by LP Lovell
Loathe Me
LP Lovell
Contents
Prologue
1. Sasha
2. Adelina
3. Sasha
4. Adelina
5. Adelina
6. Sasha
7. Adelina
8. Adelina
9. Sasha
10. Adelina
11. Sasha
12. Adelina
13. Sasha
14. Adelina
15. Adelina
16. Sasha
17. Adelina
18. Sasha
19. Adelina
Books linked to the Touch of Death Series
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Prologue
Sasha
The metallic tang of blood explodes on my tongue, and I spit it on the stained concrete. I refuse to acknowledge the ache in my jaw or that my ribs are undoubtedly cracked. I block the pain from my mind, forcing it away until I become invincible. Unrelenting.
Viktor moves across from me, his body twisted into a fighting stance with his feet firmly planted. Blood coats his fists, both his—from split knuckles—and mine. Bruising starts to blossom on his face as his left eye swells shut. Hard breaths slip past torn lips, fogging the icy air.
His weight shifts onto his back foot, the slightest movement, a tell. He kicks out and I grab his leg. I wrench it upward and slam my fist into the side of his knee. Bone cracks and soft tissue tears as joints displace under the force. As soon as I release him, he hits the ground; a low groan is the only indication he’s in any pain. We are Elite. We do not show weakness. Ever.
“Good.” Nicholai claps his hands together, stepping into my line of sight. A smile lights his face, and deep lines sink into the corners of his eyes. Bending down, he grabs my shoulder. Frosty blue eyes—almost the same icy tone as his grey hair—meet mine. “You will be the best, Sasha.”
I want that. To be the best. To make him proud.
“Back in line.” The moment is gone when he barks the order. I scramble to follow orders, clasping my hands behind my back and keeping my chin high, despite the pain that radiates through my entire frame.
“Una. Joshua,”Nicholai calls.
Joshua steps out of line, stretching his hulking frame as he moves under the buzzing fluorescent light hanging above the ring; a patch of rust-colored concrete in the center of the training room. The scent of sweat and blood permanently lingers in the air, and there’s something comforting in that familiarity.
Una joins her opponent in the square, instantly dwarfed by the much bigger boy. I know better than to be deceived by her size though. Something uncomfortable twists in my gut, and I grimace, focusing my gaze on the weapons wall across the room.
The sparring starts, and every muscle in my body tenses. Una springs off the floor with grace more akin to a dancer than a warrior, commanding my attention. I breathe a silent sigh of relief when she lands a solid punch to Joshua’s throat. But it’s short-lived. Joshua is two years older, has a hundred pounds on her, and twice as much experience. He’s been here as long as I have. Eight years of training have made him formidable, and she’s no match for him. She’s been here just a year, and is the only female in the group. Nicholai likes her, though. Una’s uncontrollable and undisciplined. She charges into a fight with zero hesitation when she should stop to think. She’s so feral, she’ll fight to the death.
The fight continues with the two circling each other, taking occasional shots. Just as anticipated, Nicholai soon gets bored, switching from proud father to demanding mentor in a heartbeat.
“Finish it!” he snaps.
Joshua lands a powerful jab to Una’s chin, and she goes down like lead. He lands on top of her with a thud, raining blow after blow to her skull. Blood splatters everywhere, as her body goes limp. Still, Joshua doesn’t relent. My muscles tighten, and I clench my jaw when a blood splatters my boots. Thud, thud, thud.
My own control evades me, and I instinctually step forward. “Stop! She’s down.”
Joshua pauses. His bloodied fist hovers in mid-air as he straightens. His attention snaps from Una to me, and he stalks toward me like a raging bull. He cocks his arm back, swinging for me. I duck easily before I punch him in the throat. Hard. The boy collapses to his knees, choking and coughing. The second I step back, I realize I’ve made a mistake. I could hear a pin drop in the bleak, grey training room.
