Kiss Of Death: A Dark Mafia Romance

by LP Lovell

  “Wait, Sasha.” I pull away from him slightly. “I’m not leaving.”

  “What the fuck is going on?” Nero snaps. I hear the click of a safety being flicked by Gio, and I can feel the aggression pouring off Nero like a living thing slithering over my back.

  I hold my hand out to Nero because Sasha, though like my brother, is still a lethal killer. He won’t hurt me, but Nero and Gio are simply targets assessed on their threat level. I know this. “I’m not running,” I say, in English this time, taking the clip out of the gun he gave me and handing it back to him.

  Those jade green eyes meet mine, concern and confusion swimming in them. “Una, he knows.”

  I nod. “I’m aware.”

  “Then you know he wants that child.”

  “I know.”

  He drops to one knee and swipes a hand through his hair in agitation. We used to take a knee when we were training in the field as a way of strategizing, taking a minute to plan. I follow suit in front of him.

  “Where could I even go, Sasha? There is nowhere he wouldn’t track me.”

  “Then…” He sighs. “Then come home, beg him to forgive you. You know he will. He loves you. This…you’re just making it worse for yourself, Una.” Nero lets out a growl of displeasure behind me and I turn on him.

  “Really? Just go to the kitchen.”

  He cocks a brow, looking at me as if I am another one of his pawns to be commanded. “Forgive me if I don’t trust your super killer friend here.”

  “I swear to god, Nero. Pain, so much pain.”

  “I thought stress was bad for babies,” Sasha says flatly.

  I turn back to him and can’t help but smile. “Oh, well. Poor kid doesn’t stand a chance then.” He pushes to his feet, glancing at Nero again. I stand up.

  “The Italian is volatile and unpredictable,” he says in Russian. “He will get you killed.”

  “In our world, volatile and unpredictable wins wars,” I reply in my native tongue. “He is dangerous and I need dangerous.”

  “Please come home,” he begs. I can see the hint of fear in his eyes, and I know it’s not for the baby, it’s simply for me because I’m the closest thing to human connection he has. Sasha looks formidable dressed all in black, covered in weapons and wearing the mask of an ice cold killer, but we all have out weaknesses. Just as Anna was mine, I am his, but I don’t wish for him to betray Nicholai the way I have. It would break him.

  I sigh. “I’m never going back, Sasha. He will do to this baby what he did to us.” He will break my child as we were broken. Broken things heal stronger, but for the first time in my life I’m disturbed by the concept.

  “Was it so bad?” he asks.

  What Sasha can’t see is that, despite his many strengths, his life is a sad and pitiful existence. By the time I met him, I was thirteen. He was fourteen, but he had already been in the facility for five years. Maybe Nicholai got me just a little too late, because I never truly let go of the life I had before becoming Elite. Sasha is the living, breathing embodiment of everything Nicholai wanted him to be. His life is whatever Nicholai chooses in that moment because he knows nothing else. He has no freedom, only orders and compliance. And the saddest part of all of this is that he can’t see it. He can’t see what was taken from him, only the strengths he was given, but they come at a high price. “We were children, Sasha.”

  “He made us strong, Una. You are the strongest of us, and yet you throw it back in his face.” His voice rising slightly before he composes himself again.

  “He broke us and turned us into weapons.” I take a small step back away from him and closer to Nero. “I’ve made my choice.”

  Sasha’s eyes flick to Nero, his jaw set in a rigid line. “You think that you are strong enough to protect her from what’s coming?” he asks Nero in English.

  “With great power comes great responsibility,” Nero replies cryptically.

  Sasha shakes his head. “You have no idea what is coming. He will go for your weaknesses.” His eyes flick to Nero again. “And you have developed many, sister, but I will try to help you.”

  “Why? If Nicholai finds out…”

  “Because you are my sister, and I love you.”

  “I love you, too.” My eyes prickle and I curse these bloody hormones. He turns and gets in the elevator. “But Sasha…” I switch to Russian. “Don’t endanger yourself for me. I do not expect to make it out of this alive.”

  Nero doesn’t need to know how low my expectations really are. I throw Sasha the clip in my hand and he snatches it out of the air right before the doors glide shut.

