by LP Lovell
Kiss of Death
A Dark Mafia Romance
LP Lovell
Contents
Foreword
Kill Me
1. Una
2. Nero
3. Una
4. Nero
5. Una
6. Nero
7. Una
8. Nero
9. Una
10. Una
11. Nero
12. Una
13. Nero
14. Una
15. Una
16. Nero
17. Una
18. Una
19. Nero
20. Una
21. Nero
22. Una
23. Nero
24. Una
25. Nero
26. Una
27. Una
28. Nero
29. Una
Kiss Me
Prologue
1. Una
2. Nero
3. Una
4. Una
5. Una
6. Nero
7. Una
8. Nero
9. Una
10. Nero
11. Una
12. Nero
13. Una
14. Nero
15. Una
16. Nero
17. Una
18. Nero
19. Una
20. Nero
21. Una
22. Nero
23. Nero
24. Nero
25. Una
26. Nero
27. Una
28. Una
29. Una
30. Nero
31. Una
32. Una
33. Nero
34. Una
Epilogue
Bonus Epilogue
Make Me
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Dear Reader
The Author
Other books by LP Lovell
Copyright © 2021 LP Lovell.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover Designer: Charlotte Johnson
Editor: Wallflower Editing
Created with Vellum
Foreword
Kiss of Death is a complete story.
Una’s backstory is in MAKE ME, a short novella at the end of the book. Warning; it is very dark and at times disturbing. If you’d like to read it first, click HERE. If you’d like to dive right in with the twisted romance of Nero and Una, keep reading.
Kill Me
Kiss of Death Book 1
1
Una
I bump my bike over the curb and allow it to roll down the small embankment into the tree line. Kicking the stand down, I take off my helmet and my hair falls loose down my back. The scent of the woods wraps around me, the pine trees, the earth, the moss. After the confines of the city, it’s a welcome reprieve that revitalizes me. The city is too loud, the cars, the people, it both overwhelms and numbs my senses. Out here, I can hear everything and nothing, because silence reigns, disturbed only by the occasional chitter of a bird.
Pulling my hood up over my head, I start jogging up the road, clinging to the shadows as I approach the house. To the unsuspecting person, this is merely the Hamptons mansion of some guy with a fuck lot of money, I know better. This is the fortress of Arnaldo Boticelli, the underboss of the Italian Mafia. Not many outsiders will ever see the inside of those walls, and I am always an outsider. It’s why they hire me.
I wait until the guards change; taking advantage of their small moment of distraction to make for the six-foot high stone pillar that sits to the left of the enormous metal gate, just in the shadow of the guardhouse. Gripping the ledge, I haul myself up, launching straight over the top and landing on the other side in a silent roll. Pausing, my senses pick up the slightest sound and movement. The faint panting of a dog and the clumsy footfalls of heavy boots are all I hear. Thirty seconds is all I have to get to the house. I run over the dark lawns, but the closer I get, the riskier it is. The mansion is like a modern palace, made of glass walls that allow light to spill out across all that surrounds it. There are at least three snipers on the roof along with four guard patrols circling the perimeter and six directly surrounding the house.
Scanning the house, I spot one of the upstairs guest rooms has a window that is ajar. The enormous pane of glass is tilted from a central pivot, and the room behind it is cast in darkness, one of the few that isn’t lit up like a Christmas tree. The guard below the window seems distracted, bored. Making a break for it, my feet whisper across the grass as I run up behind him, jumping and wrapping my thighs around his hips in order to leverage my arm around his throat. He staggers for a moment and slams back into the wall. I squeeze harder, using everything I have to crush his thick neck. And then he goes down, hitting the ground with a soft thud.
Now…I just need to scale the building and slip in the second-storey window. Easy.
A few minutes later and I’m peering around a wall at Arnaldo’s office doors. Two guards stand outside, both armed. Yanking my hood further down, I step out from behind the wall. The guards snap their attention to me, and I pop just a little more sway in my hips as I approach them. They both reach for their weapons and I drop to the ground, ripping the pistols from my thigh holsters and pulling them up in front of me. The triggers give way under my index fingers with a silenced pop. Both of them grapple for a second, reaching for the small darts protruding from their necks before they simultaneously slide to the floor. Darts so aren’t my style, but then it doesn’t go over well to come into a client’s house and kill their personal guards. I press my boot against the arm of one of the guys, shoving him to the side so I can open the door. My boots sink into the thick carpet and I push the door closed behind me.
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 more 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?” 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 deadly, after all.
“Una,” Arnie greets me in his thick Italian accent before clicking his fingers, signalling for his men to leave. He knows I won’t talk with them here. The door clicks shut behind them, and he gestures for me to sit. “Thank you for agreeing to meet.”
I’m already aware of the man behind me in the corner of the room, 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 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 with a
soft thud. The mob boss’s lips curl in the shadow of a smile.
“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. 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, tapering 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, chiseled 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.
2
Nero
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 differently, 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.”