Kiss Of Death: A Dark Mafia Romance

by LP Lovell

  “Nero,” I turn from my spot at the window and face Gio who’s standing in the doorway to my temporary office in the London apartment.

  “Have you found her?” I ask.

  He folds his arms over his chest. “Not exactly.”

  It looks like something out of a horror film. Five bodies and what looks like the blood of ten. The carpets. The walls. The couch…everything is crimson. I move through the apartment, my eyes skimming over the few possessions Una left behind. There’s nothing personal, nothing that would give her away as ever having been here—except the blood bath in the living room. The entire apartment has that nuetral feel of a rental. The en-suite bathroom has a couple of bottles of shampoo, a razor…I pick up the shampoo and open the lid, inhaling. Vanilla. The smell instantly reminds me of her, though it’s missing the lacing of gun oil that clings to her. I leave the bathroom and pause in the bedroom doorway, my gaze moving from the bed that I know she was just recently sleeping in to the dead man sprawled on the rug. The hilt of a knife protrudes from his forehead, buried so deep, there’s barely any blood. I bend down and yank the knife it free. I inspect the simple yet delicate dagger, smiling as I imagine Arnaldo’s kill team creeping up on Una in the dark only to find themselves the victims of a nightmare.

  “The cleaners called it in,” Gio says, his expression pinched as he leans against the window. We’ve paid off every possible underground contact we could find, and the cleaners are a good place to start. They’re impartial, a third party who will clean up anything as long as they get paid. “She didn’t call them though, the Russians did.”

  “They’re supporting her?”

  “I guess she isn’t leaving them with much choice. They don’t want this kind of heat.” He waves his hand towards the living room. That’s true, but this really was inevitable. Arnaldo keeps sending men after her like she’s a bleeding animal with a damn prize hide. Sooner or later she was going to make a mess she couldn’t clean up alone. And here we are.

  “No, this is more than that. These bodies are at least twenty-four hours old. They’re actively helping her. They waited to call it in. They gave her a chance to get clear.” I know Nicholai is fond of her, but to help her now would put himself in the firing line. The Russian is crazy, but enough to risk causing a war?

  “This isn’t her style either. She’s clean efficient. This…” he drifts off.

  “She’s sending a message.”

  “Message received,” he says under his breath. His phone pings in his hand and he glances down at the screen, face draining of color.

  “What is it?”

  He closes the distance to me and turns the screen. It’s an image of Arnaldo’s severed head sat on his desk, a red lipstick mark on his waxy forehead. A slow smile pulls at my lips. She did it. Months of planning. Her, her sister…all part of the bigger plan. All part of this. But then he put a hit on her and everything went to shit. I never for a second expected her to walk into Arnaldo’s house and take him out. Alone. “She got away?”

  “They haven’t caught her if that’s what you mean. She killed eighteen of his men.” I have to laugh.

  “We just lost track of her, and she’s probably become even more wanted. Why the hell are you smiling?”

  We did lose her, for now, but I will find her. “Because she’s fucking perfect.”

  “You’re insane.”

  I’m about to get everything I’ve ever wanted, except her. I must find her because without her, all the power in the world wouldn’t be enough to fill the void left by my vicious little butterfly.

  “Let’s go back to New York.”

  I pull the car up next to a stack of containers at the edge of the shipping yard. The early morning sun glares off the surface of the Hudson River and a boat horn drifts on the wind. Gio is practically bristling with tension beside me. “I don’t like this,” he murmurs. “I don’t trust Russians.”

  “Una’s Russian.”

  “Exactly.”

  I’ll admit that I usually wouldn’t agree to this meeting. One call to my phone, a heavily accented voice simply stating a time and place. Nothing more. The only reason I’m here is because that accent was Russian. The only common factor between me and the Russians is Una.

  I cut the engine and, for a second, neither of us move. I stare through the windshield at the tall, lean guy resting against the hood of a Jaguar sports car. His blond hair, catches in the light, and sharp green eyes stare unflinchingly back at us. Him and Una could be siblings with their cold, pale features.

