by LP Lovell
“The cleaners called it in,” Gio says, his expression pinched as he watches me. We’ve paid off every possible underground contact we could find, and the cleaners are a good place to start. They’re impartial, a third party who will clean up anything as long as they get paid. “She didn’t call them though,” he says, “the Russians did.”
My eyes snap to his and I frown. “They’re supporting her?”
He shrugs. “I guess she isn’t leaving them with much choice. They don’t want this kind of heat.” He waves his hand towards the blood bath in the living room. That’s true, but this really was inevitable. Arnaldo keeps sending men after her like she’s a bleeding animal with a damn prize hide. Sooner or later she was going to make a mess she couldn’t clean up alone. And here we are.
“No, this is more than that,” I say. “These bodies are at least twenty-four hours old. They’re actively helping her. They waited to call it in. They gave her a chance to get clear.” I know Nicholai is fond of her, but to help her now would put himself in the firing line. The Russian is crazy, but enough to risk causing a war?
Gio nods. “This isn’t her style either. She’s clean efficient. This…” he drifts off.
“She’s sending a message,” I murmur, a smile pulling at my lips.
“Message received,” he says under his breath. His phone pings in his hand and he glances down at the screen, his face draining of colour.
“What is it?” I ask.
He turns the screen towards me, showing me the image of Arnaldo’s severed head sat on his desk, a red lipstick mark on his waxy forehead. A slow smile pulls at my lips. She did it. Months of planning. Her, her sister…all part of the bigger plan. All part of this. But then he put a hit on her and she ran. I didn’t want her to run, but I wanted to protect her from the shit-storm I put her in. I never for a second expected her to walk into Arnaldo’s house and take him out for fuck’s sake. “She got away?”
“They haven’t caught her if that’s what you mean. She killed eighteen of his men,” he says and I have to laugh.
“We just lost track of her, and she’s probably become even more wanted. Why the hell are you smiling?”
We did lose her, for now, but I will find her. “Because she’s fucking perfect.”
I’m about to get everything I’ve ever wanted, except her. I must find her because without her, all the power in the world wouldn’t be enough to fill the void left by my vicious little butterfly.
I pull the car up next to a stack of containers at the edge of the shipping yard. Gio is practically bristling with tension beside me. “I don’t like this,” he murmurs. “I don’t fucking trust Russians.”
“Una’s Russian.”
“Exactly.”
I’ll admit that I usually wouldn’t agree to this meeting. If it were for anyone but Una, I wouldn’t be here. One call to my phone, a heavily accented voice simply stating a time and place. Nothing more. The only reason I’m here is because that accent was Russian. The only common factor between me and the Russians is Una.
I cut the engine and, for a second, neither of us move. I stare through the windshield at the tall, lean guy resting against the hood of a Jaguar sports car. His white-blond hair, the same shade as Una’s, catches the moonlight. I swear they could be siblings. Sharp green eyes stare unflinchingly back at us as he brings a cigarette to his mouth and inhales, making the end glow a bright crimson.
I open the door and get out, feeling the weight of my gun strapped to my chest beneath my jacket. The Russian tosses his cigarette to the side and walks towards me. He moves like a predator and a dancer wrapped into one, calculated and lethal. He moves like Una. He’s one of the fucking Elite. My hand instantly goes for my gun. His head tilts to the side as he tracks the movement like a wolf watching a rabbit with complete indifference and the knowledge that it could end the lesser creature in an instant. Of course, the Elite feel no fear, even when they should. “Don’t do that,” he says in heavily accented Italian.
I grip the gun and drop my arm at my side, my index finger hovering over the trigger. “Who are you?”
He sighs and folds his arms over his chest. “Sasha, a friend of Una’s.”
“Forgive us if we aren’t too keen on Una’s brand of friends,” Gio says, coming to stand beside me.
“She is more like my sister.” His pale blond eyebrows pull together as his eyes shift from Gio to me. It’s the closest to an expression I’ve seen from him. “So you are the Italian that lead her to destruction,” he says accusingly.
