Filthy: A Dark Bad Boy Romance

by Paula Cox

“What—” I cough, my mouth tasting stale and off-putting. “What do you mean?” I manage to wheeze.

  “Felicity and her father are having a little party. And when I say little party, I mean a party that could rival the most decadent of Ancient Roman orgies. I have it on good authority that they are hiring a large function room and inviting the cream of the crop of Mr. Fellows’ political friends—and enemies, come to think of it, but when do such distinctions matter in politics?”

  No, no, no. My mind rebels against the idea. Felicity should be far away from here now, far away and somewhere safe, not having a party.

  “You might ask yourself, why is he telling me?”

  I nod, head feeling weak, neck feeling like it can’t support my head.

  Mr. Black grabs my face with both his hands and brings his face close to mine. His eyes really are black. I look into them and I see nothing. Crow’s feet tug at the corners of his eyes and for the first time I realize how old he must be. He was at least forty when I got into the game. He must be mid-sixties now, at least. He digs his fingers into the skin of my face.

  “I am telling you, Roma, because I am a kind man. I am willing to give you yet another chance to prove yourself. I am willing to treat you like a son. Because, and this may surprise you, you are a son to me. I’ve known you since you were a teenager, since Bear brought you into the organization. Despite what people say, my heart isn’t as black as my name. I don’t want to kill you. I don’t want to lose you. But, you understand, if you are to have any chance of being welcomed back into the fold, you have to prove yourself.”

  “Boss,” one of the goons mutters.

  Mr. Black spins on him so quickly I feel a breath of wind touch my face.

  “Don’t you ever interrupt me! You are stone! You are a rock! You do not speak!”

  The man swallows audibly and then takes a step back, inclining his head.

  Mr. Black, hands trembling, turns back to me.

  “Roma, think now. Be smart. How many women are there out there? I can get you any woman you like. Black, white, Asian, Columbian, English . . . the list goes on and on. I can get you a whole harem of women if you like. You can do whatever you like to them. Piss on them, shit on them, slit their throats for all I care.”

  My bones go cold at his words. How did I never spot how twisted he was before? I think. How have I worked for this man for so long? But I never questioned the life, not before I met Felicity. Before her, the life was the life and that was all.

  “Here is my proposal.” Mr. Black glances at the man who spoke and then back to me. The man looks as though he’s just been stared down by a viper. “I am going to give you an escort, men who will make sure you carry out your task. They are going to take you to a building opposite the function room and you, with a scoped rifle, are going to assassinate Ambassador Fellows like we originally agreed!” Spit flies from his lips on the last words, hitting me in the face. “Or,” he goes on, forcing calm into his voice, “you will hesitate and the ambassador will die anyway. My men will put a bullet in the back of your head—and much worse beforehand, I’d wager—and I’ll go on with my life. I’ll be sad to lose you, but the organization will go on. Don’t speak.” He holds up his hand. “I don’t need an answer. This is what’s happening.”

  I want to roar at him: I’m not doing it! You can’t fucking make me! Kill me! But I can’t.

  If I’m taken to the party it means I’ll get to see Felicity again, even if it is through the scope of a rifle. I’ll be able to lay eyes on the woman I love again. I thought I was being left for dead. And no matter what, I’m a survivor. I’ve been a survivor my entire life, ever since I was thrown onto the streets by parents I never knew. When you give a survivor a chance to fight, they take it, make no mistake. And I’m no different.

  Mr. Black turns away from me, taking my silence as assent, and walks past his men. “Get him ready, get him into position,” he mutters. “Let him prove his worth to me. If not . . . Do with him as you will.”

  “Boss,” the men mutter, eyeing me with hungry eyes.

  One of the men kneels down in front of me, looking up into my face. “I hope you fuck this up,” he says. “I really do. ’Cause that big bastard Bear killed my fucking friends and he was only there ’cause of you and the slut. So when you fuck this up, don’t think you’re gonna die sweet and easy. It’s gonna be a long hard road to your grave.”

  Chapter Forty

  Felicity

  At first, my plan is to simply confront Daniel. Then I realize how foolish that would be. I won’t be able to have a real chat with him if I just walk up behind him in full view of everybody. So instead, I slide into a huddle of people in view of the men’s toilets, and wait. I barely hear what the people say, though I make all the right responses in all the right places. And I don’t see them. I look over their shoulders and watch Mr. Black’s nephew.

  He must be nervous. During the short time I watch him, he drinks three glasses of champagne. Few of the politicians talk to him. To them, he’s just an intern, a soldier who’s yet to earn his stripes. They have no reason to talk to him. He mills around awkwardly. Then I notice that he’s crossing his legs, like a little kid who’s dying for a pee but doesn’t want to go. I almost laugh, but then I realize what that must mean. His uncle told him to stay out here in case . . . In case the bullet misses and he has to finish the job. Jesus Christ.

  I hold my glass of champagne so hard I think it will shatter, waiting for this little boy to go to the toilet. Finally, face red, he makes his way through the crowd and toward the men’s room.

