. “You’re reminding me why I don’t let women stay with me.”
Throwing my head back on a laugh, I grab one of his kitchen knives and launch it at him. It nicks his jacket before hitting the steel elevator door and clattering to the floor. He cocks a brow and lifts his arm, showcasing the neat slice through the expensive material.
“Your fucking aim is shit,” he growls, stalking towards me.
I smile. “It is. I was aiming for your chest.” I shrug. “Your kitchen knives aren’t very well balanced. But, now I have your attention, I think we need to rediscuss our terms.” He ignores me and walks straight past, heading up the stairs. I follow. “You see, you’re so quick with your threats – if I leave you’ll go to Nicholai. All that shit.” He walks into his bedroom, ducking into the walk-in closet. Again, I follow. “But if you go to Nicholai, he’ll find Anna himself, and you’ll have no leverage,” I drawl, as if the entire notion is boring to me. At least then I could kill him. I stand in the doorway of the closet, watching him strip out of the damaged jacket and take an identical one off a hangar. “So…”
“So nothing,” he snaps, the bite in his voice making me straighten and take note. He rushes me, storming the space between us and grabbing my jaw, forcing my head to the side until his lips are against my ear.
A fissure of fear settles in my chest, and I smile, feeling my heart hammer in my chest. I feel. Hot, angry breaths blow over my neck, and I shiver.
“Don’t play games with me, Una. Don’t try to negotiate or back me into a corner.” His voice is deathly calm. “We both know that you want your sister a damn sight more than I actually need you. But feel free to test me on it and see what happens.” He releases me, shoving my face away from him and storming out of the room.
I stay there, feeling the rush of adrenaline in my system, revelling in the thrill of him. He scares me, and I like it.
12
Una
Tommy rocks up a few minutes after Nero leaves. Strolling into the kitchen with his hands in his pockets, whistling to himself. His chestnut hair is messy and although he’s wearing a suit – of course – the jacket is unbuttoned and the buttons of his shirt are open to the middle of his chest. I can also smell the whisky on him from here. Sitting at the breakfast bar with my laptop in front of me, I try to form a plan to take out Marco Fiore. Nero left me a file this morning at least. Like homework. Great.
"Apparently, you and I have a hot date." He winks, hopping up on a stool across from me.
"So you're babysitting me," I say without sparing him a glance.
He laughs, cocking his head to the side as he does. "Well, babysitting implies that you need supervision. I'd go more with watch duty."
I sigh. "Fine. Then you can be of use. I need you to tell me everything you know about Silk."
His eyebrows pinch together. "Marco's place?"
"Yes."
He shakes his head. "It's a strip joint. He's there every Friday and Saturday."
Today's Wednesday. "Perfect."
"No, no, no." He shakes his head again and braces his elbows on the breakfast island as he leans forward. "You won't get him there."
Huh. So, Tommy is well aware of exactly why I'm here.
I smirk. "You do know who I am?" He stares blankly back at me. "I can get to anyone, anywhere." He shrugs and leans back in his chair. Returning my focus to my laptop screen, I study the street view outside Silk. "What about his strippers?"
"They're tight. Mostly Italian girls. It's not impossible but you might fail."
"Which fucks me for another route." I interrupt. I see him nod in my peripheral. "Security?"
He takes a cigarette packet from the inside pocket of his suit jacket. "Marco's a shady fucker. Keeps armed guys with him at all times." He takes a cigarette out and presses it between his lips as a raspy laugh works its way up his throat. "Mind you, I'
d be shady if I’d made an enemy of Nero," he mumbles as he holds the lighter up, cupping the flame.
"So he did do something to piss Nero off." I can't help but probe, even though every professional facet of me is screaming not to.
Tommy exhales a long stream of smoke, a small smile touching his lips. When his eyes meet mine, I know that he knows I'm pushing. He knows that I have no idea why I'm hunting Marco. And yet...
"He supported Lorenzo." He shrugs. "He's not a fan of Nero and well, I love Nero like a brother but he has a nasty fucking temper on him."
"So I see." Don’t ask. “How do you know Nero?” Brilliant.
He leans back in his chair, eyeing me warily. “We grew up together.”
“You’re not Italian.” For a second I think I’ve struck a nerve but then he simply shrugs.
“Half Italian, half Irish.”
“That’s unfortunate lineage,” I say, keeping my eyes on the screen in front of me. The Italians and the Irish hate each other.
He laughs. “Yeah, I was the half-breed and Nero was the bastard.”
“A bastard?” Jesus, I just can’t stop.
He takes a long inhale on the cigarette. “So they say. Anyway, we were the outcasts, so we banded together, I guess.”
“Well, Italians are all about their bloodlines,” I mumble.