Kiss Of Death: A Dark Mafia Romance

by LP Lovell

  “Where?”

  “Miami. Your flight is already booked from JFK this afternoon.” Shit, that’s fast. “It is an urgent job. You have a forty-eight hour deadline and then your target will leave the country.”

  “Okay. Do you have an in for me?” Most jobs, I have to do my own reconnaissance, but with only two days, the client usually lays out some form of set up and Sasha does the rest.

  “I have Sasha here for you.” There’s a moment of silence before Sasha’s voice comes over the line.

  “Your target is Diego Rosso,” he says. Diego Rosso is a Cuban weapons dealer with a nasty habit of selling weapons to pretty much anyone who wants to buy them. He’s actually number eighteen on the FBI’s most wanted list, due to his rather friendly relationship with terrorists in Syria and Iraq. His name has popped up several times over the last few years, and I’m familiar with his network.

  “I’ve looked at his credit card statements and it seems that whenever he’s in Miami he sends multiple transactions to an escort agency.” He’s all business. “I hacked the agency’s server and they have a booking tomorrow for one Mr. Julian Torres, an alias of his.”

  “The girl he booked?”

  “I’m sending you her name and address now.”

  “Thanks.” I hang up and linger in the hallway, bracing my back against the wall and pressing the top of the phone against my chin as I think through everything I need to do to tie up here. There is no amount of tying that can make leaving okay though, because, for once in my life, the next kill has lost its appeal. My main concern is Anna. I’ve done Nero’s job, now he needs to do his. I’ll do this hit, but I will be back, and I will keep coming back for as long as it takes him to find her. Going downstairs, I pack up my shit. Guns, ammo, cash, the laptop. I can’t take it with me, but I’ll put it back in the storage locker. I then go upstairs, taking each step slowly before I walk down the hallway. My hand hovers over the handle of his bedroom door, and I almost don’t want to go in. I could just leave a note and go, but that would be weak, and I don’t do weak.

  25

  Nero

  “Nero?” I wake at the sound of Una’s voice. She’s fully dressed in her black combat pants and long-sleeved shirt. Her hair is loose around her shoulders, and a troubled expression mars her face.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I held up my end of our deal. I want my sister,” she says coldly.

  I stare at her for a second, trying to see through her defensive bullshit. “And you’ll have her. She’s in Juarez with one of my contacts.”

  Her eyes widen. “You’ve had her this entire time?”

  “Since last week. It will take a few days to get her out of Mexico.” I push up off the mattress, fighting the urge to just fucking lie back down as the pain tears through the left-hand side of my body. She stands and takes a step back, crossing her arms over her chest. Keeping my left arm clutched to my body, I climb to my feet and head towards the bathroom, ignoring Una. Every step feels like someone is punching me in the shoulder and Una really isn’t my favorite person right now.

  “I’ll be back in a few days,” she says casually. I freeze halfway across the room and slowly pivot. She clocks the look on my face as I approach and raises her chin, setting her jaw defiantly.

  “Back from where?”

  “Miami. Nicholai called me in for a job.”

  Fucking Nicholai. “So, the master has clicked his fingers and off you run?”

  Her fists clench before she takes a deep breath. Her loyalty to him is unflinching because she knows no better. Nicholai is all she knows. “I’m a hired killer, so yes, when someone needs killing, I go.”

  We stare at each other for a long moment, because I want to stop her and she knows it, but I won’t, and we both know that too. “Then go.”

  “Be careful,” she whispers, jerking her chin towards my shoulder.

  “Shouldn’t I be saying that to you?”

  A wry smile pulls at her lips. “I’m the kiss of death.”

  Unable to keep distance between us, I step forward and wrap my free hand around the back of her neck, yanking her close. “No, Morte, you’re mine.” My lips brush her cheek. “Remember that.” I nip her jaw then step back. Words that neither of us are prepared to speak swirl between us, thickening the air with tension. I turn away and go into the bathroom.