  “Will you excuse me?” I say, and move away from the group.

  A moment after he enters the toilet, I slide in after him. It’s a fancy place, one of those places with a lock on the door. I turn the lock and peak my head around the corner. He stands at the urinal, groaning as he empties his bladder. No other men are in here. I glance at the cubicles. No feet. We are alone.

  It’s a testament to how much being with Roma has changed me that I don’t hesitate. This situation would’ve seemed beyond bizarre a few weeks ago, but now I charge him. I’m across the room in less than a second. I slam my forearm into his back, pinning him to the wall. He claws for his gun. I reach down with my free hand and snatch it from his waistband. Then I press the barrel into the back of his head. But I keep my finger away from the trigger, just in case I squeeze it by accident. I don’t want to kill the idiot.

  “Woah! Woah!” he cries. “What the hell is this? Who the hell are you? What the hell is going on? Hey, man!”

  “Woman,” I correct. “You might remember me. I’m the girl you thought was so sex-crazy I’d want to fuck a stranger in a cell.”

  His arms drop at his sides. “You’re the woman who kicked the shit out of me and left me in a cupboard for five hours?” he mutters.

  “That’s me,” I say.

  “My head still hurts from that,” he whispers.

  “I bet it does.”

  “Listen . . . please . . . I’m not into this at all. It’s my uncle, he’s a . . . persuasive man. You can’t say no to him. Men who say no to him don’t go on living very long, you know?”

  I press my arm harder into his back, squeezing him up against the tiles. “I don’t care,” I hiss. “Tell me everything you know. Tell me now. Tell the truth. And tell it quickly.”

  “But if my uncle finds out . . .”

  I bring my forearm back, aim, and elbow him in the neck. “Tell me!” I scream.

  He lets out a yelp and slumps forward.

  “Tell me!” I repeat.

  But then I see that I’ve knocked him clean out.

  Dammit.

  I step back and he slides down the wall, almost landing in the urinal. I catch him and drag him to a cubicle, open the door, and drop him onto a toilet seat, leaning him against the wall. He’s breathing, but his eyes are closed tight.

  I find the safety catch on the gun and switch it, and then reach up and wedge it between my
underwear and my waist. It bulges, but that doesn’t seem so important right now.

  I need to get to my dad’s men. I need to tell them that somebody is going to try and take his life. I need to tell them all of it and I need to do it now.

  I sprint for the door.

  As I run, I think: Does that mean Roma’s here? Roma, you’re not a part of this, are you? Roma, be alive, be safe. Roma, come to me.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Roma

  I stare down the scope of the rifle and see her. She looks incredible in a sparkling red dress with a flower pinned to her shoulder. Her hair is bound up in her high ponytail and her cheekbones are flushed. I watch as she walks across the room and slides into a group of politicians. She’s watching somebody. I swivel the scope and see Daniel, Mr. Black’s bastard nephew. He’s nervous, glugging champagne like all he wants to do is get shitfaced. I return to Felicity. She’s watching Daniel, I realize. Damn, she’s quick.

  Two men stand behind me. One of them is the asshole from the truck, the one who threatened to torture me if this goes wrong. I glance over my shoulder. He stands directly behind me, hand squeezed around the grip of his pistol. His name is Cleft, I’ve heard, though I have no idea what it’s supposed to mean. The other man stands slightly back with a pistol of his own. Both of their faces are hard, implacable. I know they’re just waiting for me to screw up so they can lay into me. The hunger in their eyes is animalistic.

  “Have to wait for the ambassador’s speech,” Cleft grunts. I guess he assumes I turned to him for advice. That’s funny, because I’ve been doing this for a damn long time, longer than either of these pricks. Sure, they’ve been to war. But war has officers and orders and protocol. War is nothing like the bloodshed on the streets.

  I nod. “Sure.”

  I keep waiting for Bear to crash into the room and headshot these men. But Bear only came back because Felicity was in danger. If he’s smart—and he is—he’ll be long gone by now. He’ll be on his back under the sun somewhere, under a pretend name, soaking in the rays and forgetting about this madness.

  I look down the scope again and watch as Felicity follows Daniel into the bathroom. Smart, I think. But then, she is the smartest woman you’ve ever known, isn’t she?

  I want to tell myself that this decision is cut and dry. I don’t need to think about it. But the truth is more complicated than that. The truth is I’m not sure what I’m going to do. I’m not good for Felicity, that’s the truth. She’d be far better off with somebody else, maybe one of these clean-cunt politician types, maybe with a friend from the gym, maybe with anybody else. I swivel to the ambassador. He laughs, throwing his head back, exposing his neck. I could pull the trigger and end it all now. But I have to wait for the speech.

  Behind me, something clicks. Then Cleft presses his gun between my shoulder blades.

  “You look shifty,” he says. “You planning something?”

  “What the fuck could I be planning?” I snap. They haven’t given me food or water. My body aches all over from the three-day imprisonment. And my skin is dry and cracked from so long in the darkness.

