Kiss Me (Kiss of Death Book 2)

by LP Lovell

  “Trying to keep me prisoner? Big. Fucking. Mistake,” I growl. I hear the shift of footsteps behind me. “I do not need to look at you to shoot you, Gio,” I say quietly.

  Nero’s lips twitch and he looks up at Gio. “Go,” he says.

  “Boss…”

  “Go!” he roars. I hear the shuffling of feet disappearing down the hall before a door closes. And then silence. Only he and I.

  Now, I point both guns at him, my teeth clenched as I stare back at him. A strange sense of betrayal is slinking its way around me, squeezing until this horrible splintered feeling settles into my gut. He takes a slow step forward and I press the barrel of the gun against his forehead. I remember standing in this exact same position with him before—me with a gun to his head and him completely fearless. I was drawn to that confidence, fascinated by it. He instilled this wariness in me which I hadn’t felt in such a long time. He stares back at me with a cold indifference, a ruthlessness that makes my heart pound and my breaths shorten. That little fissure of fear calls to me, hypnotizes me. I force it all away, focusing on what needs to be done.

  “Who is the new underboss?” I ask, needing this opportunity to gather information. I can no longer trust Nero, and that means getting what I can and getting the hell out of here.

  “We need to talk.”

  I huff a laugh. “You’ve had several days to talk to me. I’m afraid you’re shit out of luck, so answer my question. Who is coming for me now?” My gaze darts nervously to the doors I can see. This is taking too long. I feel wildly out of control and I don’t like it at all.

  “No one is coming for you. You killed Arnaldo.”

  “Exactly,” I snap. “The mafia are like rats. Kill one and two more pop up in his place.”

  “Una.” His hand slowly rises and covers mine. Some of the iciness shifts from his eyes and is replaced by something familiar yet no less dangerous. I allow him to push my hand down until the gun lingers at my side. I suddenly feel exhausted. Months on the run have taken their toll, and sometimes it feels like it’s never going to end. I squeeze my eyes shut for a second, fighting back the fatigue and the sense of betrayal laced with this strange pain.

  “I’m the new underboss,” he says quietly. “No one will hurt you.”

  My eyes snap open. “What the fuck?”

  6

  Nero

  She’s so fierce. So fucking beautiful. Her once white-blonde hair is dyed a dull brown and I don’t like it. It makes her seem so much less than what she really is: extraordinary. She looks tired and thin. Her face is drawn with dark circles lingering below her eyes. And, of course, she’s pregnant. I thought nothing could shock me these days. I was wrong. A thousand questions are still running through my mind like a goddamn marching band, and yet, I’m strangely numb, disconnected from it.

  She’s been locked in the basement for the last three days because I don’t know what the fuck to say to her. I’m pissed off that she ran, leaving with nothing more than a note as an explanation. She didn’t trust me to protect her from Arnaldo, or at least that’s what I thought. Only now I find her, and she’s knocked up. It has to be mine. Is that why she left, because she didn’t want to tell me? Fuck! And then, a whole new channel of questions starts. Round and round it goes, but always accompanied by this constant anger.

  She follows me into one of the living rooms of the mansion and I go to the corner, pouring out a glass of scotch. I’m about to hand it to her when I hesitate. Pregnant. I drink the whole thing myself. I need it.

  She glances around the room nervously, still clutching both guns in her hands. She looks like she’s ready to kill everyone and bolt in the blink of an eye. I’m not letting her go anywhere.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask. The question comes out sounding like an accusation. She takes a seat and crosses her legs, leaning back against the sofa cushions. She’s still wearing only a tank top and a pair of shorts, and my eyes follow the length of her long, tanned legs before pausing on her stomach. “I had a right to know.”

  She raises an eyebrow, pressing her lips together in a thin line. “Why? So you could tell me to get rid of it? Or perhaps you’d like to play daddy of the year?” She tilts her head to the side, her eyes narrowing.