  Closing the door, I brace my back against it and wait for her to leave. The second I hear her retreating footsteps fade, I pick up the nearest thing, a bottle of hand wash, and launch it at the mirror. The glass smashes, splintering and throwing my own broken reflection back at me. Pain flashes through my shoulder. She’s both literally and metaphorically burned me from the inside out, because I want her to the point of irrationality. A possessive rage clings to the edges of my mind.

  I know how Una gets to her clients and the imagine of her kissing another guy, allowing him to touch her, wanting him to bury his face in her neck so that she can render him weak and thrust a knife in his back… I see it all so clearly and it’s driving me fucking insane. Una is mine, and she can’t outrun that.

  Una’s been gone for a total of six hours, and as much as I try to work, try not to think about her, I can’t. The idea of her on a job plagues me, aggravating me. I know when she seduces a client it’s not real, but they don’t, they think they have a right to her for a few minutes, and even though she kills them for their troubles, it’s not enough.

  My phone rings, tearing me from my thoughts. The screen flashes showing a south American number. I pick it up.

  “Yeah.”

  “Nero, I have some information that might interest you.” Rafael. His Spanish accent is slight but distinctive.

  “And what is this information going to cost me?”

  “Consider it a favor to a friend.” We’re definitely not friends. Business acquaintances but not friends. “I hear that you are acquainted with the mad Russians favorite pet.” The irony that he’s keeping said pets own sister and he doesn’t even know it…

  “What about her?”

  He pauses and draws a long breath. “I have heard she’s very pretty, much like her sister. It would be a shame for her to meet her end.” How the fuck does he know that Anna is Una’s sister? No one knows that she even has a sister apart from me, her and Anna, but of course he has Anna. There’s no telling what information the bastard would try and pry from her. I say nothing because in this situation words are dangerous. He huffs another laugh. “Five million dollars is a lot of money.”

  “Five million dollars for what?” I snap.

  “The price on her pretty little head of course. I hear the Los Zetas sent their best sicario for her. He’s in Miami now. I wonder if the angel of death is as good as they say.”

  “This favor of yours, is there a price tag on it?”

  “Just remember it.” In other words, he’ll call it in at some point. “Tick tock, Nero. Run capo, run capo, run, run, run.” He sings before laughing and hanging up.

  26

  Una

  I normally love Miami, but I think I’m coming down with something and the heat and humidity aren’t helping the nausea that’s settled into the pit of my stomach since I left Nero yesterday. The car rolls to a stop on a quiet street beneath the shade of a palm tree and I step out.

  Elaina Matthews’ apartment is in a small building near South beach. It’s non-descript, with a set of iron stairs and a walkway that runs along the first floor. Knocking on her door, I wait, hearing the shuffle of footsteps on the other side.

  She opens the door in a tracksuit, a pile of blonde hair scooped up on top of her head.

  “Yeah?” Her eyebrows pinch together in a frown.

  I could probably think of a hundred reasons to have her invite me in, but my head is pounding, and I can’t be bothered with the niceties. Instead, I ram my shoulder into her, pushing her back into the apartment.

  “Hey!” Slamming the door behind me, I thrust the needle of the small syring
e into her neck, depressing the plunger. She reaches for her neck before her eyelids start to droop. The mixture of Ketamine and Rohypnol works quickly and will knock her out for at least eight hours. When she wakes up, she won’t remember a thing.

  That takes her out of the equation.

  Tugging at the hem of my tiny dress, I take the short walk down Ocean Drive to the Beacon Hotel. The street is packed, and it feels like a carnival. There are people everywhere, street performers, girls in bikinis walking up and down holding up signs for various bars. The sidewalk is littered with tables and chairs as the bars sprawl out into the street. People sit drinking cocktails from glasses the size of my head, the liquid smoking and bubbling like a witch’s cauldron. Cars crawl along the beach front, chromed out Cadillacs and supped-up sports cars revving their engines and blasting hip-hop music. It’s like a street party, and actually, I don’t look even slightly out of place in my slutty dress. The number of people coupled with all the music blasting out of each bar has my senses in overload. I can’t help but want to listen and probe the area around me for possible threats. I swear I can feel eyes on me, but I can’t sense anything past all the noise. Glancing over my shoulder, I attempt to check for followers. The crowd is so dense, I couldn’t tell you even if an attacker were right behind me.

