The Assassin

by SE Chardou

  With Jackson slowly pulling away from all unsavory contacts in the underworld, what his niece did was not only a show of disrespect to him but also a broken code. The Bratva was dangerous; at times, they made the Italian Mafia seem like pussies.

  They weren’t above murdering men, women, children or anyone else who stood in their way. They did not view the world the same way any of the American and British underworld did. Everyone was fair game and although Erik had run the Kitaev Bratva with far more respect and dignity than most of his fellow countrymen did theirs, he was still part of the Russian underworld and not suitable marriage material.

  Pyro knew what the stakes were.

  The club either would succeed in bringing him over to their side, and make him flip like they did with the Aztecas Infierno cartel or they’d be forced to make Moira Cox-Jackson Kitaev a very young widow.

  The five men approached Kitaev’s mansion warily. Although they were expected, they were unsure what he would do or what his state of mind was at the moment. Personally, Pyro thought he was a bit of a pussy on his own but that was not the case tonight. They could all die with the amount of men Kitaev had patrolling his property alone.

  Hardy walked up to the double doors. The mansion, a classic French chateau transported from the countryside of Normandy to Malibu piece by piece, was subtle yet elegant if not a bit over the top. The place had been built far away from the cliffs to ever get caught in a mudslide but the beach wasn’t far and the constant waves could be heard, even as Pyro watched their Prez ring Erik’s doorbell.

  It wasn’t a manservant but the brand new bride—Mrs. Kitaev herself—who opened the double doors. She positively glowed with the light of a newlywed, her hazel eyes bright and a smile that could light up Times Square. Her dark hair with subtle black cherry highlights was up in a ponytail while her dark golden olive skin glowed with the perfection of youth. Although her full pouty lips were firmly inherited from the Jackson family, her bone structure, nose, and cheeks were pure Cox features.

  Dressed in a pair of black fitted jeans, a pale gray cashmere sweater and five-inch Christian Louboutin shoe-boots that matched her sweater to perfection, she looked casual in the way only insanely rich people could pull off.

  Pyro had a strong feeling that the reasons Erik married Moira had nothing to do with consolidating his empire or uniting with the Jackson and Cox families. In fact, he was actually beginning to question whether Kitaev knew who his new bride was and the family connections she possessed.

  “Uncle Hardy? I’m so glad to see you!” she exclaimed as she embraced him without preamble. “If Uncle Desmond or Uncle Raymond had shown up, I knew Erik would be a dead man for sure but with you, that means there’s hope.”

  Hardy prematurely ended their embrace, and held her at arm’s length. “Don’t jump to conclusions so fast, love. No one is happy about this arrangement and we’ve got to speak to Erik.”

  Moira’s smile dropped though a shaky hand waved through her perfect ponytail. “Wait a minute . . .” she trailed off before looking at the men but her eyes settled on Pyro and he found it hard to avert his gaze. “You all . . . don’t think this is a publicity stunt, do you? I mean, I didn’t pull a ‘Lacey Henderson,’ and marry the enemy to get away from my family. Erik has no idea who I am. As far as he knows, I’m a student at the University of Southern California. We met at one of his clubs, and I never told him about my family connections.”

  “Are you trying to tell us that Erik has no idea your mother is Dizzy’s sister and your father is Raymond’s younger brother?” Pyro wondered incredulously.

  Moira shook her head adamantly. “Fuck no. Why do you think I chose to attend USC? I wanted to get away from all that shit in Northern Nevada. I didn’t want guys to know about my notorious connections because then I’d never know if they were truly interested in me or . . . my family.”

  “We should talk about this inside,” Ronan said before he walked past his cousin without waiting for her to ask them in. Pyro, Cricket and Chemist followed his lead while Hardy placed an arm around his niece before he shut the door behind them.

  “Would you like some refreshments? I can have one of the servants bring you drinks.”

  “That’s mighty thoughtful of you, love. The guys and I have been driving all evening to get here.”

