by LP Lovell
“I’d rather you didn’t make me wait. I’m free Friday night, take me out.” It’s forward, and normally I’d wait for him to make the moves but I’m winging it big time, and I set a precedent when I left him my number. I can only hope he appreciates forward.
He laughs. “Friday night isn’t good, sweetheart.”
I tut at the same time Nero walks in the room, leaning against the doorframe with his arms folded over his chest. A deep frown line is carved between his eyebrows making his expression hard and threatening. I stare him straight in the eye and smile smugly. “Shame. I’m not the kind of girl who likes to wait,” I purr way too seductively.
He pauses. “I have this thing, but I could swing something before. Drinks?”
Good enough. “Perfect. I can’t wait.” I hang up.
“Who was that?” His voice is tight, layered with restraint. My eyes brush over his bare chest, and I have no doubt that’s a deliberate move.
I glance back at my laptop and shrug. “A job.”
“My job is the only one you need to worry about.” Again, the calm just about covering the turmoil beneath, but I figure he didn’t hear me planning for Friday night or he would have lost it by now.
I slowly lift my gaze to him and cock a brow. “Your job is temporary, and once it’s done, I will move on, and I will go back to doing exactly what I did before I ever heard your name, Nero Verdi.” I say the words coldly, driving home the fact that he doesn’t own me and he never will. “But, I do have a plan that will get it done.”
He slowly moves across the room and halts in front me, his legs slightly spread and his shoulders squared as he stares down at me sitting on the couch. He’s wearing only a pair of workout pants, his hands shoved deep within the pockets, making him seem deceptively casual, despite his intimidating stance. He really needs to give up on that shit with me.
Smiling, I lean back into the sofa cushions, crossing one leg over the other. His eyes tighten ever so slightly and the muscle in his jaw pulses as he traces the length of my bare legs, stopping where his over sized T-shirt sits at mid-thigh.
“Well, you said you have a plan,” he says, his voice demanding and impatient.
I sigh and make a deliberate effort to check my nail polish. “I do.”
After a few seconds he growls, actually fucking growls. “I don’t have time for bullshit, Morte.”
I glare at him. “Well, I’ve got nothing but time, seeing as I’m locked in this apartment.” The truth is, I just like him angry. It’s when Nero’s at his best, his most exciting.
A breath hisses through his teeth, and I know I’m walking a fine line. Good. He removes his hands from his pockets and bends at the waist, leaning forward and towering over me. His hand grips the back of the couch behind my head. Those dark eyes of his meet mine, his face barely an inch away. “Fucking talk.” Pressing my fingers against his mouth, I push him away from me. His lips twitch under my touch and he nips at my fingertips. I yank my hand away and his teeth snap together. “Talk.” His voice is quiet but rough.
“I told you, I can’t hit them all. Even if I take Finnegan separately, three kills in one network is too much. I can’t do it.”
His brows pull together and his face moves even closer to mine. “We had a deal,” he barely breathes against my lips.
“I didn’t say I wouldn’t hold up my end,” I snap. “But these guys aren’t just any soldiers, Nero. Capos, enforcers, they travel in herds, armed fucking herds.”
He smirks. “You’re bacio della morte.” His tongue caresses the words eloquently. “I wouldn’t have sought the best if it was an easy fucking job.”
“Think about it, we’ll get away with one. Two? Possibly, but the third is going to get spooked. Each one I hit makes the next harder. Surprise is my forte. I’ll lose it.”
He finally pushes away from me and sits on the edge of the coffee table opposite me, his thighs spread and elbows resting on them. Absently, he swipes his thumb back and forth over his bottom lip. “What do you suggest?”
“Call a truce.”
His eyebrows shoot up as his eyes dart to mine. “A truce?” He laughs incredulously.
“Call a meeting. Get them all in one room. I’ll do the rest.”
He laughs again and shakes his head. “They won’t fall for it.”
“Why not?”