  I hold onto those last words between us, because I don’t know if or when I’ll see him again, and really, Sasha is more like a sibling to me than my actual sister. Sasha and I have always been close, but I didn’t think either of us capable of love. Perhaps it’s just our own version of it, a mimicked emotion, a sense of attachment we need to name. After Alex, I shunned and feared love as though it were a plague. Loving Alex cost me dearly, and I would do anything to avoid that pain again. To lose someone you care about so deeply is an agony unlike any other, it wounds you, leaving scars that never heal. And then I think: what if Nicholai were to kill Nero? I care for him, I’m invested in him as an ally, as the father of my child, and perhaps…perhaps I love him in a way. Killing Alex tore out my heart, and I don’t have much left to give, but I think that whatever twisted, blackened part of it remains belongs to Nero. After all, he is my equal. He’s forced me to feel things that I thought long dormant, and I respect him in a way I’ve never respected anyone else. I trust him, and that speaks volumes.

  I turn to face Nero. His arms are folded over his chest and his hair is messy like he’s been dragging his hands through it. Gio walks away now that the threat has disappeared.

  “You chose to stay,” Nero says simply.

  I nod, unable to speak the words that are hanging in the air. I chose you. If I wanted to escape, I was never going to get a better chance than with Sasha here. All the king’s soldiers and all the king’s men could not stop the two of us together. On my own, I’m good, with Sasha…we’re invincible; Nicholai’s best kill team. “Can you trust him?” Nero asks.

  “I want to.” I want to believe that Sasha would never sell me out. “But you have to understand, the training, it’s hard to resist. And the punishments for disloyalty are…” I remember them well. Repeated electrocutions, whippings, water boarding, even injections of scorpion venom that would make you hallucinate. And when you’ve seen the things we’ve seen those hallucinations are not pretty. “He’s not the enemy.”

  He watches me for a few seconds and then nods. “The second he puts you at risk, he is. Do you understand?” I hesitate. “This isn’t just about you anymore, Morte. Tell me you understand,” he demands, that power he wears so well flexing and rolling like a wave.

  “I understand.”

  I follow Nero to the bedroom where he steps into the walk-in closet. A few minutes later he’s wearing dress pants and a shirt to which he is fastening the buttons. I miss his shirtless state, but the devil does wear a suit oh so well.

  “Going somewhere?”

  He lifts a brow, his expression stoic. “I have some business to handle in the city.” Of course he does.

  “Don’t you have people for that?”

  He fastens his belt. “Sometimes, if you want a job done properly, you have to do it yourself.”

  I flop down on the bed and stretch my arms above my head. Nero’s gaze scans over my underwear clad body. “I happen to be very thorough in my jobs.” I smile up at him.

  “No.”

  I sigh and sit up. “If I don’t get outside soon, I’m likely to maim Gio very badly. I’m sure it’s handy if you’re right hand has...well, a right hand.”

  Amusement cracks that implacable mask. “Morte, you are supposed to be laying low.”

  “That’s just it, I’m not sure I want to lay low.” I yanks his shirt out of his pants and sl
ide my palm over his abs. “We don’t run and hide. Battle lines need to be drawn, capo.” His hand wraps around my wrist and he pulls it from beneath his shirt.

  Bending over me, he pins both of my hands above my head. His lips are barely a whisper from mine. “And as much as I appreciate your loyalty, Morte, you are not leaving here.”

  “Equal or prisoner, capo?”

  An exasperated breath slips through his lips and, for a moment, we simply stare at each other. “You are the only person in this world that could possibly be my equal,” he says arrogantly.

  I smile and press my lips to his. I swipe my tongue over his bottom lip, tasting coffee and violent promises. That does it. Grabbing my hips, he yanks me down the bed until he’s pressing between my thighs. The scent of his cologne tinged with cigarette smoke wraps around me and I inhale deeply as he bites the side of my neck.

  “You do not do anything stupid. You stay within three feet of me at all times.” He breathes against my skin.

  I smile. “You’re forgetting again.”