  She’s right. This was never part of any plan. What would I have said to her? “So instead you just up and run? You thought: ‘Fuck it! I’m wanted by some of the most powerful people in the world, but I’ll leave myself completely unprotected while fucking pregnant!’?” I don’t even realize I’m shouting at her until I stop. The silence echoes around the room, interrupted only by the sound of my own heavy breaths. I never would have wanted this if she’d told me, but now it’s not an option. The idea of Arnaldo trying to kill her is bad enough, but I know Una can handle herself. Throw this into the situation though, and it’s very different.

  “I’m always protected. Do not forget who I am,” she says, glaring at me.

  Her defiance pisses me off. I close the space between us, leaning over and gripping the back of the couch beside her head. She lifts her chin, the corner of her lips curling. I grab her jaw with my free hand, squeezing hard as I tip her head back. Those strange violet eyes of hers meet mine, and the threat of violence swirls in the air like an impending storm. Fuck, I’ve missed this. I’ve missed her. After all, what is power without someone to constantly challenge it?

  “I’m not the one who forgets.”

  Her fingers wind around my wrist, her nails biting into my skin, and it’s here, with this unspoken war raging between us that I always want her the most. I want her brutality and her hate, her pain and her weakness, but most of all, I want her heart, her body, her soul. I want everything that she has to give, and I always will. Time and distance make no difference. She can’t outrun me. We are perfect in a way that only two people as volatile as us can be.

  I’m angry, but I can’t deny the hold she has on me. I stroke my thumb over the side of her face and her eyes drop to my lips, lingering there. Fuck, I want her. I never know whether I want to kill her or kiss her or both. I grip her face harder and slam my lips over hers, craving her taste. She bites my bottom lip before thrusting her palm into the centre of my chest hard enough to push me away. Climbing to her feet, I watch as she circles behind me, her eyes surveying my body like an enemy commander looking for a weakness.

  “I don’t trust you,” she says.

  I inhale a deep breath and fold my arms over my chest. “I’m not the one that’s proven untrustworthy.”

  She squares up to me.“Tell me, Nero…how does one go from a simple enforcer to the underboss in only a few short months?” She raises one eyebrow. “Even if someone were to blackmail an assassin, have her remove all competition and, in turn, have a price placed on her head…” She glares at me. “Even then, you still couldn’t make it to underboss.” She tilts her head to the side. “So tell me, capo, who did you blackmail to get this gig?”

  I slide my hand up the small of her back, pulling her closer to me. Her round stomach presses against me and I shouldn’t care, I certainly shouldn’t like it, but there’s something incredibly hot about her having my baby inside her. My vicious little butterfly being maternal? It doesn’t fit. “Tell me you trust me, and I’ll tell you how I got here,” I whisper against her ear.

  “I don’t trust you,” she growls.

  “Well then, we’re at an impasse because in order to explain I must tell you something that very few people know. I have to trust you, and that goes both ways.”

  She pulls away from me slightly, her eyebrows pinched together. “You want me to lie to you?” The last few months have made her wary. Even more so than normal.

  “Why do it, Morte?” I ask. “Why run and hide, even after you killed Arnaldo? Why run from me? Why not trust me? Was I not there when shit hit the fan?”

  “You caused most of that shit to hit the fan. You don’t get to declare yourself a hero just because you tidied up your own mess.” She pulls away from
me and paces in front of the sofa the same way she always does when she’s agitated. “I’ll tell you if you tell me why you’re the boss,” she offers.

  Always with the negotiating. “My father—my real father—is the boss.”

  Her eyes go wide and she halts. “The big boss? Your father is Cesare Ugoli?” I nod and she shakes her head. “Should have known,” she mumbles. “And you knew this whole time?”

  “Yeah.”

  Realization blankets her features. “This was the plan. This was always the plan. Anna…it was all for this.”

  “From the very first moment we met it was all orchestrated for this exact point, for you to kill Arnaldo. For me to become the underboss.” Her features harden and I know her well enough to see the precise moment when she locks down her emotions. “But I never expected to want you. By the time you were in danger, I thought I could protect you, but you ran.”