He drops his hand from his face and a shamelessly twisted grin spreads across his lips. “Ah, Morte.” He sighs. “Anyone in the mafia, anyone who knows me, or has even heard my name will know…” He tilts his head to the side and a wicked streak flashes across his eyes. “I don’t make peace, I make fucking war. I don’t call truces when I can spill blood instead.” A small tremor works over my skin and my stomach tightens at his words. I’ve known men like him my whole life and yet, there is no one like him. He’s so utterly feral, so merciless. His arrogance annoys me; his manipulation infuriates me, even though I’d do exactly the same if I were him. His savagery excites me and his blood lust sings to me. The monster that he is calls to the one that I keep chained up, released only when I kill, but even then, leashed, restricted to clean kills and professional pride. Nero would paint this city red and set a throne from which to survey his blood-stained empire on the mountain of bodies. He wants power and he doesn’t care how he gets it. He’s right; no one would believe he wants peace, but of course there are two sides to Nero. There’s the feral side that wants to bathe in blood, and then there’s the sophisticated front he wears so easily. If faced with that side of him they may just believe he’s stepping up to his newfound responsibilities.
“Go to them as the capo. Pretend you have the collective interests at heart and that you’re prepared to put aside differences for the greater good.” He scowls at me as if the words offend him, and I roll my eyes. “Throw a few threats in there if you feel the need to get your dick out. You’re Nero Verdi.” I raise a pointed eyebrow. “You want power? Take. It.”
“Ah, Morte, you should know better than anyone, I always take what I want.”
His lips twitch and his eyes drop to my mouth. “And what will you do if I get them there?” His voice lowers.
“Kill them all, of course.” I smirk. “But first, we go after Finnegan.”
He shakes his head, a frown marking his face. “No, we can’t hit Finnegan tomorrow. The situation’s changed.”
I arch a brow. “Changed how? We aren’t going to get another chance any time soon.”
He stares me down, his expression dark and threatening. “I said no.”
“If he leaves the country I’m not waiting weeks to hit him again, sitting here while you find every excuse not to get Anna,” I snap.
He stares at me for a long moment. “Not. Tomorrow,” he growls.
Biting back a retort, I stand, needing to walk away from him. He might not be going after Finnegan but he doesn’t know that I already have an in. I need this to happen. I need to finish this job and get Anna. What Nero does, I don’t care.
My watch reads seven thirty. I said I’d meet Darren at eight. Tommy is sitting across the table from me playing solitaire while I pretend to be doing something constructive on my laptop. I’ve barely seen Nero for the last two days, and I get the impression he’s tied up in mafia shit. He’s permanently snappy, drinking like a fish and spending almost all of his time in the office. I don’t care. While he’s focused on other shit he’s leaving me alone, which is good.
Wordlessly, I get up and head to my room. When I arrived here there were already some clothes in the walk-in closet. All of them are brand new with the tags still on. I go in there and pick up a simple black dress. God knows what he thought I would possibly need this for, but it’s coming in handy now. I managed to order a pair of shoes online, and Tommy, of course, opened the package because I’m untrustworthy and likely to get bombs posted to the apartment or something. When he saw the shoes, he looked so confused. I told him all girls like shoes and of course he just believes me, bless him. Slipping
on the dress and the shoes, I check my face in the mirror, adding a layer of blood-red lipstick and dragging my fingers through my long white-blonde hair.
Tommy immediately looks up when he hears the click of heels on the kitchen floor. His eyebrows shoot up so far they’re practically touching his hairline. “Uh, wow. You…you look amazing, but why are you dressed like that?” He frowns.
Smiling, I pull the gun from behind my back. His eyes pop wide and he barely has time to try and scramble from the barstool before I bring the butt down hard on this temple. His eyes roll back and he goes down hard. I feel bad, but this is necessary. Nero wants to dictate how this job goes down but that wasn’t part of this agreement. He hired me to do a job, and I’m going to get it done. For all of his bullshit saying we’re in this together, we’re not. As usual, it’s me against the world.
I put the 9mm pistol in my handbag and swipe the key card out of Tommy’s pocket before finding a pen and paper and scrawling a note to Nero. He’s going to be so angry. The thought makes me smile.
Darren is sitting at the bar when I get to the place he wanted to meet. It’s a new bar a few streets over from O’Malley’s. The décor is all brushed steel and slate floors, very industrial. I hop up on the stool next to him.
“Is the vodka any good here?” I ask.