  I quicken my pace until I reach the hotel. It’s an art deco building, slap bang in the middle of the bars and clubs, and honestly, if I were a wanted weapons dealer, it’s a location I would pick. If he needs to escape quickly, he could disappear into the swelling crowd in seconds, slip into any one of ten bars that I can see from here. It’s a smart move, but I’m not the FBI, I’m not here to cuff him. He won’t be running from me.

  Stepping inside, I inhale a breath of the cool, conditioned air. Tiled flooring clicks beneath my heels and I glance up to the curved viewing gallery above. A bar opens up to my right, and I instantly spot Diego. The picture Sasha sent me was a blurred surveillance image, but it’s enough. Approaching him, I hop up on the stool beside him and order a vodka without sparing him a glance. The barman moves away to make my drink and I twist my face towards him.

  He has that typical Miami look with the linen pants and a white shirt, top three buttons undone. Black chest hair peeks through the gap in his shirt and a heavy gold chain hangs around his neck. His hair is shaved almost to his head. He’s just an average-looking guy, I suppose.

  “Julian?”

  He glances in my direction, holding his glass in one hand and a cigarette in the other. As soon as I inhale the smell, it reminds me of Nero, the scent of smoke and expensive cologne. Diego brings the cigarette to his lips, smiling around the filter tip and making it seem like the dirty habit it really is. Whereas Nero can make the simple act of smoking a cigarette look like a work of art.

  “Who are you?” His accent is a strange mix of American, Cuban and Spanish.

  “My name is Isabelle. The agency sent me.” I hold my hand out to him and flash him a blinding smile.

  “Where is Elaina?” he asks, suspicion lacing his voice. Shit.

  “She couldn’t make it. The agency thought you might like me instead.” I push as much seduction into my voice as possible and his expression softens.

  Eyes skate over my body, locking onto the point where the miniscule dress clings to my upper thighs. Lifting his drink towards his lips, he nods. Jesus, how to make a girl feel good about herself. The barman places my drink on the bar and I take a large gulp of the shit vodka.

  “Are you from Miami?” I ask.

  He downs his drink and slams the glass on the bar a little too hard. “I didn’t come here to talk to you.”

  I smirk because I’m going to enjoy killing this one. “Of course.” I neck the remainder of the vodka. “Shall we?”

  Standing up, he surprises me by offering his hand. I take it, my fingers brushing over the thick callouses of his palm, which is good, because then he won’t notice how equally calloused my hands are. I can pull on a mask and become anyone I need to be, but once a fighter always a fighter and the evidence simply can’t be hidden. My knuckles are thick with scar tissue, the silvery white skin marked from splitting open and healing time and time again. It’s given me away once or twice.

  I allow him to glide his hand around my waist, fighting my less civilized instincts as he leads me out of the bar. Soon, I tell the angry little demon inside my head. The second he gets me in the elevator, I’m pressed against the mirrored wall with his lips on my neck and his hands on my exposed thighs. The doors open, he drags me out, and I play along, allowing him to force me backwards along the corridor. Jeez, when was the last time the guy got laid? My back hits a door and his hand is practically in my underwear as he fumbles with the key card. This usually wouldn’t bother me, my cold detachment allowing me to see it as just part of the job. But today I have to grit my teeth and bite back the bile that’s rising in my throat. Just a few more seconds. His lips slam over mine and he shoves me into the room.

  The door clicks shut, and the second I’m thrown into darkness, a fissure of unease crawls through me. Something’s wrong. “You make a shit whore.” No sooner have the words sunk in than his hand slams around my throat, almost taking me off my feet as he throws me into a bedside table. I groan, blinking as my eyes adjust to the faint light drifting through the window. A lamp has fallen to the floor beside me and I reach for it, unclicking the light bulb as he closes in on me again. I get to my feet just in time to ram the bulb into his face. It smashes, embedding jagged shards into his skin. He shouts out something in Spanish as the blood pours down his cheek. I nail him in the kidney and he hits me in the face so hard, I almost go down again. Jesus, who is this guy?

