Kiss Me (Kiss of Death Book 2)

by LP Lovell

  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.

  I’m so close to the car I can see the hood peeking out from the shadow of the alleyway. I limp forward, clutching my gun when something collides with the side of my head and my vision swirls. I stagger sideways and feel myself falling. Strong arms catch me as my body buckles uselessly. I’m barely able to make out the blurred profile of Gio’s face before everything goes black.

  4

  Una

  I wake up with a groan and a pounding head. When I open my eyes, I flinch away from the blinding light. I try to throw my hand over my face, but I can’t. Glancing to the side, I see my hand is bound beside my head, the leather cuff attached to a chain several inches long. My other arm is the same, and both are attached to the bedframe beneath me. Fucking great. Nero. That’s the last thing I remember. I try to work out where the hell I am. The room has no windows and a pretty sturdy-looking door, so I’m guessing I’m in a basement. There’s another door half ajar across from me, and I can hear the slow drip of a tap coming from it. My yoga pants have been removed and replaced with a pair of sleep shorts. I’m still wearing the same tank top that I fell asleep in back at the apartment in Paris.

  The door opens with a heavy groan and I lift my head as Gio walks in. His usual serious expression masks his face. I lay my head back against the pillow and take a deep breath. “How’s your leg?” he asks.

  “Fuck you, Gio. Where’s Nero?”

  He huffs a small laugh. “He’s busy.” Of course he is. He takes a seat on the edge of the mattress and places his hand on my thigh, inspecting my leg. The second his skin makes contact with m
ine, I go rigid tense. Kill! Kill! Kill! That sole instinctroars through my head, the impulse so strong and instinctive it hurts not to act on it. I yank against the restraints and the leather bites into my wrists. His hand finally leaves my leg and I sigh in relief, my body going limp.

  “How long are you going to keep me tied up like this?” I bite out.

  His eyes meet mine. “Until I know you aren’t going to kill everyone in the building.”

  I smirk. “Permanently then.”

  “Until Nero comes down here and handles you personally,” he murmurs.

  “You say that like I won’t kill him.”

  His eyes flick to my stomach. “I’d say you currently have the advantage in that fight, wouldn’t you?”

  I snort. “You give him too much credit.”

  His eyebrows pull together in a frown. “You should have told him.”

  I glare at him. “I don’t owe him shit.” Regardless of how I feel about Nero, of what he became to me, the fact is: he blackmailed me. He knowingly put me in a situation that placed me right in the crosshairs. I took the theoretical bullet for him. And somewhere along the line he made me feel something for him. In all the chaos, he managed to earn my loyalty without me ever really realizing I’d given it to him, but this is different. This baby is something that I cannot explain to him because I can’t even explain it to myself.

  “We could have helped you.”

  “I don’t need your fucking help. You forget who I am,” I snarl, my rage rising like a living, breathing thing. Even the cold killer in me is protective of this child when she should be nothing but detached. I’m confused, but driven by instinct and I will kill anyone who tries to harm us.

  Gio gets up and steps away from me. “I do not forget, Bacio Della Morte.” His eyes become hard and unforgiving as he approaches me, pulling a syringe from his pocket. I jerk against the restraints. I snarl as he brings the needle to my skin.

  “I’m going to kill you, Gio. Painfully. Slowly.”

  A small smile touches his lips before the needle pierces my skin and the plunger depresses. He walks out of the room, slamming the door behind him. And then, everything goes black.

  When I awake, my hands are no longer bound. My top is pushed up and the remnants of something wet is smeared over my stomach. My leg is freshly bandaged. The lack of pain suggests I’ve been dosed with painkillers. I push to my feet and stagger slightly as the effects of the sedative cling to me. My eyes take in every inch of the room as I cross it, desperately planning. I shove the other door open and find a bathroom. It’s basic. A shower, sink, and toilet. I turn the shower on, strip out of my clothes, and step inside. Hot water washes away what feels like weeks of grime and dirt, tinging the water a shade of red as dried blood—both my own and others—leaves my skin. I pull the dressing from my thigh and inspect the wound. It looks better, less angry and swollen. Gio must have given me antibiotics. As I stand under the spray, I start to form a plan in my mind. For now, I will wait and see if Nero makes a move. The problem with him is he’s frighteningly unpredictable, even to me. In a day or two I will have a clearer picture of what’s going on.

  Once I’m clean I get out of the shower and wrap the single towel around me. And then it begins. The boredom. The pacing. After a time, the walls start to feel like they’re closing in on me and it’s enough to make me want to tear my hair out.

  Eventually I hear the click of the lock on the door, and I ready myself to attack, but the second it opens a crack, a gun is pointed at me. “Didn’t think I’d come in here unarmed, did you?” Gio asks. “You did threaten to kill me.”

  I smile coldly. “I don’t threaten.”

  He laughs and signals at someone behind him. Tommy steps into the room, carrying a brown paper bag and some folded clothes. I can’t help but smile when I see him.

  “Irish,” I say. A shy smile pulls at his lips and he holds the bag out in front of him, stretching as though trying to stay as far away from me as possible. I roll my eyes and snatch the bag. He jumps. “I knocked you out one time, Tommy.”

  “Look,” he frowns, “you’re scary on your best day. But pregnant? Hormones will make even a sane woman crazy.” I glare at him.