“Well… Get her up,” Nicholai orders one of the instructors. “Tsk, tsk, Sasha.” He smooth’s a hand down the front of his immaculate suit jacket while shaking his head.
Smelling salts are wafted under Una’s nose, but truthfully, I’m not sure that will be enough. Her face is nothing but blood and damaged flesh, but after a few seconds, she coughs and rolls over. I’ve never seen someone vomit blood until now. Una sucks in a deep, ragged breath that rattles through her lungs, audible from several yards away.
She’s helped to her feet and then left to stand alone. Her tiny frame sways, back and forth. Even at fourteen, she really is tiny for her age.
“Now.” Nicholai goes to the weapons wall and removes a pistol, loading a clip into it before placing it in Una’s trembling hand.
She grips the gun hard, her knuckles whitening as she tries to disguise her weakness.
My fists tighten at my sides as our eyes lock.
“If you cannot defeat your opponent, then you are not worthy. Out there—” he points toward the door—“if you are defeated, you die! Right here is no different.” Nicholai’s hardened gaze shifts to me. “You are an assassin, not a savior. Do you understand?”
He pins me a pointed glare, waiting for my response, and I nod.
“Una, Sasha clearly does not think you are truly Elite. He believes you need saving. Shoot him.”
Without blinking, she lifts the gun and pulls the trigger. A blinding pain tears through my thigh, and I fight the urge to drop to the ground and grab my bleeding leg. Instead, I force myself to bear weight on it, to stand there without flinching.
Nicholai moves closer. A mask of indifference covers his pale features as he stares me down. “Do you know remember how I found you, Sasha?”
I say nothing because we are both well aware of how I came to be here.
“Only nine years old, wandering the streets of Moscow. Orphaned, alone, unwanted…digging in dumpsters for your next meal.” His roam over my features before he reaches out. His thumb swipes over the corner of my lip, and I stiffen, wrestling with the instinctive, raging urge to react and lash out. He lifts his blood-covered thumb, allowing me to see the crimson smear that now mars his skin. “I took you in because I saw resilience in you. Greatness. I gave you a home. I made you strong.” He inhales a deep breath, releasing it on a long sigh. “Do not disappoint me again. Next time, I will not leave my orders open to Una’s interpretation.” He turns, giving me his back. “Dismissed!”
I move away, following the rest of the trainees. A sick feeling sinks in my gut. Shame. I’ve disappointed Nicholai, my mentor, and worse, I’ve failed myself.
1
Sasha
A cool breeze cuts through the balmy air, bringing with it the distinctive scent of the harbour; brine, and engine oil. A gull caws from one of the nearby rooftops, and the stark sound cuts through the silence of the night. Checking my watch, I shift slightly, trying to wake numb muscles. Any minute now.
Adjusting my rifle sights, I stare at the restaurant. The tables and chairs sprawl across the cobblestone harbor front, illuminated by a lone street light overhead. The amber glow casts light around the area and dances on the nearby black waters. The restaurant itself is suspiciously empty. No one walks by, and though the lights are on inside, there’s no sign of activity.
I focus, wai
ting just as I have been for the last hour. I like to be in position early. Ready. I can never be too prepared for a job. Angles, viewpoints, escape routes, it all has to be mapped with a plan A, B, C and D. This particular job has taken weeks to plan, and although I’m calm and collected, there’s always a certain anticipation, a high of sorts that comes from the prospect of executing a job flawlessly. It’s more than just a kill; anyone can pull a trigger. No one can know I was ever here—no witnesses, no evidence. Clean and untraceable. My clients pay dearly for that anonymity—one mistake can be catastrophic.
From this distance, the engine can’t be heard. It’s not until the vehicle is almost in front of the restaurant that I’m aware of its approach. The black Mercedes rolls to a stop, and the lights cut off. The amber that bathes the sidewalk now reflects off the shiny black paint, creating a glare and making it hard to see clearly. For long moments, the car idles until finally, the doors open. My sights are trained on the two men in dark suits as they exit the driver and passenger seats. They glance around before opening the rear doors of the vehicle to allow a young woman and an older man to step out. She threads her arm through his as they move toward the front of the restaurant.