  Spitting out a mouthful of blood, I crack my neck to the side before going for him again. For every blow I dish out, he gives me one twice as hard. The last time I fought like this I was in training. This is a fight to the death and we both know it. Launching me onto the bed, he lands on top of me, hands clamping around my throat. He doesn’t bother with a gentle easing in. No, the grip is hard enough to break my neck, never mind choke me. I crack him in the side of the temple, but it does nothing. Pulling my mind together, I force myself to think and not panic. Embrace death. My right hand is pressed between our bodies, if I can just…I manage to move my wrist enough to drop the silver blade from my cuff, and then I jab him in the crotch with it twice. He roars and leaps back off me. Precious air filters into my lungs, dragging a cough from me as I roll onto my front. He grabs me by the back of my neck and tosses me across the room before following and pinning me against the wall with his forearm across my throat.

  “Va a ser un buen premio, ángel de la muerte,” he hisses in my face. You will make a fine prize, angel of death. Only the Mexicans call me that. What the hell did I do to piss them off? He pushes his whole weight against my throat and my nails rake over his face. I press my thumbs into his eyes and he snarls…BANG! Pain slices across my forearm and then he drops to the floor, dead. I whirl to face a shadowy figure rising from the chair in the corner of the room.

  “You’re losing your touch, morte.”

  Nero. What the hell? I hold up my finger and bend over, bracing my hands on my knees as I try and breathe through my battered larynx. Glancing at my forearm I note the bright red line, a bullet burn. Motherfucker. “I had that. And what the hell are you doing here?”

  I straighten as he approaches me, dragging his eyes slowly over my exposed body. “Working are we?” Glaring, I tug at the hem of my dress which has ridden up, exposing my underwear.

  “Why. Are. You. Here?”

  Like a snake, he strikes, fingers squeezing my chin to the point of pain. Anger swirls in his irises like an impending storm and the muscles in his jaw contract irritably.

  “Were you going to fuck him?” His voice is a low growl.

  “What?!”

  “Were you going to fuck the sicario?” he repeats, his tone measured and quiet, which is always worrying. The tension rolling of
f him is thick and turbulent, a pre-cursor to something much more violent.

  “I was going to kill him. Or did that little show down look romantic to you? In fact, don’t answer that.” That’s Nero’s idea of perfect foreplay.

  “If he hadn’t tried to kill you?” Hot breath washes over my face, and I can’t help the frantic rush of my heart as his potent brand of lust and fear caresses my senses.

  “I really think you’re missing the important point, which is that he tried to fucking kill me!”

  He tilts my head back with a violent shove, bringing his lips close to my ear. “Listen very carefully, Morte. You can run, you can put half the world between us if you like, I don’t care. But you are mine. That pussy is mine. These lips are fucking mine.” He pulls back and swipes his thumb roughly over my bottom lip. “Kiss another man again, and you won’t like what happens next.” My stomach tightens along with his grip. So, that’s why he let me take a beating, because he’s butt hurt that the Mexican kissed me. It’s a job! I’ll never understand jealousy.

  “Were you following me?” He doesn’t answer and I shake my head. “You’re crazy.” I dig my nails into his wrist, and his forehead touches mine on a deep breath.

  “This was a set-up. Someone wants you dead. He’s one of the best sicarios the Los Zetas has to offer.”

  “Someone always wants me dead, Nero.” Although I’ve never had any run-ins with the Los Zetas. At least I can feel better about nearly having my ass handed to me though. Those guys are badass.

  His grip on my jaw softens, fingers stroking over my cheek. “Enough to pay five million for the hit?”

  My eyes go wide, and I glance at the body. Five million. Jesus. “How did you know?”

  “I have contacts.” Every time I think I know the extent of Nero’s power, he surprises me. “Nicholai put you on this job?”