by LP Lovell
Arnaldo looks up from his enormous desk and smiles, steepling his fingers in front of him. Of course, he was expecting me. I told him I was coming. Two of his guards stand like silent vigils behind him, their backs straight and their assault rifles pointed at me. I keep my face lowered towards the ground, ensuring that the hood casts my face in shadow.
“You going to shoot me, boys?” I ask, a cocky smile playing over my lips. When in the worst situations, I often find a smile can save you. Everything in life is about perception. What you do doesn’t matter, only your opponent’s perception of what you will do. Smile when they expect you to cower, play the helpless woman when they expect you to come out all guns blazing. An unpredictable enemy is the most deadly, after all.
“Una,” Arnie greets me in his thick Italian accent before clicking his fingers and signalling for his men to leave. He knows I won’t talk with them here. The door clicks shut, and he smiles, gesturing for me to sit. “Thank you for agreeing to meet.”
I narrow my eyes at him. I’m already aware of the man behind me, but I’m waiting to see if he’ll move. Arnaldo is the one who gives it away, his eyes shifting infinitesimally before meeting mine again. Smiling, I tilt my head to the side at the same time as I drop the tiny silver blade from the thick cuff around my right wrist. It’s the size of a large hairpin, but as sharp as a razor and weighted to have a reasonable throwing range. My hand flies out behind me as I keep my eyes fixed on Arnaldo. I hear the blade drive home, burying itself into the wood of the door. The mob boss’s lips curl into the shadow of a smile and his eyes pinch at the corners.
“You missed.” The voice behind me is rough and deep. He approaches from behind, and I fight to stay still when I feel him brush entirely too close to me. Circling in front of me, he stops, our bodies barely an inch apart. The aim is to intimidate and it amuses me. He’s tall, a lot taller than me, but where most of the men Arnaldo keep seem to be bulky, this one is athletic. His shoulders are broad, but taper into a narrow waist. Honed muscles lay over his lithe frame, the result of discipline and work. Some women see a man like this and think him attractive, but I’m beyond such base notions. I think him dangerous. He stands casually, his hands in the pockets of the expensive suit that wraps around his body like a glove. He radiates power like a beacon, it unfurls, curling around me and sucking all the air from the room. My curiosity wins out and I tip my head back, dragging my eyes up his chest until they reach his face. He looks like one of those guys you see in a magazine. Full lips, chiselled jaw, high cheekbones, and hair that’s just slightly too long to be professional. Everything about him screams entitled, rich, pretty boy, until I look in his eyes. They’re the colour of a well-aged whisky and almost completely unreadable, ice cold. I fight to keep a smile off my lips, because everything about him screams challenge. His eyes narrow and I see the tight restraint, the leash he puts himself on, because there’s an edge to him, something cold and dangerous with a ruthlessness to rival my own. He catches me off guard for the smallest of moments, but it’s enough, because he’s seen my face. I’m not entirely upset at the notion, because it means I might have to kill him, and this one would make for an exciting adversary.
Reaching up, I brush my finger over the shell of his ear, coating my finger in the blood pooling from the small knick. “I never miss.” His eyes hold me captive as I lift the finger to my lips and suck, tasting the coppery tang of him. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t move. “If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead.” His expression never wavers, never gives away even a hint of what he’s thinking. He’s both intriguing and infuriating.
“Bacio della morte,” he says in fluent Italian, his tongue caressing the words like a lover.
Kiss of death. It’s what the Italians call me.
“Sei spaventato?” I reply with a smirk. Are you scared? I can’t help but bait him, though I doubt this one fears anything. You know what they say, there’s a fine line between bravery and stupidity. He’ll find it’s a very fine line indeed when dealing with me.