“Why are you here?” I ask, quickly running out of patience.
“I do not like you,” he narrows his eyes, “but she is dangerous right now. Nineteen Italians are too many. She is the best I have ever seen, but even the best cannot stand against the entire Italian mafia.” He sighs. “And I can only help her so much before Nicholai finds out.”
“It was you,” Gio says. “You called in the cleaners for her.”
Sasha nods. “I will do anything for her, but I cannot betray Nicholai, and he wants her back. She killed Arnaldo Boticelli. She went too far. She could maybe run from Nicholai, but not with the Italians hunting her. I cannot protect her anymore.” He swipes a hand over his face. “But you can.”
I take a steadying breath. “She ran from me. What makes you think I can help her?”
He moves closer until he’s standing directly in front of me, his eyes boring into mine. “We both know that you are not what you seem, Nero Verdi. What is it they say? With great power comes great responsibility.” There’s a pause. “I do not know whether you are friend or enemy,” he looks me up and down, “but she must have trusted you.”
I smirk. “She didn’t trust me.”
His expression remains impassive. “She needs help.” Yeah, no shit. That ship sailed a long time ago. “Get her, and once you have her, protect her from both your own people and mine. Arnaldo is dead, but revenge is inevitable. Nicholai wants her back, and you have no idea the lengths he will go to for her.”
“What will he do to her?” She went completely rogue, helped me do something she never should have done for a sister she’s supposed to be too cold to care about.
His eyes go distance for a second. “The human mind is pliant. He can make her forget. He can fix her.”
“Fix her?” My fists clench and heat simmers just below my skin.
He looks at me for a moment and nods once before turning and walking away. He yanks his car door open, pausing. “I can track her burner phone. I will send you co-ordinates for her destination.”
“Wait. Why are you helping her? You’re betraying Nicholai for her.”
His bright green eyes lock with mine. “Because I love her.” And then he slides into the car and closes the door behind him. The engine snarls before the wheel spin away.
3
Una
Paris. The city has an atmosphere unlike any other. The streets are a bustle of activity yet somehow everything always feels so leisurely. I walk along the street, clinging as close to the buildings as possible. The side streets are less populated, but I’m always aware, always alert. I reach the wooden, shuttered door that leads into a townhouse and push it open. The old black and white tiles of the hallway give way to the wooden stairway. I climb the stairs to the first-floor apartment and unlock the door. I was wandering the city a couple of days ago, trying to lay low when I spotted a sign in the window advertising this apartment. I had planned to just stay in Paris for a couple of days before taking a Ferry back to England. A brief trip to throw anyone who might be following me off my trail. But the second Annaliese, the landlady, showed me inside the apartment, I felt a sense of peace I haven’t felt in years. It’s completely unsuitable. There’s only one stairwell, and because it used to be a house there’s not even a fire escape from the first floor, but I took it anyway. I guess I just wanted to stop running for a second, hole up and take a breath. Paris is as good a city as any to hide in.
I push the do
or open and drop the small bag of groceries on the kitchen side. The apartment is a small one bedroom, but the windows stretch from the floor to the ceiling and, in a way, it reminds me of Nero’s New York apartment. Afternoon sun spills through the long see through curtains, casting shadows across the wooden floorboards.
I like it here. I could stay here until this baby is born, and he or she can grow up in Paris, safe from all the dangers of my world. I go to the bathroom and take some supplies from the medicine cabinet. I sit down placing the dressings and bandages on the coffee table in front of me. My pocket buzzes and I take out my burner phone, seeing a blank text from Sasha. It’s request for a check in. I send him a quick message.
I’m going off grid. I’ll be in touch when I can.