I’m fairly certain this is my mark, but I need to see his face in the light to confirm, but he doesn’t turn back to give me that opportunity. Once inside, someone greets them and then seats them by the window. A minute or two later, the other men join them—the scene is set; the trap sprung. I adjust my sights, getting a closer look at each one of them. Confirmation. It’s my mark. His face sits in the center of my crosshairs. One breath, a fleeting second, the twitch of a finger over the trigger. That’s all it takes, and his life ends. I wait.
Minutes drag by, though I never look away long enough to check my watch. Finally, my phone rings, and I glance away to see the number I’ve been waiting for flash on the screen. It rings twice—as agreed—and ends.
I shift my position and take a deep breath, calming my entire body. The slow beat of my heart is methodical and measured. I exhale, pause, and pull the trigger. The gunshot explodes through the night, and his head snaps back as the window shatters. Glass tinkles to the ground like heavy rainfall until it disappears, revealing the limp body that now slumps back the chair. I catch a glimpse of the woman’s hysteria before I’m up and moving. My gun is disassembled and packed away in my holdall in seconds. Pushing to my feet, I shoulder the bag and shrug it over my shoulder before heading back inside the abandoned building.
My footfalls echo around the stairwell as I descend the five floors. When I exit onto the cobblestone street, sirens already ring in the distance. Tugging my hood over my head, I keep a normal pace, blending in. Lights flicker to life in some of the windows as people wake to the commotion. Rounding a corner, I head for the center of the city where the bars and restaurants are full of life. I duck into a pizza restaurant only locals frequent because it lacks all curb appeal. Walking to the counter at the back, I make eye contact with the owner and slip her a hundred-dollar bill before I duck through the back door. No one in the kitchen pays me any attention as I meander through and into a small storage room at the rear of the building. The room contains various fridges and freezers, shelving, cleaning products. I pull one of the chest freezers away from the wall, revealing an exposed wooden square of flooring. Kneeling, I dig in my pocket and pull out a key to the small padlock. The improvised door lifts easily, and a light illuminates the steep stairwell that descends beneath the restaurant. It serves as a storage facility, one of many. Una and I have them in various cities all over the world, more so in areas densely populated by crime families and criminal gangs. After all, they make up our client list. Traveling with weapons is not easy, especially when the goal is to stay out of sight and under the radar. As soon as my feet touch the floor at the bottom of the steps, I take out the gun, stripping and cleaning it in minutes. It finds its place on the wall next to an array of other weapons: handguns, rifles, knives, grenades.
Discarding the bag in the corner, I grab an American passport and ascend the ladder. The lock slides into place with a heavy click. Job done. It’s time to go home.
2
Adelina
I frown at my phone screen, rereading the message.
I’m coming for you. Be ready to leave tomorrow morning.
Followed by my repeated responses, none of which have gone through.
I chew my thumbnail as different scenarios run through my head. There could be a million reasons why my sister would come all the way to England to get me, yet none of them explain why my messages aren’t getting through. The sinking feeling in my gut tells me something has happened to her. Flopping back on the bed, I close my eyes and try to swallow down the panic. I should be in an English literature lecture right now. Maybe I should go. It would give me a temporary reprieve from worrying about Gabi.
Hearing the distinct crunch of tires over gravel, I rush to the window and look into the courtyard two stories below. A black Range Rover pulls up where I expect to see my father, but when the back door opens, only my sister gets out, and something’s wrong. The set of her shoulders, the urgency in her step—they’re both giveaways. A couple of Daddy’s men follow behind her, including Ronaldo. Leaving my dormitory, I step out onto the landing, glancing over the banister. Gabi hurries up several flights of stairs, yet when she reaches me, she doesn’t even say hello. I haven’t seen her in months, and all she does is grab my arm and drag me into my room.