Tilting his head to the side, a stray lock of dark hair falls across his forehead. The move reminds me of a predator weighing its prey, which is laughable. His eyes hold mine long past the point where normal people would start to feel uncomfortable. The way he looks at me almost has me wanting to look away, to back down. Me! I never back down from anyone, because to do so is to perceive a threat. No one threatens me. Who is this man? He embodies power, wears it like a man who was born with it, and yet, I do not know him, which means he does not assume power. Curious. Everyone can be read like facts off a sheet of paper, their fears, their hopes, their strengths, their weaknesses…if you know what to look for, they’ll tell you everything. He’s telling me nothing, giving away nothing, and it has me intrigued. I stare into his eyes, pushing, probing, looking, and yet he stands like a wall of iron in front of me, impenetrable and steadfast.
Eventually, I tear my eyes from his and walk past him dismissively. An uneasy feeling crawls through my gut at having my back to him, my instincts warning me that this one is dangerous, but survival and domination are as much about the bluff as anything else. To acknowledge him as a worthy adversary in itself lends him power that I am not willing to give, because I am the danger here, and if he makes a move, regardless of who he is, he will soon learn why.
I round the desk and Arnaldo hefts his weight from his chair, pulling me into a hug and kissing both my cheeks. The Italians have their ways and they get upset if you piss in their cornflakes, so I play along, despite the fact that the brush of his skin against mine has long ingrained instincts roaring to the surface. I liken it to a lion throwing itself against the bars of a cage, overcome with the primal instinct to kill. But I have forged a prison of tempered steel that keeps my monster firmly locked up, chained and hidden from the world until I need her. He pulls away and I release the breath I’d been holding. Arnie’s a bear of a man, who always smells of cigars and whisky, but he’s a loyal client, and I value loyalty.
“Arnie, it’s been a while,” I say casually. He sits back down and offers me a drink he knows I won’t take, followed by the chair he knows I’ll refuse to sit in. I’ve worked with him for four years. He knows well enough.
“I’m happy to say I haven’t needed your services of late.” I move, leaning my back against the wall, off to the side of Arnie’s desk.
I glance at tall, dark and handsome. He’s standing in the same position, only now he’s facing us. His hands are still in his pockets, giving the perception of casual relaxation, but nothing about that man is casual. He’s aware, watching, waiting. A frown shadows his features as he assesses me.
“He needs to leave,” I say, tilting my head towards him.
Arnie sighs and leans back in his chair. “This concerns him. Plus, I don’t trust you not to kill me.” He grins.
“Oh, Arnie.” I smile sweetly, slipping my fingers beneath the thin hood and pushing it back off my face. “It’s cute that you think anyone could protect you if I wanted you dead.” His face becomes serious as I move to his desk, swaying my hips with every step. “Don’t worry. I’d want at least twenty for you.” I wink. Like I said, this game is all about perception. Confidence is a must, and charm goes a long way. I’m not one for bullshit. I’d happily never interact with a client face-to-face, but Arnie is one I make an exception for. Even he must remember his place though, because mob boss, cartel leader, motherfucking president…death doesn’t discriminate, she sells to the highest bidder.
The way she walks, the way she speaks, the way she toys with Boticelli has me more interested than I should be. I know little about her, but I can tell one thing, she can’t be controlled. The stories about her are well known, the Russian assassin who took out Salvatore Carosso, a key player in the Mexican Cartel. If I saw her on the street, I wouldn’t look at her twice. And that, I realise, is why she’s so good. On the outside she looks like a pretty little thing full of empty threats, but one look in her eyes has me weighing her very differen
tly, because there’s nothing there. No emotion, no doubt, no conscience.
She approaches Boticelli’s desk, and I watch the muscle in his jaw twitch at her thinly veiled threat, and yet, he says nothing. He does nothing. She has the underboss of the Italian mob biting his tongue like a whipped dog. The corner of my lip twitches as I try not to smile. He’s scared of her. His eyes dart to me, as though I’ll save him. I won’t. He’s a means to an end, but I have fuck all loyalty to him beyond what he can do for me. It’s her I need. She hops up on the edge of his desk, facing me and crosses one leg over the other, swinging her boot back and forth as if she doesn’t have a care in the world. She braces her hands behind her, stretching her lean body out and thrusting her chest forward. The material of her top pulls tight over her chest, and my eyes trace the length of her body. White-blonde hair falls down her back in waves, making her milky skin appear even more pale. Yeah, I can see why she’s so good, because if I didn’t know who she was, I’d be all too willing to sink my dick in her. She’s like killer Barbie. She’s perfect.