I need to remove myself from everything and everyone because even friends can be enemies. I do not doubt that when it comes down to it, Sasha will side with Nicholai. And I’m glad. His loyalty to me is dangerous for him. I shove my jeans down and pull away the dressing that’s stuck to my thigh. My haphazard stitching wouldn’t be amiss in a Frankenstein film. I did the best with what I had at the time: a pocket sewing kit bought at the local corner shop. It’s for sewing on buttons, not closing a bullet hole. The flesh around the stitches is swollen and red, and it hurts like a bitch. I think it’s infected, but I can’t get any help with it. Any hospital will report a dodgy-looking bullet wound, and all the doctors I’d usually call for this sort of thing are affiliated either to Nicholai or someone else. Granted, the five-million-dollar price tag should have disappeared with Arnaldo—seeing as he’s the one who put it there—but I’m worth something to someone. I can’t trust a doctor. I unscrew the lid from the bottle of vodka and grit my teeth as I pour it over the wound. It stings and I have to breathe through my nose. I think back a few weeks to Nero and the bullet hole I put in his shoulder. I laced it with gun powder, and I wish I could do the same, but that shit is hard enough to do to someone else, let alone yourself. My mind drifts to him. I wonder what he’s doing right now. Is he looking for me? Does he now want me dead? Is he a friend or enemy? Would he kill me now that I killed his boss? I don’t think so, but I could be wrong. Nero plays by his own set of rules. Mafia is supposed to be about family and loyalty, but Nero had his own brother killed. No, something tells me he won’t feel an ounce of remorse for Arnaldo’s death. But he is a power player, and sometimes in order to gain power, loyalties must be feigned. After all, his power comes from the mafia and it can be taken away just as easily. I promised him I would go back to him, but now I don’t know that I can keep that promise. In our world sentiments are cheap, emotions pointless, and loyalties so very easily bought. One act, one moment, one death, and all the pieces on the board have moved. Have they moved so much that Nero and I are no longer side by side, but across the board from each other?
I wake up and every one of my senses are instantly on high alert. Someone is in the apartment. I sit bolt upright and grab the gun from beneath my pillow, flicking the safety off. Climbing out of bed, I pause when I hear the featherlight creak of a floorboard right outside my bedroom door. Fuck. I cross the room on tiptoes, ducking behind the door, and here I wait.
My hand tightens around the gun and my finger hovers over the trigger. Ready. Waiting. I press my shoulder blades against the cool wall behind me and my mind hones in, my ears picking up on every tiny sound in the house. It must be the Italians. Or worse, Nicholai. If he gets me back, he’ll never let me out of that facility, and this baby…I’d rather die.
The light whisper of feet over floorboards is the only sound, and to any normal person it would go completely unnoticed. If it’s Nicholai, then he’ll know that the kicking in of the door was enough to sign their death warrant. No, it must be Italians thinking that they’re hunting a little girl. I glance at my bedside table, at the set of car keys that sit there. My escape plan, the little beige Fiat 500 sitting in the alleyway at the back of the building.
The loose floorboard outside my bedroom door squeaks again and I hold my breath. Every muscle in my body coils tight as adrenaline floods my veins. There was a time, not so long ago, when I would simply have walked out there and killed everyone, but that was back when I was the hunter, nowadays, I’m the hunted. There’s another step. The door creaks open, the hinges squealing in protest.
The door hides me from view and I push back even harder against the wall, wishing I could crawl inside it. The street light outside the window casts a dim haze through the room, silhouetting the arm holding out a gun pointed at my empty bed.
I lower my gun, slip the small blade from the cuff at my wrist and pinch it between my thumb and finger like a giant needle. This is the problem with hiding in a city, gun fights draw attention. I creep up behind him, silent as a ghost. My hand slams over his mouth at the same time as I jam the blade into his throat with the other. This little blade has gotten me out of more situations than any gun. It’s not big enough to stab someone in the gut or chest, but it’s lethally sharp and perfect for opening a jugular. He takes me by surprise and throws me to the ground as he falls to his knees. My gun slips from my grip, sliding a couple of feet away from me. His large frame towers over me. Blood streams from his neck and he drop onto the floor. Dark eyes. Dark hair. Olive skin. Definitely Italian. I crawl away from him across the carpet, reaching for my weapon while waiting for the bang signalling my end to echo in my ears. But It never comes. All I hear are the choked last breaths of the man before he hits the floor with a thud. I hear the muffled sound of voices just down the hall. Fuck.