  I get out of the car, feeling the weight of my gun strapped to my chest. The Russian pushes away from his car, moving like a predator and dancer wrapped into one; calculated and lethal. Just like Una. He’s one of the Elite. I instantly go for my gun and he tracks the movement like a wolf watching a rabbit with complete indifference and the knowledge that it could end the lesser creature in an instant. Of course, the Elite feel no fear, even when they should.

  “Don’t do that,” he says in heavily accented Italian.

  I grip the gun and drop my arm at my side, my index finger hovering over the trigger. “Who are you?”

  “Sasha, a friend of Una’s.”

  “Forgive us if we aren’t too keen on Una’s brand of friend.” Gio comes to stand beside me.

  “She is more like my sister.” His brows pull together as his eyes shift from Gio to me. It’s the closest to an expression I’ve seen from him. “So you are the Italian that lead her to destruction.”

  “Why are you here?” I ask, quickly running out of patience.

  “I do not like you.” He narrows his eyes, “but she is dangerous right now. Nineteen Italians is too many. She is the best I have ever seen, but even the best cannot stand against the entire Italian mafia. And I can only help her so much before Nicholai finds out.”

  “It was you,” Gio shifts on his feet. “You called in the cleaners for her.”

  Sasha nods. “I will do anything for her, but I cannot betray Nicholai, and he wants her back. She killed Arnaldo Boticelli. She went too far. She could maybe run from our father, but not with the Italians hunting her. I cannot protect her anymore. But you can.”

  I take a steadying breath. “She ran from me. What makes you think I can help her?”

  He moves closer until he’s standing directly in front of me, those cold, unsettling eyes boring into mine. “We both know that you are not what you seem, Nero Verdi. What is it they say? With great power comes great responsibility. I do not know whether you are friend or enemy,” he looks me up and down, “but she must have trusted you.”

  I smirk. “She didn’t trust me.”

  His expression remains unmoved. “She needs help.” Yeah, no shit. That ship sailed a long time ago. “Get her, and protect her from both your own people and mine. Arnaldo is dead, but revenge is inevitable. Nicholai wants her back, and you have no idea the lengths he will go to for her.”

  “What will he do to her?” She went completely rogue, helped me do something she never should have for a sister she’s supposed to be too cold to care about.

  “The human mind is pliant. He can make her forget.” He sounds like a damn robot, and I try to remember if Una was ever like this. “He can fix her.”

  “Fix her?” My fists clench and heat simmers just below my skin, even as a cool breeze drifts across the dockside.

  The Russian nods once before turning and walking away. He yanks his car door open, pausing. “I can track her burner phone. I will send you co-ordinates for her destination.”

  “Wait. Why are you helping her? You’re betraying Nicholai for her.”

  Green eyes meet mine and it’s like he’s dissecting me. “Because I love her, Nero Verdi.” And then he slides into the car, the engine snarling before the car pulls away.

  3

  Una

  Paris. The city has an atmosphere unlike any other. The streets are a bustle of activity yet somehow everything always feels so leisurely. I move along the sidew
alk, clinging to the shadows of the buildings until I reach the wooden door that leads into the townhouse I’m renting. I was wandering the city a couple of days ago, trying to lay low when I spotted a sign in the window advertising this apartment. My plan was to just stay in Paris for a couple of days before taking a Ferry back to England. A brief trip to throw anyone who might be following me off my trail. But the second Annaliese, the landlady, showed me inside the apartment, I felt a sense of peace I haven’t felt in years. It’s completely unsuitable. There’s only one stairwell, and because it used to be a house there’s not even a fire escape from the first floor, but I took it anyway. I guess I just wanted to stop running for a second, hole up and take a breath. Paris is as good a city as any to hide in.

