Hitman - the Series: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance Collection (Alexis Abbott's Hitmen #0)

by Alexis Abbott

  I’m pacing around the living room when Rosie finally steps out of my room in her outfit, and when I turn to look at her, I nearly lose my breath at the beauty before me. Rosie is naturally a gorgeous woman, but she’s outdone herself tonight. The evening dress she’s wearing spills down her form like a dark scarlet waterfall, ending at her knees, hanging elegantly off her shoulders and hugging her breasts and hips as though it were made for her. It contrasts with her pale skin in a way that makes me want to tear her out of the dress and forget our whole plan in a rush of passion.

  I’ve been a gentleman with her, though. Even though I catch those glances of her, and there’s some instinct in me that tells me she feels the same.

  Whether she’s forgiven me or not for how we met, over the past couple of days I have noticed that her defensive snark has begun to fade, replaced instead with something bordering on carefree. It’s taken us both by surprise.

  I take her hand as she emerges, placing a hand around her waist. “Rosie, you look spectacular,” I say, trying to mind my accent as I pronounce the word, and she smiles at my deep voice’s effort.

  “You’re one to talk,” she says, looking me up and down. “I didn’t know they trained hitmen how to dress.”

  “You have to learn a thing or two about blending in with high society,” I say, taking her by the arm as we turn to leave. “When the rich and powerful are your targets, you must be able to blend in with them.” She seems to think about that curiously for a moment, a faint smile on her lips, and I add, “Are you ready for tonight?”

  Her blue eyes look back up to me, playful light in them. “Ready to take part in a multi-million dollar heist in a place I’ve never even heard of when the most acting I’ve ever done was Midsummer Night’s Dream in high school? Sure, yeah.”

  Chuckling, I lead her out of the house and to my car, where we get in and start driving to our destination.

  “This hotel is a five-star venue,” I explain as we drive. “Very high society of Manhattan. What is the phrase you Americans use — upper bread?”

  She blinks before stifling a laugh, shaking her head. “Upper crust is what you’re thinking of. I hope.”

  I feel a little color in my cheeks, and I grin. “Not my fault American expressions are strange. In any case, let’s recap.”

  Rosie nods, paying close attention to the plan I’d already gone over with her at least a dozen times. “There’s a man staying at this hotel by the name of Montgomery Morrison. He’s officially a jeweler, but he has extraordinarily deep pockets in the international jewel trade, and there’s more than a little blood on his hand. Smuggling. Blood diamonds. Extortion. He’s not above anything, and he’s made more than a few enemies along the way. Someone has paid for Morrison’s assassination, and our friend Andrei has set me up with the contract.”

  Rosie interjects, “And that’s the contract you’re going to...carry out. You’re going to kill Morrison tonight.” She says the words carefully, as though intimidated by their very pronunciation. I nod in response.

  “Yes. It’s something that will do a lot of good for many people in the big picture, Rosie.”

  “And the small picture,” she says, looking at me confidently, to my surprise. “You’re right. Don’t worry, I won’t be losing sleep over some slimy bastard.”

  I smile and proceed. “Morrison is my target for tonight, but he’s the secondary target. He’s carrying with him a case containing extraordinarily rare jewels, his latest acquisitions from a lucrative venture on the Gold Coast. There’s a lot of blood those stones represent, but if Morrison gets away with them, they’ll just be used to line his pockets. While I see to the assassination, Andrei takes care of acquiring the jewels from his hotel room. We can’t undo the evil they represent, but we can put the money they’re worth to good use. Andrei is already getting into position, so we won’t be in contact with him for the duration of the night. We’ll meet up after everything's said and done, at our manor.”

  Rosie smiles a bit at the words ‘our manor,’ and she nods. “So, you kill the bad guy and Andrei makes off with the jewels. And meanwhile-”

  “Meanwhile,” I pick up for her, “you’ll be the distraction for the one real threat to this heist: Diego Milani, Morrison’s personal attack dog. He’s one of the top hitmen for the Italian mafia in New York City, and that is no small compliment. But he takes contract jobs like me and Andrei, so for tonight, he’s working as a bodyguard.”

  “So I’m distracting a trained killer with a reputation in the local mafia,” Rosie says, a nervous smile on her face, and I reach over to stroke her arm.

  “Are you sure you can do this? You don’t have to, if you don’t want to.”

  “No, I want this,” she says, and suddenly her voice exudes confidence again, and I nod.

  “Very well. We considered including Diego in the hit, but that might start a war with the Italians that we don’t want to tangle with right now. Fortunately, like any self-respecting Italian man, Diego has a weakness for women. And you, Rosie, are more woman than he’ll be able to resist,” I say, looking Rosie up and down. She smiles, squirming a little in her seat, checking her red lipstick in the mirror.

  “I’m a regular femme fatale,” she muses softly, half-joking. “You sure I won’t look a little suspicious, coming up to him like that?”

  “Andrei and I have read up on Diego,” I say, “he won’t ask questions. Just keep him distracted long enough that Morrison will go on a bathroom break. That’s all I’ll need. He’s a drinker, so expect to find him with his bodyguard at the hotel bar. I’ve made a reservation at the hotel, so I’ll be ‘checking in’ while you tend to Diego.”

  She takes a deep breath and nods. “What if things go wrong?”

  “I’ll extract you. Don’t worry. I’ll send you a text after the job is done, and you’ll excuse yourself to meet me in the parking lot. After Morrison drops, our part is done, and we’ll be out of the area within minutes. Diego is being paid well, but he has nothing personal in this. But just to make sure you’re not in any danger,” I say, reaching over to tap Rosie’s purse, “I’ve installed a wire in your purse. It’s hooked up to an earpiece I’ll have in, meaning that I’ll be able to hear your entire conversation with Diego. If there’s trouble, I’ll be there.”

