by LP Lovell
Five bodies. Five men sent here for the sole purpose of killing me. I’ve been running for six weeks and in that time, I’ve been hunted mercilessly. Though, I’d expect nothing less. Five million dollars is an inspirational amount of money, and it’s currently the price on my head. I have but one friend left in this world. One person I can trust. Sasha. He helps me stay one step ahead, calling on his contacts so he can warn me when they’re coming. But that job is getting harder and harder because I have enemies coming at me from all directions. Sasha confirmed in the last two weeks that it is indeed Arnaldo Boticelli who put the hit on me, just as Nero suspected. So now I have the Italian underboss out for my blood. Nicholai is also looking for me because I defied his order to return to Moscow, and then, of course, there’s Nero. I should have known he wouldn’t just let me walk away, that he wouldn’t be content with my simple promise to return to him. Two weeks ago he turned up here, but it’s the apartment on the floor below that I registered under one of my known aliases. This one, I rent cash in hand. No name.
Why rent another apartment under a name I know they’ll find? Why bring them here? Because I’m Una Ivanov, and though I may be running for now, I don’t hide. If they want me, they can come. I will slaughter every last one of Arnaldo’s men if I have to. But a week ago, it wasn’t Arnaldo’s men that turned up.
The downstairs apartment is rigged with alarms and sensors. The second someone sets foot inside that place, I know about it. The alarm tripped, so I left and went to my spot across the street: a fire escape sheltered in the shadow of a dark alleyway. From there I had a clear vantage point into the apartment, and it’s there that I saw Nero. Through my rifle sights I could see the hard set of his jaw, the strain behind his eyes. Of all the people hunting me, Nero Verdi may well be the one I fear the most. You can kill enemies. You can even fight yourself, but you can’t fight fate. You can’t kill the only person you feel anything for, because as ruthless and violent as Nero is, we’re two halves of the whole, hopelessly drawn to one another’s darkness. I long for the rush only his brand of fear can possibly ignite. He once told me that I can run, that I can put half the world between us, but I will always be his. I am his, and he is the father of my child. He came here, to London, which makes this more dangerous than ever. He couldn’t know about the pregnancy. He’s an unpredictable creature at the best of times, but this…I can’t even imagine how he’d react. I need time. Six more months to be exact. And then I’ll return to him like I said I would.
He has my sister after all.
I blink and glance down at my not quite flat stomach. I have to leave. They took me by surprise this time, snuck in here in the middle of the night. The alarms downstairs never went off. They found me here, in my actual apartment. I can’t get rid of these bodies without calling in help, and help will lead my enemies to me like sharks to a fresh kill. I pick up the burner phone I’ve been using and send a text to Sasha. Need a clean-up at the apartment for five. Going dark.
I take a quick shower. The water runs crimson as I scrub the layers of blood from my skin. Wiping the condensation off the mirror, I stare at the reflection. I barely recognize myself and that’s good. My once white-blonde hair is now chocolate brown, though the dye is fading in places. I find a Band-Aid and place it over the bleeding split on my cheek. My jaw is marred with an angry red mark and my throat is already turning purple from the belt one of them tried to choke me with. This is England. Gun fights are conspicuous. Luckily for me. It’s far easier to take out five guys when they can’t shoot you. I throw on a pair of jeans and a loose-fitting hoody, and then I’m leaving with only one bag. I have cash, my knife, several fake passports and a laptop. That’s it. I walk the dark streets to the nearby London Underground and head for Victoria Station. From there I’ll buy a ticket with cash and get the hell out of here. Maybe I’ll go to Ireland, or even Paris, who knows? And the less I know, the harder it is for anyone to follow me. The key to running is to not have a plan, to be spontaneous, and most importantly, to be inconspicuous.
Even I don’t know what I’m going to do next, and neither does Arnaldo.
1
Una
I hand the guy behind the desk a fake driver’s license under the name of Sarah Jacobs. He glances at it and pops it on the photocopier before handing it back to me along with a key.
“N24,” he says, his tone bored.