“Fine. You want to talk in front of him, do, but…” She swings her gaze towards me, narrowing those unusual indigo coloured eyes at me. “Betray me, and I will find you.”
There are two types of people in this world, those who threaten and those who promise. I always appreciate people who make promises. Her eyes lock with mine, and I stare back at her wordlessly. Little does she know that to speak of this situation would damage me a lot more than it would her. She’ll find that out soon enough though.
“Okay.” Arnie huffs impatiently. “This is your mark.”
He hands her a file and she opens it, skimming over the page before closing it and discarding it on the desk beside her. “Three,” she says simply.
The boss narrows his eyes. “Three million? He’s a capo.”
She tilts her head back and then rolls her neck to the side, looking at him with a bored expression on her face. “He is not just a capo. He’s Lorenzo Santos. I need time to get close to him, and time is money, Arnie.”
Fucking Lorenzo. He’s an idiot with his dick in his hand. She’d only have to look at him and he’d blindly follow her to a slit throat.
Arnaldo grins like a shark and picks up the half smoked cigar from the ashtray on his desk. He takes a lighter from his pocket and flips the top, allowing the flame to kiss the blackened end of the cigar. He puffs on it a couple of times and exhales a heavy cloud of smoke.
“Getting close won’t be a problem. That’s what Nero here is for.” He jerks the cigar towards me and ash falls on the desk, scattering across the wood. Una’s eyes lock with mine, focused, studying. “Santos is throwing an engagement party in two week’s time and you will be his date.” The boss adds.
She knows just as well as I do that security that night will be even tighter than normal. She might get in, but she sure as shit won’t be getting out. It’s a suicide mission. And a test. Arnaldo thinks that our interests are one and the same, that this is a simple takeover. It’s not, but for now, I need him on my side. More importantly, I needed him to put me in contact with the best hitman money can buy…or hitwoman. Una Ivanov. She’s elusive and completely impossible to contact unless you’re in the know. Arnaldo is in the know. The pieces are on the chessboard, I just need to put them into play.
She inhales deeply, her nostrils flaring. “Fine, but it’s still three mil.”
She hops off the desk and walks towards me. Her hips sway delicately, her body moving like liquid art. Coming to a halt in front of me, she lifts a hand, trailing perfectly manicured nails over my jaw. I wrap a hand around her wrist, halting her movement. I don’t trust her for shit. A smile curls the corners of her blood red lips, and I squeeze her wrist hard enough to bruise her porcelain skin, hard enough that I know with a tiny bit more pressure I could break the delicate bones. Her eyes flash with something, but she never flinches, never moves, never stops smiling. We simply stare at each other.
“What was your name again?” Her expression shifts, interest shining in her eyes.
“Nero.”
“Nero…?” I hesitate and her smirk widens into a full grin. “I will find out, so save me the time and the addition to Arnie’s bill.”
I have no doubt she will have my life story in a matter of hours. “Verdi,” I say. She gives no reaction, no response at all.
“A nobody,” she says quietly. “Curious.”
“A nobody.” I agree. I plaster a smirk on my face and release her wrist, trailing my fingers over her arm. She stiffens for the briefest second, but I catch it.
She presses her body against mine and her breath blows over my jaw, her eyes dropping to my lips as she tilts her head to the side. I’m sure many a man has been lured to his death by that tight body and those full lips. I’m not one of them. I keep my eyes on hers, waiting.