  He pinches my jaw between his teeth. “Never.” His voice rumbles in my ear before he pulls back and stares at me. “I’m meeting with the leader of the Russkoye Slovo.” I roll my eyes. “And you cannot roll your eyes at him, or shoot him, or cut him…”

  “Fine. But if you deal with dogs, people will see you as a kennel.”

  “That makes no sense.” He pushes off me.

  “It does if you are Russian.” I allow him to pull me to my feet. “What deal do you have with him?”

  “We’ll talk in the car.”

  “Fine.”

  The city thrums outside the car window. Car horns blare as we sit in bumper to bumper traffic. I used to hate the city, the towering skyscrapers, the ignorant commuters, the way the people pour down the sidewalks like a river, the smells that taint the thick, putrid air…It’s a sensory overload, a nightmare for someone like me.

  Music blares through the car speakers. I glance at Nero, and he’s pressed into the back of his seat, arm outstretched as he casually drapes his wrist over the steering wheel. He almost looks relaxed, except for the subtle tick of his jaw.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “Nothing.”

  I face the windshield again. “Lies.”

  Neither of us says anything else as we wind through the stop-start traffic eventually pulling up outside an older brick building right by the Brooklyn Bridge. Tall windows are adorned with little flower boxes, and wide stone steps lead to a set of heavy-looking double doors. As soon as the car pulls to a stop, the door opens a crack and a young guy in a suit rushes over.

  I get out and Nero throws the keys to him before we walk up the steps towards the door.

  Apparently this meeting is, is a formal occasion so I’m wearing a dress and heals. There have been plenty of times when I’ve had to seduce targets and dress like a woman they’d happily follow to a secluded room. But I feel fake, a blade pretending to be a flower. In some instances, a flower is a good disguise, but in others, you want to be seen as something dangerous and life threatening. A knee length coat goes some way to hiding the baby bump. I know it’s pointless now, but showing it just feels like I’m pointing right at a soft spot and daring an enemy to stab me there.

  Nero’s arm wraps around my waist and he pulls me into his side as we climb the steps. “You look beautiful,” he says, amusement in his voice as he twirls a strand of my hair around his finger.

  “I have a gun and two knives on me. I will hurt you.”

  He chuckles as he pulls the door open for me. I glare at him as I pass, but he just stares at my cleavage. “Don’t go stabbing anyone. Wouldn’t want to get blood on your dress.” I’m going to get blood on him in a minute.

  We walk straight past what looks like a reception desk. The guy behind it stares at me and I can feel his attention even as we round the corner. Another set of double doors open into a bar. It has that Old-world feel about it with wooden flooring and leather wing back chairs everywhere. There aren’t many people in here, but again, everyone stares at me as if I have two heads. Or maybe it’s Nero they’re looking at.

  “Why are they staring?” I say under my breath.

  He smirks. “They don’t see many women in here.”

  I glance around again. There isn’t a single woman here, and all the patrons are…of a certain ilk. “Brilliant, a gentleman’s club. I didn’t even know you could still pull that sexist bullshit anymore.” Then a thought occurs to me. “Wait, are they going to try and kick me out? Don’t they do fencing? Please let me challenge someone to a fight.”

  “You’re blood thirsty today.” I snort at that. If he felt like I do right now, entire cities would be on fire.

  “You know I’d win.” Maybe that’s what he’s worried about.

  “Morte. If anyone pointed a weapon at you, I’d be forced to remove both his arms from his body.” A fluttering sensation erupts in my chest, even though I absolutely do not need his protection. Still…

  “You say the sweetest things.”

  “Hmm.” He places a kiss on my cheek, before guiding me to a table in the corner.

  A small man with a greasy comb over sits there, his expensive pinstripe suit out of place and completely cliché. He looks about mid-forties, with an edge to him. His face is lined with evidence of a hard and violent life. But this man is Slovo, and they are bottom feeders, opportunists by nature, but never the ones to take a risk of their own. He lifts a cigar to his lips, squinting through the rising tendrils of smoke as he stares at Nero.

  “Nero Verdi, in the flesh,” he drawls in a heavy Russian accent.

  “Igor,” Nero responds.

  The man turns his gaze to me. I see the flash of recognition, but he covers it quickly. “And who is this?”