“Thank you.” I hitch my bag higher on my shoulder before taking the elevator down to the parking garage. Space N24 is a sleek looking black Mercedes. I throw my bag inside before climbing in and starting the engine. I have no time to waste. In and out.
I pull out of JFK airport and head for the Brooklyn bridge. I need supplies, guns, ammunition, explosives, a bullet proof vest. I debated disappearing into Europe, but I just couldn’t stomach the idea of running away from that spineless Italian shit. Nero and Nicholai scare me infinitely more, but Arnaldo is nothing and I’m getting bored of killing his men for him. I’m about to willingly walk into the lion’s den so I can kill the pride male and mount his fucking head.
I’ve broken into Arnaldo’s house several times before and I know most of the entrances. Every hidden shadow and camera free nook. I’m going for distract and conquer. Approaching the main gate on foot, I pull my hood up higher, keeping my head dipped and face shadowed. I slide my hands in my pockets, wrapping my fingers around the two grenades and slipping the pins. I drop to one knee and roll them towards the gate. The metal tinkers over the tarmac—the sound such an innocent prelude to the upcoming carnage. I spin around and hunch over just as they explode. Heat hits my back and bits of debris fly past me. There’s a creaking of metal followed by a heavy bang as the gate collapses off its hinge. I’m up and running for the woods to the right-hand side of the gateway before the last bits of debris have even settled. Two guards stagger out of the small hut beside the gate and each gets a bullet in the head. I tuck my gun back into my thigh holster and duck into the woodland, following the perimeter wall to the rear of the property.
The back of the house is lit up like the fourth of July, which isn’t ideal, but the benefit is it’s lightly guarded. There is, however, a guard armed with a rifle usually on the roof. I think the explosion at the gate will be enough to distract the ground security, but assumption is death. I pull myself up onto the wide wall and pause for a second before dropping down on the other side. The pool is in front of me, casting a luminescent blue light across the lawn. Palming my gun, I sprint across the lawn to the nearest shrub, ducking behind it. I’m waiting on baited-breath for the second when an unseen bullet rips through my chest, or perhaps it’ll be a head shot and I won’t know a thing about it. I hesitate for a second, brushing my palm over my stomach. If I die here today, then so does my baby, and that’s…that’s a life I’m not willing to sacrifice. This feels like the only thing that matters, perhaps the only thing I will ever do with my life that is truly worthwhile. The problem is I’m backed into a corner with no safe way out. I can’t bring this child into the world with Arnaldo on my trail because if I die, then this was all just meaningless. What happens in a couple of month’s time when I’m hindered by the pregnancy? When I can’t defend myself properly? No, I must do this right now. It’s the last chance I’m going to get. I’m Una Ivanov. I will survive, and then I’ll disappear like a ghost in the night, have this baby, and get back to doing what I do best. Killing. The child can have a loving family, a chance at normal. It’s the best I have to offer it.
With a new-found resolve, I sprint the last few meters to the house, pressing my back to the wall. Honestly, Arnie should really up his security. I slip the backpack off my shoulders and dig inside, pulling out a few blocks of C4. I could have asked Sasha for help, had him hack the security system, and black out the cameras. I probably could have killed Arnaldo without my presence ever even being noticed, but that’s not what this is about. I want him to sit in his office and watch his precious house get blown to bits. I want him to witness his m
en die, one after the other, until he comes to the stark realization that I’m coming for him and there’s no one left to protect him. Nowhere left to run. This is about more than just killing him. This is a message: no one hunts death. He’s not the first to underestimate me. Of course, he won’t be expecting me to come here. Even if it weren’t physically suicidal, politically, it’s dodgy ground. The Italians might see it as fair. He came after me, so I went after him. Or, they might make me enemy number one, in which case, the entire Italian mafia will be after me. But I have the backing of the Russians….I think. And I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t have an unnatural amount of faith in Nero. God knows why. He’s a capo in the very same mafia, but he’s also their bad boy. A wild card, and, in his own words, I am his. Honestly, he’s just as likely to shoot me as side with me, but a girl can hope. And let’s be honest, I have an ace up my sleeve, or should I say, in my uterus.