  A surly, older looking woman who looked like the epitome of a Russian fishwife materialized.

  “Irina, please bring these gentlemen a few bottles of beer. Can you bring the beverages to the living room, please?”

  She curled her lips in distaste, murmured something in Russian and began to walk back into the kitchen before Moira responded back in precise Russian before she dismissed the now-frightened woman with a delicate hand.

  They all followed Moira into an elaborate room with silk chase lounges, polished tile floors covered with expensive Persian rugs. There was a fireplace not in use, a seventy-inch flat screen television, and enough room for easily more than thirty people to socialize and not bump into one another.

  “Please, take a seat.” Moira indicated the sofas or one of the oversized lounge chairs that all looked comfortable enough to sleep on.

  Pyro sat cater-corner to her in an oversized lounge chair while Hardy sat across from her. The other guys took seats but spread out as if to prevent her from fleeing if it came to that.

  “Love, we’ve got to talk to Erik,” Hardy said with an authoritative tone. “I know you want to protect him but he’s a big lad now, and he seriously fucked up when he married you, and handed you the title of Mrs. Kitaev—”

  “Actually, it’s Mrs. Kitaeva—the Russian last name has a masculine and feminine varied spelling.” Moira interrupted softly.

  “Fine, whatever, darlin’. The fact remains whether he knew who you were or not, he should have done the research. Both Raymond and Desmond have made it perfectly clear they aren’t getting into bed with the Bratva—not after being burnt by Koslakov.”

  “My husband is not Dimitri Koslakov,” she replied with determined hazel eyes. “For God’s sake, Erik wanted nothing to do with the Bratva even though he knew he would have to take over one day . . . eventually. But Dimitri is the reason why Erik is the head of the Kitaev Bratva. If he hadn’t murdered Yevgeny then Erik wouldn’t even be a part of his father’s empire he left to him.”

  “Shoulda, woulda, coulda.” Ronan sat forward in his seat. “Doesn’t matter about the past. What we need is to talk to your old man. We have serious business to discuss with him. We’re not gonna kill ‘em—”

  “Unless we have to,” Pyro interrupted in a cold voice.

  “I think I know what this is about.” Moira stood and began to pace in her designer heels as her arms wrapped tightly against her chest. “He’ll cooperate. He still has his mother, and she’s in a precarious position. She won’t leave this house with bodyguards up the ass—she’s extremely dependent on Erik. I’d be jealous if I didn’t understand that they aren’t only mother and son but each other’s support network and confidants. He’ll do whatever you want because his mother can’t lose him.”

  “How are you so sure?” Pyro questioned.

  “Because she spent almost three months in a psychiatric facility after Yevgeny was murdered.” Moira’s hazel eyes never left his ice-blue orbs. “In fact, she is still on a shit-load of psychotropic medication. Erik is the only one she has left. She lost her family to the Bratva at a young age and escaped to Paris when she was barely fifteen. Becoming one of the world’s most famous supermodels in the world alongside Naomi Campbell, Claudia Schiffer, Linda Evangelista, and Helena Christensen amongst others is what saved her.”

  Cricket whistled in amazement. “How old was she when she had Erik?”

  “Maybe twenty or twenty-one—I don’t know exactly.” Moira shrugged despondently. “I know she’s in her mid-forties but it’s not like a woman that vain is going to tell me her true age. Yevgeny was obviously an older and very powerful man. There was a fifteen year age dif
ference between the two of them but she loved her husband and . . . losing him has been extremely difficult for her and Erik.”

  “You have protected me enough, dorogaya,” a male voice said out loud.

  Pyro glared toward the entranceway to see Erik standing there.

  “Nice to see you, Kitaev,” Ronan responded in an ice-filled tone. “For a minute there, I thought my cousin had married a complete and total pussy.”

  Erik glared at Ronan with cool gray eyes before he focused on his wife who stood before him. He whispered something to her in Russian, kissed the top of her head, and she left the room.