  “I swear you have no self-preservation whatsoever, kid,” Gio sighs.

  He offers me a small shrug. “Sorry, Una, but it’s true.”

  “If you were anyone else…” I’ve always been fond of Tommy. Maybe it’s because he’s Nero’s soft spot, or perhaps it’s because he’s managed to stay innocent in this world of corruption. Either way, he’s kind of like a puppy that you couldn’t bear to hurt. He puts the clothes on the bed and turns around, walking back towards the door.

  “Where’s Nero?” I ask Gio this time.

  “He’s still busy,” he says, his mouth pressing into a thin line. And that expression tells me something. Whatever is going on, Gio doesn’t approve of it. He backs away and the door slams shut.

  What would Nero be doing that Gio doesn’t like? That’s a stupid question. Everything. Nero is the mafia bad boy, bound by no sense of honour or duty, whereas Gio is the polar opposite. He’s all about duty and loyalty. He just happens to be loyal to Nero.

  Option one, Nero is going against the rest of the mafia and Gio doesn’t like it. Option two, Nero is going against me. The mafia are all about their women and children, so it stands to reason, Gio wouldn’t like that either. Fuck, I don’t know. I’m stuck here, trying to analyse the ethics of men who have none and hoping that the most soulless of them all is trying to help me instead of kill me.

  5

  Una

  I don’t know how long I’ve been in this room, but it’s definitely been several days. Every so often Gio and Tommy come in here and give me food—always with a gun pointed in my direction. The longer this goes on, the more suspicious I become. I’m being held like a prisoner. Arnaldo might be out of the picture, but the Italians still want me dead. Probably even more so now, so, it stands to reason that Nero’s loyalties have swayed in their direction. The longer I’m kept here, the more convinced I am that he’s against me. It’s just a matter of time before he hands me over to their new boss. Nicholai might have enough power to get me out of it, but he’s the last person I want to save me for various reasons. I’d sooner take my chances with the Italians. At least they protect children rather than turn them into soldiers.

  By the time Gio comes in with food, I’m done. He holds the pistol up and I narrow my eyes at him. One of the guys I don’t know brings food into the room, but instead of standing at a distance like I have done, I charge him. I’m taking a chance here. I don’t think he has it in him to shoot a pregnant woman. He’d shoot me without a second thought, but carrying Nero’s child? I very much doubt it. It’s Gio after all. I fully expect him to have given them ‘no shoot’ orders.

  “Una!” Gio shouts at me.

  I throat punch the new guy and he chokes, clutching at his throat. I grab him around the neck and pull his body in front of me. “Damn it, Una,” Gio spits, glaring at me over the guy’s shoulder.

  “I’m going to make this really easy for you, Gio. You can lead me to Nero, I can snap this guy’s neck, or I can take that gun from you and kill everyone in this house until I find that bastard.”

  He inhales heavily, his eyes boring into mine. “Fine.” He turns away from me and walks out into the hallway.

  “Walk,” I instruct the guy. He does, following behind Gio. We move up a set of stairs, and then through a door that leads into a hallway. A hallway I know all too well, because I was standing in it only a few days ago. “You have got to be shitting me,” I whisper under my breath. Arnaldo’s house. We’re in Arnaldo’s damn mansion? This is not good.

  My eyes dart around the hallway and I notice two guys approaching us warily. Gio says something to them and they step to the side, pressing themselves against the walls on either side as we pass. I glance at one of them. Our eyes meet for the briefest of moments before I spot the gun tucke
d into a holster at his chest. I shove my body shield forward a step and he staggers, giving me the perfect opportunity to slam my knee between his legs. In the split second that his groans cause a distraction, I launch myself at the other guy, punching him in the temple hard enough that he sways on his feet. I catch him, wrap my arms around him, and yank both his guns from his chest holster. I’ve never felt so relieved to have a weapon in my hand. I feel whole again. Complete. Whirling around, I shove the guy to the ground and bring both guns up to face Gio and the remaining guy, both of who now have guns aimed at me.

  I smirk. “We’ve been through this before, Gio. You can’t shoot me before I shoot you.”

  His expression is set into a fierce scowl. “Drop the guns, Una.” I start inching back along the corridor.

  “I don’t think I will.”

  “We are not the enemy.”

  I laugh. “Well, I fell an awful lot like a prisoner right now.”

  “It’s for your own protection.”

  I tilt my head to the side. “Protection from who?”

  He huffs a deep breath. “Yourself mainly.”

  “Nice try, but I haven’t seen Nero.” My eyebrows inch up. “And you better believe I don’t trust that bastard at the best of times.” Gio’s eyes shift just a fraction of an inch over my left shoulder, and I spin around, keeping one gun on him, while my other arm flies out to the other side at a one hundred and eighty-degree angle. Nero. Of course.

  “You haven’t seen me, because I didn’t want to see you.” Nero looks fiercely powerful in a tailored suit. He’s perfect, not one single hair out of place. Those dark eyes meet mine, always swirling with such beautiful promises of blood and pain.My stomach clenches under his gaze. I fight my hammering pulse, forcing myself to focus. He is nothing more than a threat, a potential enemy. I point the gun at his beautiful face, my finger lingering over the trigger poised as though the weapon is a mere extension of myself.