“Here.” She tosses a leather holdall at me. “Pack some clothes. We’re leaving.”
“What? Why?”
“Pack your bag, Lina!” Gabi snaps, startling me. She opens one of my drawers and starts pulling out jeans and T-shirts.
“What the hell is going on?” I stand stock still as she ignores me, tearing clothes from the closet with seemingly no rhyme or reason. “Gabi!"
My sister stills, and her shoulders rise and fall on a deep sigh. Her head tilts back, sending a sheet of ebony hair cascading down her back. "Please just listen to me, Lina. Do as I say."
I hate that she treats me like a child. “Why are you here? Where’s Daddy?” There’s only one reason he would insist I leave, and that’s if I’m in danger, but he’d never send Gabi if that were the case.
“I’m here because you aren’t safe.”
I know the drill well. I spent most of my childhood being taught what to do if I’m kidnapped, how to throw a punch, shoot a gun, how to run and hide. It’s part of why I wanted to come to University in England. I needed to get away from it all, and after months of convincing my father that I could take care of myself, he eventually obliged. Of course, he sent men to watch me. He probably thinks I haven’t noticed them.
“How bad is it?” I ask.
“Stop asking questions, Adelina! Pack your damn bag. Now!”
Jesus, is a little information too much to ask for? I throw a couple of pairs of jeans, some shirts, and underwear in the bag. I then reach up on tiptoes, feeling around in the top of the closet until my fingers brush over a small wooden box. Taking it to the bed, I remove the lid. I grab my passport and a stack of bills worth about ten thousand Euros, and I toss it all in the bag. Then I scribble out a note for my roommate, Sara before I leave, locking the door behind me.
Gabi waits outside by the car. Her phone is pressed to her ear, and she’s talking in hushed tones. The second she sees me, she turns and lowers her voice as she rounds the car. My sister has become far more serious over the years. While I disappeared and went to university in England, she became my father’s second, forged to take all the responsibility that comes with being at the top of a Sicilian crime family.
Gabi is heavily involved with the family business, and for many years, I resented the close bond my father and sister have. As I grew older, I felt like an outsider in my own home. They would stop talking when I walked into a room and often treated me like a child. Since I left home, I’ve come to see my sister’s role for what it is: a lack of
freedom. Gabi never had a choice. She had to stay in Sicily and fulfill her duty where I had some semblance of choice on what route my life would take. I often pity her.
Until times like this. When she turns up and just rips me from my life.
Ronaldo approaches me, taking my bag. “Miss Ricci.” He offers me a small smile, though it doesn’t reach the older man’s eyes. The old scar that runs from his eyebrow to the corner of his lip sinks into his skin. Ronaldo is like a really scary uncle that’s always been around, serving my family faithfully. “It’s good to see you.”
“You too.” I push up on tiptoes and kiss his cheek before he opens the back door.
I climb inside the SUV. Gabi is already seated, her phone in hand, fingers flying across the screen. Business. Always business.
I have no idea where we’re going now, but just as I always follow Daddy’s orders, I’ll follow hers. Such is the life of a mafia daughter.
The jet touches down, and I peer out the window at the distinctive skyline on the horizon. New York. As soon as the door opens, there’s a scent; sea salt and diesel, garbage and exhaust fumes. It drifts on the wind like a bad omen of what’s to come.
Daddy brought us to New York once, years ago. It was Christmas, and he took as ice skating in front of the huge Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center. At that time, Gabi and I had never been any farther than Sicily or Italy, and we’d never seen snow. It was like something out of a fairy tale, but even then, I missed the heat of home. It’s been so long since I smelt the sweet scent of honeysuckle and jasmine and the burning warmth of the Mediterranean sun on my skin, broken only by the fresh sea breeze.
Cool air whips around me, dragging me back to my unfortunate situation. I shiver, clutching my jacket tighter around me. I’ve grown used to the cold in England, but this is worse, harsher somehow. Ronaldo hands me a pair of gloves, and I offer him a grateful smile.