  I open the door and drop the small bag of groceries on the kitchen side. The apartment is small; just one bedroom. The windows stretch from the floor to the ceiling and, in a way, it reminds me of Nero’s New York penthouse. Afternoon sun spills through the gauzy curtains, casting shadows across the wooden floorboards.

  I like it here. I could stay here until this baby is born, and he or she can grow up in Paris, safe from all the dangers of my world. I take the medical supplies from the grocery bag, dumping them on the coffee table before taking a seat. My pocket buzzes and I take out my burner phone, seeing a blank text from Sasha. It’s request for a check in. I send him a quick message.

  I’m going off grid. I’ll be in touch when I can.

  I need to remove myself from everything and everyone because even friends can be enemies. I do not doubt that when it comes down to it, Sasha will side with Nicholai. And I’m glad. His loyalty to me is dangerous for him. I shove my jeans down and pull away the dressing that’s stuck to my thigh. My haphazard stitching wouldn’t be amiss in a Frankenstein film. It was the best I could do with what I had at the time: a pocket sewing kit bought at the local corner shop. It’s for sewing on buttons, not closing a bullet hole. The flesh around the stitches is swollen and red, and it hurts like a bitch. I think it’s infected, but I can’t get any help with it. Any hospital will report a dodgy-looking bullet wound, and all the doctors I’d usually call for this sort of thing are affiliated either to Nicholai or someone else. Granted, the five-million-dollar price tag should have disappeared with Arnaldo—seeing as he’s the one who put it there—but I’m worth something to someone. I unscrew the lid from the bottle of vodka and grit my teeth as I pour it over the wound. It stings like a bitch, but it could be worse. A few weeks ago I put a bullet in Nero’s shoulder, then laced the wound with gun powder and set light to it. I wish I could do the same now, but that shit is hard enough to do to someone else, let alone yourself. My mind drifts to him and I wonder what he’s doing right now. Is he still looking for me? Will he kill me now that I killed his boss? Mafia is supposed to be about family and loyalty, but Nero had his own brother killed. No, something tells me he won’t feel an ounce of remorse for Arnaldo’s death. But he is a power player, and sometimes in order to gain power, loyalties must be feigned. After all, his power comes from the mafia and it can be taken away just as easily. I promised him I would go back to him, but now I don’t know that I can keep that promise. In our world sentiments are cheap, emotions pointless, and loyalties so very easily bought. One act, one moment, one death, and all the pieces on the board have moved. Have they moved so much that Nero and I are no longer side by side, but across the board from each other?

  The moment I wake every one of my senses are on high alert. Someone is in the apartment. I sit up and grab the gun from beneath my pillow, flicking the safety off. Darkness swallows me as I creep out of bed, but I freeze at the creak of a floorboard right outside my bedroom door. Fuck. I cross the room on tiptoes, ducking behind the door.

  My hand tightens around the gun, finger hovering over the trigger. Ready. Waiting. The wall presses into my shoulder blades and my mind hones in, ears picking up on every tiny sound. It must be the Italians. Or worse, Nicholai. If he gets me back, he’ll never let me out of that facility, and this baby…I’d rather die. If it were Nicholai though, he’d know that kicking in the door was enough to sign their death warrant. My gaze finds the bedside table where I left my car keys.

  The loose floorboard outside my bedroom door squeaks again and I hold my breath. Every muscle in my body coils tight as adrenaline floods my veins. There was a time, not so long ago, when I would simply have walked out there and killed everyone, but that was back when I was the hunter, nowadays, I’m the hunted. There’s another step. The door creaks open, hinges squealing in protest. The streetlight outside the window casts a dim haze through the room, silhouetting the arm holding out a gun pointed at my empty bed.

