Kiss Of Death: A Dark Mafia Romance

by LP Lovell

  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?”

  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. “You’re not American.” 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. 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.”

  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 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.

  O’Malley’s 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 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 someone 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 drop the small silver blade from the cuff at my wrist into my hand. This bracelet 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, gripping 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?”

  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 techni
cally 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, Miss Ivanov. I want you to kill Nero Verdi for me. He won’t even see it coming.”

  Oh, how the tables turn.

  19

  Nero

  My eyes land on Tommy’s prone body the second the elevator doors open. 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, eyelids twitching before they finally open.

  “Boss?”

  I sigh. “Where’s Una?” I know, without even having to ask, exactly where she’s gone, but I want to hear him say the words. I want him to tell me that he let her fucking go.

  “She, uh, she knocked me out,” he says, dropping his eyes away from my scrutinizing stare.

  I push to my feet. “Where is she?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Fuck!” I brace my hands against the kitchen island and it’s then that I notice the scrap of paper in the middle. Picking it up, I read over the scrawled words.

  Nero.

  Don’t get your panties in a wad. I’ve gone to do my job. Don’t wait up.

  Una.

  O’Hara. She’s gone after fucking O’Hara, and he knows she’s coming. Shit!

  “What time did she leave?”

  “About eight.”

  It’s ten thirty.

  I drop my head forward. “She’s gone after O’Hara. Two hours is too long and he knows she’s coming. She’s probably dead.” I say the words calmly, but I don’t feel calm. I feel…aggravated, to the point that I want to rip this place apart.

  “She might not be. She…I mean…” he stammers.

  I twist my gaze towards him. “She what?”

  He takes a seat across from me, resting his head in his hands. “She has this guy, Darren.”

  “You need to talk really fucking fast, Tommy,” I growl.

  “Look, she made me take her to O’Malley’s on Tuesday,” he says in a rush. “This guy tried to talk to her, so she gave him her number. She was going to use him as an in to get to O’Hara.”

  “Do you know any more about this guy?”

  “Derham, I think she said his name was Darren Derham.”

  Well, this just gets better and better. “Find me details. I want family, a wife, a mother, anything you can find.” I pick up my keys and take another gun out of the kitchen drawer. “I will deal with you later.” That woman is incapable of listening to anything I say and now she’s dragging Tommy into this shit with her. And me? I’m running headfirst after her for reasons I can’t begin to explain even to myself.

  Jackson pulls up in the alleyway just around the corner from O’Malley’s. I called him on my way over because I sure as hell need backup and when it comes to fighting, Jackson’s always handy. He gets out of the black SUV and eyes me with a tight expression before opening the back door. Moving beside him, I stare at the woman on the back seat, her stomach swollen and her face streaked with tears.

  “I have no desire to hurt you. Call Darren. Now. Tell him where you are and that if he doesn’t come alone, I’m going to kill you.” A ragged sob comes from her. Fuck me, I don’t have time for this shit. Jackson hands her a phone and she takes it, hands shaking as she follows my instructions.

  “Darren!” she cries, her voice breaking. She draws several heaving breaths, tears and snot running down her face. “I’m in the alley one block over from the bar. He…he’s going to kill me.”

  Snatching the phone away from her, I put it to my ear. The sound of dull music is in the background, as if he’s in a hallway or a side room away from the main bar. “You have something I want, Mr. Derham. So, you are going to come and meet me, alone, or I am going to blow your pretty little girlfriend’s brains all over the dirty fucking street.” My voice rises and then I hang up, tossing the phone to Jackson.

  “Point a gun at her head. You see any more than one guy walk around that corner, shoot her.”

  “Oh god.” She starts whimpering and crying before she clasps her hands together and starts praying under her breath. I have no sympathy for that shit, and you know why? Because if you get involved with a mafia guy, this is to be expected. And if she didn’t know he was mafia…well, that just makes her stupid. The mafia are all about protecting women and keeping them out of it, they create these rules that make them untouchable, rely on honor, and it works…until a bastard like me comes along. I don’t have any honor and I’ll use any means necessary to get what I want. If he wants to take what’s mine, he can be damn sure I’ll take what’s his.

  A few minutes later, a figure appears at the mouth of the alley. He’s alone but his fingers are wrapped around a gun. “Who the fuck are you?” he asks, his voice strained.

  “I’m the guy with a gun to your woman’s head.” I point towards Jackson who has his gun trained on the back seat.

  “Darren!” she screams, and I see his eyes pinch slightly, his lips pressing together.

  “What do you want?” he asks through clenched teeth.

  I approach him and place my gun under his chin. He stares me straight in the eye. “I want Una.”

  “She’ll already be dead.”

  I ram the barrel of the gun into his throat hard enough to make him gag and choke.

  “You had best hope not, because at this point, her life is tied to dear Polly’s here.”

  “O’Hara has her,” he says through clenched teeth.

  “Where?”

  “The cellar of the bar.”

  “Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.” I pull the trigger and a bloody gaping hole appears in his throat. He’s seen Una’s face, knows who she is. He’s a liability. The girl starts screaming and it’s loud enough to wake the dead. Jackson leans in the back of the car and then it’s silent. He closes the door and opens the trunk, handing me a semi-automatic.

  “Grab his feet.” I pick up Darren’s shoulders and Jackson gets his ankles. I don’t have time to fix this now, so we just throw him in the trunk.

  Only one guy guards the back of the bar. We duck down in the shadows behind a dumpster and watch for a second.

  “Boss, we’re walking into the Irish stronghold,” Jackson says. I don’t respond because I’m well aware. “Is she really worth getting killed for?”

  Is she? I don’t know. All I know is I want her back. I’m not ready for my vicious little butterfly to meet her end. If anyone is going to kill her, it will be me.

  “We’ll see, won’t we?” I push to my feet. The guard turns to face us and Jackson shoots him, the muted pop from the silencer the only sound before he hits the ground. I’m hoping that they’re all too drunk to pay too much attention and honestly, he’s right, this is their stronghold. It’s the last place they would expect a hit.

  I fire off one round at the lock, yanking the old door open. I have no idea what I’m walking into, and I’m not sure I care.

  20

  Una

&nbs
p; “I don’t work for free, Mr O’Hara. And honestly, I expect a certain level of professional courtesy.”

  He laughs. “I’m showing you it by not killing you.”

  I narrow my eyes, lounging in the chair casually. “Haven’t you heard? I’m untouchable.”

  He moves closer. “No one is untouchable. So what will it be? You work for me or I use you and torture information out of you.”

  I throw my head back and laugh. “You’d be wasting your time.” I spring up from the chair, taking him by surprise as I clasp the curved metal of the handcuff and rake the serrated edge over his neck. He staggers back a step, and I get a clear line of sight to the guard on the left of the door. I throw the slim blade in my other hand at said guard and it hits him in the side of the neck. Blood spurts from the small nick like a hosepipe being turned on. The other guard glances at his friend before pointing his gun at me, but I duck behind his boss who provides an ample body shield. Of course, O’Hara has recovered from my earlier swipe. It was only a flesh wound and although there’s a lot of blood, he’s annoyingly fine. The door flies open on a bang and the quick pop pop of silenced gunfire has Finnegan grabbing a handful of my hair and turning us to face the door. He forces me in front of him, ramming the barrel of his gun into the side of my neck.

  “Nero.” I barely breathe. He stands in the doorway looking like the devil himself come to mete out his wrath. His chest rises and falls raggedly and the muscles in his jaw pulse beneath the skin. Jackson lingers in the hallway just behind him. His gaze briefly touching on mine before he goes back to keeping watch.