I set up the C4 and move around the corner of the building to blow it. The explosion rips a hole in the back of the house, and I palm my gun, jogging through the carnage and rubble into the building. I shoot at anything that moves, just about making out shadows through the smoke. I point, shoot. Point, shoot. Reload. And so it goes on, until the bodies pile up just as fast as the bullet casings and finally an eerie silence permeates the air around me. The only sound is the steady crackling of fire, backed by the occasional crumbling of the building around me.
I wait a beat before releasing the clips from both pistols and re-loading them as I navigate the desecrated kitchen units. My muscles ache with tension as I move into the hallway. The house is too quiet. This feels too easy. My heart pounds in my chest, my pulse hammering against my ear drums in a mocking beat.
I pause when I hear the tiniest movement from the darkened doorway ahead of me. It’s enough. I drop to the floor in the blink of an eye and fire off two shots. I scarcely make it to my feet before I have a gun in my face. I shove his wrist off to the side and shoot him in the gut. He’s not dead, but he makes the perfect body shield. Slumping against me, I take his weight, sliding my arms beneath his and firing at four guys who are all coming at me. Bullets hit my friend here and he grunts before falling limp. I stagger under his dead weight and then hear the tell-tell clink of a grenade pin. Fuck. Something hits my boot and I throw the body down on top of the explosive before running for the nearest doorway. I don’t make it. A hand flies out, punching me in the throat so hard I’m pretty sure he just collapsed my oesophagus. The grenade goes off, the bang loud enough to make my ears ring. Something wet hits my face and I blink, crawling around on the floor and gasping for air until my vision spots. I make out a pair of boots in my line of sight and force myself to focus, to calm. I drop the small pin blade from the cuff at my wrist and palm it conspicuously.
“Kiss of Death, my ass.” The heavily accented voice mocks. I manage to draw a small amount of air into my lungs and move. My hand flashes out and I drag the blade over the back of his ankle, severing his Achilles tendon. He goes down hard, his leg giving way beneath him. “Fucking bitch,” he curses before I jam the tiny blade into the side of his neck and yank it towards me. His jugular opens like a tap and blood sprays across the tile floor. Climbing to my feet, I slide the blade back into the cuff and pick up my guns from the floor. Arnaldo’s office is on the other side of the house, and who knows how many soldiers he has between me and him.
I’m surprised when I only encounter a handful more guys. I guess Arnaldo’s running low on soldiers, seeing as I keep killing the one’s he sends me. The mafia are nothing if not arrogant, sitting here in their mansions, thinking no one will dare attack them. His few remaining men go down easily enough and soon I find myself standing outside Arnie’s office. The second I open those doors; it’s going to rain bullets. He wouldn’t have left himself completely undefended. He always has at least two men with him at all times, and given the situation, I’d expect more. I fix my gaze on the small camera just above the door. I know he can see me.
I take two more grenades from my rucksack and lift them to my face, placing my lips against the cool metal as I stare at the camera. A red lipstick mark remains on the metal. My calling card. Fitting, really, in my potentially last blaze of glory. Smiling, I drop the grenades, allowing them to roll towards the doors. I spin away, ducking behind one of the thick marble pillars that adorns his hideously ostentatious hallway. The second they detonate, I’m moving towards the mangled office doorway, guns drawn and bullets flying. A bullet tears through my thigh and I grit my teeth, ducking beside the doorway.
Glancing down, I curse under my breath at the blood running down my leg, soaking my pants. “Come now, Arnie. That’s no way to treat your guests,” I call.
“You are an enemy at the gates, Bacio Della Morte. You may be revered as a killer, but you will die like a dog.”
I laugh. “Maybe, but I sure fucked up your shit on my way out.” I back away from the doorway, limping as I go.