  “We’ve heard about you,” Cleft says. “The little kid who was taken off the streets by Bear. Bear was the hardest motherfucker in the game before he went soft. But he’s not too soft, is he? ’Cause I saw what he did at the factory. If you’ve been trained by a man like that, you probably think you’ve got an ace up your sleeve. Well, let me tell you.” He nudges me forcefully with the pistol. “You don’t have shit. Nothing. You kill the man or you die, it’s as simple as that.”

  As simple as that, I think numbly. If only that were true.

  I tell myself that I don’t know the man, have never met him in my life. But that holds little weight when I’m in love with his daughter. But surely she doesn’t need me. She’s young and beautiful and capable and intelligent. She’ll get over her father’s death and go on without me. She’ll fall in love and have children and one day, long from now, she’ll tell her husband all about the mad few weeks she had. She’ll tell him about a man named Roma and how mean and bloodthirsty he was. And her husband will wrap his arms around her and hug her close and whisper into her ear: “He sounds like an awful man. He sounds like a demon.” Where will I be? Maybe the leader of the organization, Mr. Black’s successor.

  I’m jolted from my thoughts when Felicity jogs from the bathroom, alone. I watch as she jogs across the room and toward her father. I swallow. She’s going to tell him. She’s going to tell him and if she tells him, Secret Service will descend like a murder of crows. I take a deep breath and aim the rifle directly at the ambassador’s head. Felicity seems to take an age to get across the room.

  Cleft nudges me with his weapon. “What’s happening?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I have no damn clue.”

  “Yeah, right,” Cleft snaps. “You better make something happen or me and my boys are gonna have a damn good time with you.”

  Felicity reaches her father and takes him by the arm, leads him away from the group. My forehead is sweating, the idea of shooting a man so close to Felicity bringing on nerves unlike anything I normally feel. I lean my head back to wipe sweat from my head. As I do so, I happen to glance across the street. My heart thuds.

  Standing in a room a few levels higher than mine, in a building off to the right, is Mr. Black. Not one of his cronies, or one of his goons, but Mr. Black himself. And he’s holding a scoped rifle just like mine.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Felicity

  I crash through the door and run through the room toward Dad. People turn and regard with me confused expressions, but I ignore them. One man, one of those politicians who would look more at home on an oil rig than at a party, steps into my path, thumbs tucked into his belt and smiling benevolently.

  “Miss Fellows!” he booms, his grin growing wider by the moment. “Miss Fellows!” he repeats, as though I didn’t hear him the first time. “I have to say, it is an honor to be standing here with you. We’ve all heard the story.” He leans in and I smell whisky on his breath. Strange, because we’re only serving champagne, water, and wine. “Lots of these nasty folk thought your father had something to do with it! Imagine! It was a scandal, I tell you, an absolute scandal! I know Gregory Fellows—not well, you understand, but well enough—and I know that he would never, even if his life depended on it, harm his daughter.”

  All through this speech I try and step around him, but he shifts aside to block me. He is so rotund that he doesn’t have to move much to block me completely. He continues smiling, but . . . no, can it be?

  “Are you part of it?” I snap. The words come out shrill. Several heads snap to us.

  “Part of what?” he says, genuinely bemused.

  “Part of it,” I hiss.

  He squints at me, shaking his head. “I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific.

  “Oh,” I mutter. “Never mind.”

  I step around him and continue on my way. Jogging in heels is hard enough. It’s made harder by the fact that this dress is super-tight around my legs, causing my steps to be small, little pitter-patters which barely make any ground at all. I’m halfway across the room when the purple-framed-glasses journalist tumbles into my path.

  “We haven’t finished our conversation,” she says, with a note of offence. She totters on her feet and that’s when I realize that everybody is a little too drunk. Everybody sways slightly and everybody’s faces are varying shades of red. “I don’t have to be a named author, you know. I’m not above ghostwriting your memoir. Or, we could collaborate. I think much good could come of a collaboration, you know? Much good, indeed. Why don’t we try it? It could be wonderful.”

  “I’m sure it could,” I growl through gritted teeth. Is the whole world against me today? “We’ll discuss it later.”

  I push past her, ignoring her cry of outrage, and finally I make it to Dad. He’s standing with an old couple. Just before I reach him, he lets out
a laugh which fills the room like the call of a fog horn.

  “Dad,” I gasp, touching his shoulder.

  He holds a finger up to the couple—one second, ever so sorry—and turns to me. “That’s the Secretary of State,” he says tightly, nodding at the man, who turns and walks away. “You shouldn’t interrupt me when I’m with the Secretary of State, Felicity. You know better than that.”

  “Yes, I know, but—”

  “What’s wrong?” he says. “You look all flustered.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to tell you!” I hiss.

  He brings his hand to my forehead, touches it. “You’re burning up,” he says.

  “Dad!” I snap.

  He tilts his head at me. “Are you drunk?”

  “No, listen to me,” I breathe. “I think somebody is going to make an attempt on your life tonight. I just ran into a man who was part of the team that kidnapped me. He’s here, Dad, and if he’s here, that means that—”