He turns to face me and his eyes immediately sweep the length of my body appreciatively, a slow smile pulling at his lips. “You look stunning. And I wouldn’t know, I’m a whisky man.” He’s wearing fitted jeans and a grey shirt with no tie. Darren Derham – yes, I looked him up – is a good-looking guy. But he’s also pretty high in the Irish mob on this side of the city. He works closely with Brandon O’Kieffe who’s the capo equivalent in these parts. If I can get an in with Darren it’s unlikely it will be questioned, but his position also means he’s intelligent, cautious and anything but naïve. The benefit of being a woman is even the shrewdest of men never suspect anything, after all, how much harm could a girl possibly do? He orders me a vodka and the barman slides the drink in front of me. The ice clinks against the glass and he studies me as I lift it to my lips, taking a heavy swallow.
“So, Isabelle, what brings you to New York?”
I tilt my head to the side. It’s a simple enough question, and yet…
“How do you know I’m not from New York?” I ask, adding a seductive smile to make sure it doesn’t come off as defensive.
“The accent.” He lifts his chin and picks up his whisky glass. Shit, he’s good. I barely have any accent at all and you have to pay close attention to pick it up. All my instincts are telling me that I’m made, but I push them down. All I can think about is that I need to get this done. Nero makes me lose focus, but the fact is, I’m locked in that apartment, working for him in exchange for Anna, no other reason. And after his little pissing contest the other night, I don’t trust his motivations anymore. No, I have my in. I’m going to see it through. It’s a measured risk, for Anna.
So I smile and feign an offended expression. “And there was me thinking that I’d mastered the New York accent.”
He laughs. “Almost.”
“Well, I’m just here for work,” I tell him.
He nods. “Where in Russia are you from?”
I can feel my expression tightening with strain but I fight it, playing my role perfectly. “Moscow. My father was a lawyer there.” I lie easily. “But I always wanted to come to America. Now, you can’t even pretend to be from here.” I tease.
He braces his elbows on the bar and smiles at me. “Dublin, born and bred.” He nods. “I came here for work, too.” He downs the rest of his drink. The irony is not lost on me, two people in a normal bar, looking normal, pretending to be normal and trying their utmost to convince the other that they are indeed normal, yet he’s in the mafia and I’m a hired killer.
We sit, both continuing our façade and exchanging pleasant conversation. We tell each other about the people we aren’t, the people we might have been, I suppose. Slowly, I shift closer to him and when I place my hand on his thigh, he barely acknowledges it, comfortable with my touch. His hand lands over mine on his thigh and he leans into me, his lips so close I’m sure he’s going to kiss me, but then his phone rings. He releases a frustrated breath and pulls away to pick it up. I quietly sip on my drink while he talks to whoever is on the other end. Now, Irish is English essentially, until two Irish people talk to each other and then it’s just noise. I can’t make out a word he’s saying. He eventually hangs up and when he turns to face me again, I flash him a wide smile.
“I have to go.” He sighs, and he doesn’t look too happy about it.
I paint a disappointed expression on my face. “Oh, okay.” I nod.
He stares at me for a long while and then pushes to his feet, pressing his body against my knees and running his knuckles over my jaw. The touch makes me uncomfortable. “I wish I could bring you with me, but unless you like a bar full of pervy Irishmen, I can’t imagine it’s your scene.”
I shrug. “I happen to like pervy Irishmen.”
He laughs. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” He sighs and drags his eyes over my body again. “Fine. But you asked for it.”
Well, that was easier than I anticipated. Now, the next bit is considerably harder.
The bar is packed tonight. Guys are hanging over the bar, drinking and laughing. Music blares from the jukebox and if I didn’t know what this place is, the nature of these people, then it could be any local bar on a Friday night. Everyone smiles at Darren and some clap him on the back. Curious glances are thrown my way, but they last only a few seconds. There are a few women in here; most of them sprawled across one lap or another. Clutching my handbag close to me, I wish that I could have my gun in my hand, ready. These are not the kinds of situations I put myself in. I plan and avoid unnecessary risks. Someone taps me on the shoulder and I turn around. In the next second grabs my wrist, their grip too tight to be friendly. I tamper down my more volatile instincts and my eyes dart around, looking for Darren. He’s gone.