I pick up the gun and car keys and bolt for the window. The wood screeches against the frame and the glass shudders as I yank it up. I expect half the neighbourhood heard that including my intruders. Footsteps pound down the hall and I can only hope that the darkness will give me the precious seconds I need to escape. Hoisting my leg over the window, I stare down at the ground two storeys below. A few months back I would have jumped without a second thought, but now—the light flicks on and I panic, throwing my other leg through the gap and balancing precariously on the window ledge.
“Morte.” I freeze, hesitating at the sound of that deep voice. “Don’t do it,” he commands. That trace of an accent makes the softly spoken words sound harsh. I shouldn’t look at him, I should just jump. But I do. I glance over my shoulder, my hands braced against the frame. Nero stands there in his expensive suit with his hair styled in that sexy way of his. Those dark eyes lock with mine and it’s like time stands still. I see the threat dancing in his eyes, the promise of violence and wrath, but also want and desire, swirling and mixing into something potent and intoxicating. That power he emits seems to wrap around me, addictive and oh so dangerous, so alluring. As I look in his eyes, I consider for the briefest of moments going to him because I want him to be my saviour in a world of enemies, my monster to end all others. But he may be my enemy, I don’t know anymore. I can trust no one but myself, and that’s hard, especially with him.
The air charges and crackles, his sheer strength of will coming up against my determination to survive at any cost. We are two sides of the same coin, feeding off each other. One singular, chaotic, unstoppable force. His lips pull up at one corner, the smile threatening yet enticing. My heart flutters in my chest as it responds to the thread of fear he instils, now more than ever. He always looks so perfectly put together, as though he isn’t capable of killing men in cold blood for nothing more than power. Doesn’t he always say that I look so innocent? Both wolves in sheep’s clothing.
He takes a step towards me, his eyes never leaving mine. “Don’t come any closer,” I say. He ignores me and takes another step. I lift the gun and point it at his head.
He smirks. “What are you going to do, Morte? Shoot me?”
I stare at him for a beat. “If that’s what it takes.” I am walking out of here, one way or the other.
His eyes narrow. “You are mine,” he says, but words mean nothing when life and death are on the line, and I can’t
trust him. Another step. “Why are you running? Arnaldo is dead.” He lifts one eyebrow. “You said you’d come back to me. Here I am, and here you are about to jump out a window.” If only Arnaldo were our only problem.
“Forgive me if I don’t trust you.” I see one of his men move in my periphery, trying to outflank me. “Remind your men that I have no problem putting a bullet between their eyes.”
He frowns and holds up a hand and they instantly fall back. “You don’t trust me?” he says. “I’m not the one who ran.” He takes another step. He’s only a few feet away from me now. I shift my weight forward slightly on the window ledge.
I smirk. “This has been great and all, but I don’t fancy getting caught by your guys down there.” I point to the alley.
The ground seems too far away, though in reality I know I can make the drop easily if I just fall into a roll. I glance at him one last time, committing every inch of his perfect face to memory. In a beat, he lunges for me and I push off the window ledge. The ground rushes up to meet me, and my feet hit the street hard. Pain fires up my leg and the stitches in my thigh tear open as I fall into a roll. I drop onto one knee and lift the gun in my hand, pointing it at the window. My other hand instinctively goes to my stomach. I meet his eyes, but they’re locked on my stomach, on the small but distinctive bump that’s protruding between my hips.
I take a deep breath, clenching my teeth against the pain in my leg. “If you ever felt anything for me, let me run, Nero,” I beg. “I will come back to you.” And then I’m on my feet and running, every step sending white-hot pain lancing up my leg.