“And yet here you are, cosied up to the boss,” she whispers, cocking an eyebrow. “High stakes for a nobody.” Clever girl. She bites down on one side of her bottom lip. “I like you, Nero.” She smoothes her palm over the front of my jacket, before slipping away from me. “I think you’d be hard to kill, and I do so love a challenge.” She smiles and winks before she walks to the door leisurely, as though she has all the time in the world. Pausing, she pulls her hood up again, until only her white-blonde hair spills over her shoulder, and then she’s gone.
The game is officially in play.
Two weeks later
Inhaling the smoke, I hold it, allowing it to burn my lungs before I release it. I’m about a mile away from Lorenzo’s house, parked in the driveway of an empty house with a real estate sign outside. Una is precisely three minutes late.
I look up when a black Mercedes comes hurtling down the street. It slows and pulls into the drive beside my car before the engine cuts out. It takes me a second to realise who it is, because her long, white-blonde hair is now dark brown and skimming her jaw line. The door opens and Una’s lithe frame unfolds from the car. Her body is covered in a red dress that masks any trace of her skin and yet clings to every single curve she has. If her aim is to distract and seduce then I can’t imagine she’ll have a problem.
“Nice dress,” I say, as I push off the hood of my car, throwing the cigarette on the ground and exhaling a long stream of smoke.
She barely even spares me a glance. “Smoking will kill you,” she says, moving to the passenger side.
“I’d say it’s the least of our worries right now.” I open the driver’s door and slide into the leather seat.
She gets in and closes the door behind her. “Speak for yourself. Risk is calculated and directly related to your level of skill.”
Starting the engine, I throw my arm behind the headrest of her seat, twisting to look out the back windshield. “Arrogance will get you killed.” I reverse out of the drive, fishtailing the car onto the road with a flick of the steering wheel.
She lets out a short laugh. “I’m the best, Mr Verdi. It’s not arrogance, simply fact.” She takes a small mirror out of her bag and checks her lipstick. The red matches her dress and contrasts dramatically with her pale skin. “I don’t take jobs that will get me killed.”
“So you have a plan to get out?” Arnaldo told me before not to ask questions and let her do what he hired her for, but this isn’t Arnaldo’s show, no matter how much he might think himself the puppeteer. I fucking wish I could be the one to end Lorenzo, so I could smile over his dying body and watch his worthless life drain from him. But I need to remain distanced from this.
“You read the file I sent?”
“Yeah, but there wasn’t much to go on.” She sent me a file detailing her fake identity as well as vague details about said identity. That’s it. “You’re aware of the heightened security?”
I glance at her when she doesn’t respond and see the corner of her lips curled up, sinking a small dimple into her cheek. “There was as much as you need to play your part. Don’t question my methods, and I won’t question why yo
u want your brother dead.” I turn my attention back to the road, tightening my grip on the steering wheel and clenching my jaw. Of course she would find out that Lorenzo is my brother. I feel her gaze touch the side of my face, but deliberately refuse to look her way.
“Half-brother,” I say through gritted teeth. “And I have my reasons.”
“You make the mistake of thinking I actually give a fuck.”
“I need to know how this is going to play out. I can’t be culpable.” My voice lowers until it’s barely above a growl.
She sighs dramatically. “We walk in together. Shortly after we arrive, I’ll slip away. Your brother will follow me, job done. You won’t see me afterwards so don’t wait around.”
“You really think you’re going to make it out?”
She laughs, a light tinkling sound that contradicts her completely. “I know I am. You should worry about yourself. The girl you brought to the party kills your brother…that won’t go down well for you.”
“I have that under control.” I hate my brother and he hates me, but he’s the capo and I’m a good enforcer. Our feud isn’t publicly known. As far as everyone is concerned, I’m the loyal brother, willing to kill for Lorenzo. The only ones who know any different are my closest guys, Tommy, Gio and Jackson. I suspect Lorenzo has kept it the same; after all, rifts in the family make it look weak. But then, he never was the sharpest, so I could be wrong. By the time anyone is brave enough to voice their suspicions, I’ll be capo. They’re scared of me now; they’ll be terrified of me then.