  I lower my gun, slip the small blade loose from the cuff at my wrist and pinch it between my thumb and finger like a giant needle. This is the problem with hiding in a city, gun fights draw attention. I creep up behind him, silent as a ghost. My hand slams over his mouth at the same time as I jam the blade into his throat. This little blade has gotten me out of more situations than any gun. It’s not big enough to stab someone in the gut or chest, but it’s lethally sharp and perfect for opening a jugular. He takes me by surprise and grabs my leg as he goes down, taking me to the floor hard. The gun slips from my grip, sliding a couple of feet away from me. I crawl across the carpet, reaching for my weapon while waiting for the bang signaling my end to echo in my ears. But It never comes. All I hear are the choked last breaths of the man before he hits the floor with a thud. Muffled voices come from down the hall. Shit.

  I pick up the gun and car keys and bolt for the window. The wood screeches against the frame and the glass shudders as I yank it up. I expect half the neighborhood heard that, including my intruders. Footsteps pound down the hall and I can only hope that the darkness will give me the precious seconds I need to escape. Hoisting my leg over the window, I stare down at the ground two floors below. A few months back, I would have jumped without a second thought, but now—the light flicks on and I panic, throwing my other leg through the gap and balancing precariously on the window ledge.

  “Morte.” I freeze, hesitating at the sound of that deep voice. “Don’t do it,” he commands. That trace of an accent makes the softly spoken words sound harsh. I shouldn’t look at him, I should just jump. But I do. Glancing over my shoulder, my hands brace against the frame. Nero stands there in his expensive suit with his hair styled in that sexy way of his. Those dark eyes lock with mine and it’s like time stands still. I see the threat dancing in his eyes, the promise of violence and wrath, but also want and desire, swirling and mixing into something potent and intoxicating. That power he emits seems to wrap around me, addictive and oh so dangerous, so alluring. I consider for the briefest of moments going to him because I want him to be my savior in a world of enemies, my monster to end all others. But he may be my enemy, I don’t know anymore. I can trust no one but myself, and that’s hard, especially with him.

  The air charges and crackles, his sheer strength of will coming up against my determination to survive at any cost. We are two sides of the same coin, feeding off each other. One singular, chaotic, unstoppable force. His lips pull up at one corner, the smile threatening yet enticing. My heart flutters in my chest as it responds to the thread of fear he instils, now more than ever. He always looks so perfectly put together, as though he isn’t capable of killing men in cold blood for nothing more than power. Doesn’t he always say that I look so innocent? Both wolves in sheep’s clothing.

  He takes a step towards me, eyes never leaving mine.

  “Don’t come any closer.” He ignores me and takes another step. I point the gun at his head.

  “What are you going to do, Morte? Shoot me?”

  “If that’s what it takes.” I am walking out of here, one way or the other.

  His eyes narrow. “You are mine,” he says, but words mean nothing when life and death are on the line, and I can’t trust him. Another step. “Why are you running? Arnaldo is dead. You said you’d come
back to me. Here I am, and here you are about to jump out a window.” If only Arnaldo were our only problem.

  “Forgive me if I don’t trust you.” I see one of his men move in my periphery, trying to outflank me. “Remind your men that I have no problem putting a bullet between their eyes.”

  He holds up a hand and they instantly fall back. “You don’t trust me? I’m not the one who ran.” He takes another step. He’s only a few feet away from me now. I shift my weight forward slightly on the window ledge.

  “This has been great and all, but I don’t fancy getting caught by your guys down there.” I point to the alley.

  The ground seems too far away, though in reality I know I can make the drop easily if I just fall into a roll. I glance at him one last time, committing every inch of his perfect face to memory. In a beat, he lunges for me and I push off the window ledge. The ground rushes up to meet me, and my feet hit the street hard. Pain fires up my leg and the stitches in my thigh tear open as I fall into a roll. Rising on one knee, I lift the gun in my hand, pointing it at the window. My other hand instinctively goes to my stomach. I meet his gaze, but its locked on my stomach, on the small but distinctive bump that’s protruding between my hips.

  I clench my teeth against the pain in my leg. “If you ever felt anything for me, let me run, Nero,” I beg. “I will come back to you.” And then I’m on my feet and running, every step sending white-hot pain lancing up my leg.