  She snorts and turns to face me. “I knew what I was getting into. I knew you were an asshole and you were using me. I agreed to it.”

  I cock my head, slowly moving closer to her and forcing myself into her space. She moves away until the wall is at her back. I brace my hand against the wall beside her head. “Your turn. Why run?”

  She glares at me. “Because I had a five-million-dollar hit on me and no idea who had sanctioned it.”

  I lean closer, brushing my lips over her cheek. She smells of vanilla and gun oil, and that scent alone makes my dick hard for her. She tries to twist away from me, but I press my body against hers. “If that were it, then why jump out a window after you killed Arnaldo?”

  “I…” she stammers, her mouth opening and then closing.

  “You are mine, Morte. I would have protected you.”

  She swallows heavily, her eyes searching mine as though looking for the truth in my words. “I need to do this on my own,” she breathes.

  “Do what on your own?” I ask slowly.

  Her eyes squeeze shut and her lips part. She looks so fragile, so innocent, though I know she’s not. “I need to leave here, Nero,” she says. A breath hisses through my teeth and my hand slams around her throat, squeezing the delicate skin. Opening her eyes, she pushes forward into my hold. Her lips caress mine, her warm breath washes over my tongue, and my pulse hammers through my veins. “Let me leave, and in a few months, I’ll come back to you,” she says in a rare show of vulnerability. I narrow my eyes, trying to decipher her thoughts. “I promise. Queen protects king, remember?”

  “Not anymore.”

  She throws her head back against the wall and bites down on her bottom lip. I’ve never seen Una look so beaten down, as though she’s fought off the world and is somehow still standing. “Please.”

  “Why? What do you have to do that will take months?” And then it all clicks into place like the gaping hole in an otherwise complete jigsaw.

  “No.” My grip on her throat tightens, until I’m pushing her back against the wall. “No!”

  She slams her fist into my stomach. I grunt and press my body flush against hers until our lips are almost touching. “Let me go and have the baby,” she says, “and I’ll come back afterwards.”

  “Is this what you were planning? To have my kid in some foreign country and just abandon it?” My voice is rising, my temper bordering on rage.

  She grits her teeth, shoving against me. “No, I’m putting it up for adoption! That is not abandoning it.”

  “Fuck!” My whole body is bristling with tension and anger, and I want to step away from her, but, at the same time, I never want to let her go again. How could she do this?

  “What would you suggest?”

  “If you didn’t fucking want it, then why not just get rid of it?” I hiss in her face.

  She stills and drops her gaze to the floor. After long moments, she finally speaks. “I couldn’t. But I won’t do this either.” She gestures between the two of us. “Look at us, Nero. I can’t have a baby. Children need…” she drifts off, her eyes going distant. “I don’t know…not us.”

  My grip on her throat loosens and I cup her cheek, dragging my thumb over her bottom lip. Ah, my vicious butterfly. She’s so strong, yet so irreparably damaged, so set in her ways. She thinks of herself as a weapon, something trained and unleashed. Nothing more. But she’s so much more. She gave up everything to save her sister, a sister she hadn’t seen in thirteen years. A sister who, through rigorous training and conditioning, should have become inconsequential. What she doesn’t realize is that Nicholai wants her to feel nothing, but she does, and that means he couldn’t break her. What Una sees as weakness is proof of just how strong she is. She’s right. We are and always will be ruthless and brutal. It’s engrained. Instinctual. I know what she’s saying is right, and yet, I want something that has never even been a factor until right now. Until it’s right in front of me and growing inside her, my dangerous queen.

  “You may be damaged, Morte, you may be a killer, but you are not heartless.” I drop my hand from her face, and when she opens her eyes, a single tear skates down her cheek. In the time I have known this woman I have watched her kill without blinking, threaten people without remorse. I have heard her scream such gut wrenching cries of anguish in her sleep, and witnessed her cry for her sister. I have watched her slowly crack, shattering piece by piece, and with each new splintered part of her I’m pulled further in, drawn to her. But we are who we are. Una must always be my strength, and I hers, because if not we will quickly become each other’s weakness. We are equals, but my next words will change that dynamic. “You’re staying here. Don’t make me force you,” I say, before I turn from her and stride out of the room.