  “Gotta hand it to ya,” Hardy began as he stood to his full height, which wasn’t much taller than Erik. “Glad you taught your old lady Russian. It might save you in the end.”

  Erik smiled but there was little mirth in it. “I have murdered before just like you all have. It’s true what Moira said—I didn’t know who she was when we met. Of course, I did do a background check once we became serious because she used the last name of Lennon. It turns out that was all a ruse and she was in fact the niece of two of the most powerful men in this country. I found all of this out after I fell in love with her—not before.”

  Pyro stepped forward at this point. “It doesn’t make a damn bit of difference to the Agency or anyone else. Either you agree to the terms we set forth and become an informant or you die. Simple as that . . . and a good deal for you too. Let’s extrapolate on this whole situation a bit. You get to keep your beautiful wife, your new life and everything stays the same. Plus you get to do whatever you have to do with impunity. The best part is you can bring your enemies down and no one will suspect a thing. We like to keep our informants classified. That way the wrong people who pay government officials for information will never know.”

  Erik glanced past Pyro towards Hardy and Ronan before their eyes met again. “I have no problem with that. I don’t owe those bastards anything, not when they allowed my father to be murdered and then kissed the ground of the son of a bitch who did it.”

  “That’s an issue, mate.” Hardy stood, walked over and stopped next to Pyro. “We need people we can trust. If you have no loyalty, this whole deal ain’t gonna work out too well—”

  “I think you misunderstood me, President.” Erik stepped closer until he and Hardy’s face were just inches apart. “I said I had no loyalty to other Bratvas—I will do everything I can to protect my wife and my mother. They are the two most important people in my life. It does me no good to make my mother childless, my wife a widow . . . or deprive our child of a father.”

  Pyro intensely studied Erik’s profile. “Moira is pregnant?”

  “Eight weeks. We just found out about a week after we got married.” Erik stared at Pyro with eyes that expressed both joy and sorrow. “I promised I would love and cherish her till death do us part. I meant every word I said and there is nothing manufactured or calculated about our marriage. I never have to do business with anyone in her family, and I’m fine with that—”

  “—you mean except the business you’re doing with us now?” Ronan interrupted rudely. “Don’t let your head get too big, Erik. We’re in business now and we want it to continue but that means you becomin’ a Federal bitch—government skank—whatever you wanna call working for Uncle Sam. That’s the payment you have to make for living the good life and fucking my cousin.”

  “I already said I would do it.”

  Pyro glanced at him. “It’s not quite that easy. The government doesn’t believe in verbal agreements. Beef up your bodyguards and kiss both your mother and wife good bye. You’re coming back to Vegas with us. It’s time for you to meet the gatekeeper. And let me warn you of something, she’s got a much better bullshit detector than all of us put together. If you try to pull anything, you’ll disappear and never see your wife, mother . . . or future child ever again. Understood?”

  Erik nodded his head. “Yeah, I understand.”

  “Good,” Pyro replied as he turned away. “Get packed and go say your goodbyes. We leave in fifteen minutes.”

  Part Two

  Execution

  Chapter Thirteen

  Mira

  Despite having a reprieve with Pyro being away, I still missed him like crazy. That didn’t stop my mind from being focused on an entirely different issue that wasn’t likely to go away any time soon.

  I’d delayed it long enough. It was time to strike when Fernando wasn’t expecting it. I would be the wolf in sheep’s clothing and offer an olive branch before I did my job, and got paid the rest of my money.

  My original plan had been to leave after the deed was done but Pyro was an obstacle I hadn’t quite planned for so everything was shot to hell at the moment.

  Could I stay after murdering one of the major players in the Aztecas Infierno cartel?

  The answer was obviously no.

  It didn’t matter someone—probably Carlito Navarro, his nephew—would replace him before his body was cold. I would still be a hunted woman, and the smartest idea I had was to get out of the country, at least for a while.

  The heat would eventually die down, and perhaps then I could come back. I didn’t want to be away from Pyro forever.