“You’re new,” a voice says, quietly from behind me.
I glance over my shoulder at the dark-haired guy who is only inches away from me before looking at the guy to my left, the one with his hand clamped around my wrist. “You’re hurting me,” I whimper pathetically.
The guy behind me laughs. “If you’ll kindly follow me.” He passes me, yanking my bag from my grasp, before I’m pushed to follow him. This right here is why you don’t go off half-cocked. Damn it.
I’m handcuffed to a chair and the dark-haired guy is pacing in front of me. Finnegan O’Hara. He must be in his forties, the salt and pepper of his beard and crow’s-feet at his eyes the only sign of aging. He’s a big guy, broad-shouldered and thick-set with an air about him that suggests he’s capable of far more than just handling shipments. Two of his guys are on the door, the only exit, and there aren’t even any windows in here. The floor beneath my feet is rough stone and the walls are concrete, reminding me of the facility I trained in, the Russian fortress buried in the snow. Both walls are lined with barrels and it smells like old beer, the cellar of the bar. I still don’t know why they’ve brought me down here, so I’ll play the frightened woman until they play their hand. A steady stream of tears flow down my face and my chest shudders with each breath. Men, even the hardest of them, don’t like having to deal with emotional women and they will subtly focus their attention elsewhere to avoid having to deal with it. So while his men stare straight ahead and he glances at the floor, I manage to manoeuvre my wrist and drop the small silver blade from the cuff at my wrist into my hand. This cuff may well be the most valuable thing I own. It’s not an easy job, but I manage to get the end of the fine blade into the lock, wiggling it until I feel a small pop.
“Do you know who I am?” Finnegan asks, his expression serious.
“No.” I shake my head. “Please let me go,” I sob.
He huffs a laugh before turning on me and leaning over, grip
ping my forearms. I grind my teeth together, trying not to show my discomfort. “I know exactly who you are, Una Ivanov.” My face goes blank and the tears cut off, my breathing returning to normal. There’s only so much acting I can do. I’ve been made.
“How do you know my name?” I ask flatly.
His lips twitch, and I hate that I’m on the back foot. I’m never vulnerable, but right now he has me on the ropes. “Nero Verdi has a reputation, but I have the contacts in this city,” he drawls, his Irish accent more prevalent than Darren’s. I narrow my eyes and say nothing. This is a leak on Nero’s side. Fuck. “And my contacts are loyal to me. They trust me to protect them.”
“If you know who I am, then you know what the cost of killing me is.” I cock a brow, and I don’t have to say a damn thing. When I said I was immune, I wasn’t kidding. Am I an assassin? Yes. Am I technically fair game? Of course. But, and this is a very big but, I am like a daughter to Nicholai Ivanov. The mafias, for the most part, try and remain amicable and maintain peace where they can but the Russians…well, we’re hot-headed by nature. No one wants a war with Nicholai. I’ve seen what he’s capable of and he can make Nero look like Santa Claus.
He pushes away and takes a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket, pulling one loose and placing it between his lips. He lights it and stands a few feet away from me, blowing a long stream of smoke through his nose. “I have no fight with you or that mad Russian fuck.” He spits on the ground. “But I have a fight with Nero Verdi and apparently, he’s hired your services, so I have a job for you, Ms Ivanov.” His eyes lock with mine and his expression becomes very serious. “I want you to kill Nero Verdi for me. He won’t even see it coming.”
Oh, how the tables turn.
My eyes land on Tommy’s prone body the second the elevator doors open. I dart across the foyer, glancing around the apartment as I do. I tuck behind the small protruding wall that divides the foyer from the kitchen and feel around underneath the side table next to the gym door. My fingers brush over the gun that’s taped to the underside, and I yank it loose. George and Zeus run up to me excitedly, and I relax. If there were someone in the apartment still then they’d let me know. It’s why I have them. Going to Tommy, I crouch down, pressing my finger to his neck. He’s fine, just unconscious. A nasty red mark is blossoming across his temple and it looks like he got pistol-whipped badly. I shake his shoulder and he groans, his eyelids twitching before they finally open.