  “Nero!” she shouts after me.

  I just made Una my biggest weakness, and myself—I just made myself a father. Poor kid doesn’t stand a fucking chance, but I will not leave it to be raised by a stranger the way I was.

  7

  Una

  I pace backwards and forwards in the bedroom that I was shown to via armed guard. Pulling the curtain back an inch, I glance down at the three men standing watch just below the window. And they’re facing me. We all know they’re here to keep me in, not intruders out, but they could at least pretend. I drop the curtain with a frustrated groan. I will not be held a prisoner by Nero. He can go fuck himself. The room smells of him, his cologne subtly clinging to the bed linen. I take a seat on the edge of the mattress and try to think of a way out of this.

  I never considered the possibility that Nero would want a baby. I guess I never considered it because he was never supposed to find out. And now, he’s never going to let me out of his sight again.

  The longer I’m trapped here, the more panicked I start to feel. I was running from Arnaldo. I was running from Nero, but mainly, I was trying to stay off Nicholai’s radar. The fact is, my child will never be safe as long as it is mine, as long as it is with me. Because of Nicholai. His obsession for designer soldiers started with children of a certain age, around ten years old, like I was A child is ready to learn how to fight a ten years of age, to be conditioned and honed to a fine blade. He never had any younger than eight, until one of his soldiers impregnated a cook in one of the facilities. I went with him to retrieve the child. I was eighteen then, but I still remember the way he looked at that baby like it was a brand new weapon in his arsenal. A shiny toy. After that I heard whispers and rumours of babies being bred, of Elite no longer being sterilised. The younger the child, the more they can be conditioned during their developmental years. Of course, back then I didn’t care for the fate of children. They weren’t my concern. Truth be told, I still don’t. But I care about my child. If Nicholai knew about this baby, he would want it. I am, after all, his favourite. I can just imagine the way his eyes would light up if he got his hands on it.

  I’m not safe here. We’re not safe here. We are what we are, and Nero and I live in a world plagued with enemies and danger where choices are limited, so it’s on me to make sure the only plausible choice is made
. When it comes to this, Nero’s opinion is inconsequential because he can’t possibly understand what Nicholai is capable of.

  Of course, now I’m here, and Nicholai will find me. I need to speak to Sasha and see what he knows. I also want to talk to Anna, because despite everything that’s going on, I did all this for her, for us. I worked with Nero so she could be free, but now that she is, I find myself hesitating. I want my sister back but, at the same time, I want to keep her as far from this mess as possible. She’s free which is a luxury I will never have. Nicholai will always own me, always want me. Anger, frustration, and fear mix together and have me permanently on edge. I long for the time not so long ago when emotions were a foreign concept to me. These days, I’m an unstable, hormonal mess.

  I get up and open the bedroom door. Two guys in suits step straight into my path, blocking the door. One of them is reaching for his gun, and I smirk.

  “Really? Touch that gun and you better be ready to use it.” I glare at him. I’m irritable and tired and I’m not in the mood for Nero’s wannabe soldiers. The guy’s eyes widen but he says nothing. “I need a phone,” I say. They both stare blankly at me. “Now!”

  “Boss hasn’t permitted that.”

  I huff a laugh. “I suggest you get me a fucking phone or I’m going to break both your noses, and then I’m going to slit your boss’ throat in his sleep.” I smile sweetly. “Do not test me.”

  The one that was reaching for his gun steps back, nervously glancing at the other one. “Go,” he says, jerking his head to the side. The guy turns and walks off down the hallway.

  “Wise,” I say as I step back into the room and close the door behind me. I do have one ace up my sleeve, and that’s pure fear. His men are scared of me, but the question is: who do they fear more, me or him? They might risk a broken neck from me to avoid being disembowelled by Nero. Choices, choices.