“Bricks and mortar…” I take a running start, pain lancing up my leg as I do. When I’m a couple of feet away from the doorway, I drop to my knees. The blood pouring from my leg helps me to slide across the marble floor. I take two shots, before coming to a stop on the other side of the door. A second later and I hear the muted thud of bodies hitting the floor. Two. Two bodies. I don’t know how many there are though. They could be hiding behind the very walls I now take shelter against.
“Was that bricks and mortar?” I ask through gritted teeth. Resting my back against the wall, I reach beneath my hoody and grab the bottom of my tank top, tearing a thick strip of material away. I tie it just above the bullet wound as tight as I can get it. Closing my eyes, I rest my head against the wall. I know I’m out, but I release the clip on each gun, checking them, just in case I miscounted. I haven’t. Fuck. I drop one gun on the floor, keeping a hold of the other. It may be empty, but he doesn’t know that. Taking the dagger from my thigh holster, I palm it as I stand. I step into the doorway of the office without hesitation, because perception is everything. Nero can walk into a room full of armed men and completely unnerve them simply because he’s so confident, so utterly in control of everything around him. I try to channel his sense of power and entitlement. Arnaldo sits behind his desk, seemingly alone aside from the two dead guards either side of his desk. With a grimace, he lifts his gun and I throw mine at him. It clocks him square in the forehead, leaving him dazed enough that I cross the space to his desk and ram my knife through his wrist, pinning it to the wood. He screams like the little bitch he is, fingers going slack on the gun with severed nerves. I pick up the gun and he watches me, his expression masked in pain. I slide onto the desk in front of him and grab a handful of his greying hair.
“You came after me, Arnie,” I tut.
“You aligned with him.” He spits the words. Blood spreads over the desk, trickling over the edge of the wood and hitting the floor in a steady patter.
“I sell to the highest bidder. He paid more.” He paid me with something money can’t buy. My sister.
“You’re going to die. Your Russian sugar daddy can’t help you this time,” His fingers wrap around the hilt of my knife. I’m impressed when he wrenches it free from his arm and makes a sloppy dive at me. My palm meets the centre of his forearm and I smile when I hear the satisfying crack of his bone followed by an agonized cry of pain. Men like Arnaldo are not to be taken lightly, but the fact is, they are power players, men who sit behind desks calling shots and rarely killing anyone themselves. When the occasion calls for it, they pull a trigger. He’s no match for me and he knows it. I see the defeat in his eyes. The resolve as I bring the knife to his neck. And then I look him right in the eye as I drag my blade across his throat. His eyes go wide and a gurgled choking sound slips past his lips as blood gushes everywhere.
I grip his chin and his fading eyes meet mine. “I don’t need help. I’m the kiss of death.” I press my lips to his forehead, and when I pull away, that futile last breath leaves his body in
a hiss.
I usually feel a small thrill when I kill a target, this time though, I truly feel nothing. Arnaldo was not a mark. He was not a pay cheque. He was not the enemy of some faceless client. He made himself my enemy. This was personal. This is what happens when you seek out death. She comes for you. And now, I leave. I just killed the under-boss of the Italian mafia, and there are consequences to that.
2
Nero
Rage. It’s my constant companion, driving me to the edge of sanity with each passing day. And Una Ivanov is the fucking cause. I know she can look after herself and she sure as shit doesn’t need my protection, but the price on her head is high. High enough to even the odds against her dramatically. If I know anything about Una—the more Arnaldo backs her into a corner, the worse he’s making it for himself. It seems he’s forgotten who he’s dealing with, and if she doesn’t remind him of it, then Nicholai Ivanov damn well will. The crazy Russian won’t take it well when he hears his favorite pet is being hunted like a dog.
Nothing is playing out the way I planned. She was supposed to be by pawn and instead, she became my queen. My vicious little queen…until she ran from me. What is that saying? You don’t know what you have until it’s gone? Well, I couldn’t possibly have predicted just how much she had gotten under my skin until she left. I should let her go. She’s a weakness I don’t need. Not to mention the amount of heat that’s on her, but every time I think about walking away, about the possibility of her being killed, or worse, surviving…moving on, fucking someone else – I can’t. She can’t. She’s mine and no one else touches her but me.