  “You know who I am, dog,” I snap in Russian.

  He laughs. “Well, now I do. You are distinctive, Una Ivanov.”

  Nero pulls out a chair for me, and I sit before he takes the seat beside me. “And you are forgettable in every way.”

  “Enough with the insults.” Nero chimes in, clearly bored.

  “I was simply complimenting his lovely suit.” I smirk.

  Nero’s hand lands on my thigh beneath the table, fingertips brushing over the knife strapped to the inside. “Igor, here, wishes to bring guns into our city. Isn’t that right, Igor?” I don’t miss the ‘our’ and neither does Igor. His eyes flick back and forth between us, narrowing. Nero casually slips his pack of cigarettes from his pocket and slides one between his lips before lighting it. The snap of his lighter closing is the only sound as he waits for Igor to respond.

  His hand lands back on my thigh and I glance at him. He raises his eyebrows as he inhales a long drag, as though waiting on me to respond. Is this some kind of test? If so, I’m not about to shy away from it.

  “That’s a big ask.” I lean forward, locking eyes with the weasely little man. “But you see, Igor, the lamb does not ask the lion for a favor, when all he offers in return is his own leg to chew on.” He opens his mouth to respond. “And I do not want your leg, so tell me, what do you offer?”

  Igor places his cigar down and leans back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his chin. After a few moments, Nero clears his throat. “I’m not a patient man.”

  Igor nods and places his palms flat on the table. “I was going to offer you a new drug, but I give you choice,” he says in stilted English. “I can give you drug. Very good, new party drug. All the rage in Moscow. Or…” he lifts one eyebrow, a small smile playing over his lips. “I can become ally.”

  There’s a beat of silence before I laugh. “What could an alliance with you possibly offer us?”

  He’s the one who laughs this time. “You are with him,” he changes to Russian. “Why? I hear that you are wanted, Kiss of Death. I hear that you killed the Italian under boss, that Nicholai is hunting you. And now I see you here, with him of all people. He seems very…attached to you.” He smooth’s a han
d down the front of his jacket. “So, I ask you, are you loyal to the wolf, or your so-called lion?” The wolf. Only the enemies of the bratva call Nicholai the wolf, and it’s been a long time since I’ve heard it.

  “I’m here, aren’t I?” I revert back to English.

  “I do not like Nicholai’s pets.” Igor’s eyes never leave my face. “But I spit on the bratva, and I spit on Nicholai Ivanov.” The Slovo are enemies of the bratva. My first solo kill was their former leader in fact. “I offer you my help, Una Ivanov. On one condition: your master dies.”

  I turn to Nero and he focuses on Igor for a beat longer before his gaze meets mine. “I do not trust him,” I say in Italian this time. “I told you, he is a dog, and he will turn tail the second someone offers him better scraps. He’ll probably sell us out to Nicholai.”

  “He will not be close enough or privy to enough information to sell you out, Morte.” His lips tilt up, that easy confidence of his pouring off him in waves. He has this way of making me feel as though everything is possible because he’s Nero Verdi, and the world would stop turning if he willed it so. “A Russian ally could be useful. His father was killed by Nicholai.” I swallow heavily, because Nicholai doesn’t make his own kills. He sends his Elite. And now Igor’s name rings a bell. Igor Dracov, the illegitimate son of Abram Petrov, the former leader. I killed Igor’s father. “He has no love for the man.” Nero believes it’s a low risk for potential reward, and his calm confidence lends me to having an irrational amount of faith in his decision.

  I study Igor. Everything about him looks shifty and I don’t trust him. Then again, I don’t trust anyone. Except Nero and Sasha. I glance at Nero, and he looks totally at ease, sitting back and letting me make his deal for him. My fingers thread through his and he brings them to his mouth, brushing his lips over my knuckles.

  “The Slovo are small and inconsequential,” I say. More like a band of rebels than anything else. “How much use can you be to us, Igor?”

  He picks up the cigar and places it between his lips, inhaling. “No, the bratva think the Slovo is no threat and that is how we want it. Our numbers almost rival theirs, but I have many people buried in the bratva, quiet as mice. They listen. They see.”