  He was my first, and probably only chance I’d ever had at love. I would be a fool to give him up. I loved him so much and he loved me too. We were too good together to be apart. I wouldn’t allow this job to separate us forever. It couldn’t, and it didn’t have to either.

  I sat in my room going over the plan in my head over and over again while the faint sounds of “Fall of the House of Death” could be heard coming from Estelle’s bedroom.

  I now knew she was no longer just Pyro’s naïve younger sister but his pit bull gatekeeper dressed in Dolce & Gabbana. If anyone knew how to pull this off, it was she. I still liked her as a person, and I admired her for her loyalty to her brother but I also knew I couldn’t trust her. She would always take his side—right or wrong—and turn on me in a heartbeat.

  Estelle owed me nothing but I owed her everything. If she decided I wasn’t a good match for her brother then she could end our relationship anytime she felt like it. That was a whole lot of power and even more of an indicator why I would need her help. As much as I would have loved to go at this alone, I didn’t have the resources or the contacts to do it. Not without contacting Mags and Max.

  That was a possibility I couldn’t even fathom at this point. Why did they bring me in as a sub-contractor if I admitted I wasn’t cut out for the job and came crying back to them? The whole point of my purpose was plausible deniability on their part. No one could trace the contract because it began and ended with me. As far as Fernando was concerned, anyone from his past could have hired me.

  It had to stay that way too because if Ronan ever found out it was Naomi, she wouldn’t pay but I definitely would. I had no more faith in the Lucifer’s Saints now than I did when I’d arrived. They tolerated me because I was with Pyro but if he dropped me, I’d no longer have any support network what so ever. I’d be alone, adrift; a charity case for Loire and Jake who always looked at me as a ball and chain whether they admitted it or not.

  They’d had difficult lives too, and managed to move on. Why couldn’t I? Why did it always come back to my troubled childhood? Hell, how many kids actually had ideal childhoods growing up? Mine had been a bit rougher than most but I was done with using the past to justify my present or define my future.

  I would own my mistakes, and my triumphs because they were mine.

  I was my own person.

  An independent woman who had a man but didn’t need one.

  And if I finished this job, I would be half a million dollars richer, and would never have to rely on anyone.

  What were all my reservations about?

  This wasn’t an issue of why Fernando shouldn’t be taken out but why the hell was I waiting so long to do my job?

  I stood and walked immediately to Estelle’s suite.

  �
�I can’t believe this is the best idea you could come up with!”

  Damn me, and my lofty ideas.

  All I wanted was a little help—maybe a few pointers—from Estelle. Well, she had a plan all right but one that might ruin my relationship with her brother in the process.

  Estelle turned me around to face her. “Listen to me, I love Maarten, and we both know you two are a great couple. Hell, he couldn’t get luckier than you. Which . . . is why if you have to go all the way to accomplish your goal then I’ll never tell him what happened.”

  The tears pricked my eyes but no way could I let them fall, fake eyelashes or not. “I know that but it doesn’t change the fact that I’d be . . . a cheater.”

  She rolled her eyes as she smoothed down the black, sparkly barely-there Versace dress I wore. “Listen, you’re playing a part, Mira. Fernando hires call girls all the time. He may notice you—he might not so you might be able to catch him by surprise. If that’s the case then do it and get the hell out of there without being noticed.”

  I messed with the blonde bangs from the platinum wig I wore. It was a short, severe asymmetrical bob that looked completely natural and complimented the green contacts I wore over my own natural ice blue eyes.

  To be honest, I didn’t recognize myself and neither would Fernando.

  “This is the only way I can do this and stay, right? I mean, will I still have to leave Vegas for a while?”

  “It would look pretty suspicious if you did leave. The whole point is he’ll never see you coming. He’s not looking out for a gorgeous green-eyed blonde. He’s looking for you with your luscious dark hair and unbelievably bluer than blue eyes. Seriously, if Pyro saw you, he wouldn’t even recognize you.”