  Rosie fingers her purse a little, nodding silently. She recites the whole plan back to me as we drive, the busy Manhattan traffic slowing our progress only a little as we make our way to the hotel.

  At long last, we pull up into the driveway, and Rosie’s eyes widen at the opulence before us. A fountain that seems to shimmer with golden light stands in front of the high doorways, and the building rises many, many stories high, gleaming in the spotlights with white marble. Golden lion statues stand outside the doors, and a red carpet leads indoors. I park the car and help Rosie out, and I can feel her heartbeat racing as I take her soft hand in my larger one. I look her in the eye again, a soft smile on my hard face. “You can do this, Rosie. I believe in you.”

  She looks up at me and seems to calm a little, giving a careful nod. “Not many people do.” She forces a smile to her lips. “Let’s see if your trust is well-placed, shall we? It’s showtime.”

  Confidently, Rosie and I stride into the building, the doorman giving us a courteous nod as we enter. The interior seems to shimmer with wealth, a golden hue about the whole place. Soft piano music greets us as I watch Rosie’s gaze look up to the high ceiling and enormous chandelier. It’s like a more lively version of the manor — better staffed and bustling with activity.

  “There’s a show opening on Broadway tonight,” I whisper to Rosie as we walk down the black tile floors to the desk. “Crowds from all over the world here.”

  I can see on Rosie’s lips the desire to talk about how she’s never seen anything like this, never pictured herself surrounded by so much wealth and affluence in one place, but she holds her tongue for now. She knows she has a part to play, and I’m impressed by how seamlessly she see
ms able to slip into the role.

  “Ooh, we should go and see it!” she says in a normal speaking voice, putting on a starry-eyed face as she looks up to me. “You promised me a good time in New York, darling.”

  “We’ll see, my dear,” I say to her with a candid smile. “Why don’t you go enjoy a drink while I get us checked in?”

  Rosie stretches up to me, and I lean down to let her peck me on the cheek, smiling as she turns to stride off to the hotel bar, her hips swaying as she makes her way down the hallway.

  I’ve already shown her a picture of Morrison, so she knows who to target. I don’t imagine there will be more than one towering Italian standing near that wretched bag of bones. Nonetheless, it makes me nervous to see Rosie go out of my sight so quickly, and I put in my earpiece when it doesn’t seem like anyone is watching me before I make my way to the desk and start chatting up the receptionist.

  I’m only half paying attention to the conversation I’m conducting with the receptionist as I hear Rosie’s voice over the earpiece.

  “Give me a martini, something sweet. If you can work a cherry into it, that’d be lovely,” she says, her voice smooth as silk. I have to admit, her candor tonight has been remarkably composed, for someone who’s never done this before. I don’t want to tell her just yet, but she’s a natural at this. I wonder how many times she’s been forced to play the actress in some capacity in her life.

  There is a tragic beauty surrounding so much about Rosie. I just want to give her the happiness she deserves so that she doesn’t have to wear so many masks. If only it were possible already. But for now, we have a job to carry out.

  As the receptionist in front of me starts typing away at his computer, to find the fake name I gave, I listen to the voice on my earpiece, and I can hear the bartender saying something.

  “Ma’am, that martini has another one coming after it, courtesy of the gentleman down the bar.”

  “Oh?” There’s a teasing lilt to her voice, and I can almost see her glancing down the bar. If there’s another man besides Diego making a move on her, there could be trouble. I wait with baited breath as I hear her footsteps resume.

  “I hope I wasn’t too forward,” I hear a voice in an Italian accent say as I let loose a breath of relief, “but it breaks my heart to see a woman drinking alone.”

  “You’re too kind,” Rosie says, and I’m astounded at the finesse in her voice. She sounds appreciative, but not so much as to make him suspect she’s just fishing for more drinks. There’s a vague disinterest tinged with the hint of something more in her tone. I’d be caught in her net myself, if I were in Diego’s position.

  “So tell me, what brings a lovely soul like you to Manhattan?” says Diego, and I can hear his voice closer as he leans in. “I’m no local, but I’ve been here long enough to be able to show strangers around.”

  I smile, bemused. Italians. The receptionist finishes checking me in, and I stride away from the desk with my room key, making my way to the bathroom near the bar to occupy a stall and take a seat. As I listen to Diego and Rosie engage in flirtatious small talk, I pull out my phone and navigate to a live camera feed Andrei and I had installed the day before.

  We’d arranged nothing complicated. From here, I can monitor the feed from the security cameras in the hallway outside the hotel bar, leading to the bathroom. This should be all I need to watch Morrison make his way in. All there is to do now is play the waiting game. My hand drifts to the pistol strapped to my side, a force of habit.

  Rosie keeps Diego talking, and I find myself smiling at the story she feeds him. She’s passing herself off as a sugar baby to some old rich man who’s losing interest in her, and it’s put her on edge. She’s giving the impression that she’s the perfect mix of desirable and vulnerable enough to be both valuable and attainable to the likes of Diego. She’s brilliant.

  The chatter goes on for some time, and I start bracing myself for action; I can hear a stifled mutter from somewhere close to Rosie from time to time, and the age and privilege in the voice makes me suspect it’s Morrison. He’ll be too insecure next to his own bodyguard’s flirting to want him with him when he goes to the bathroom soon.

  But then something in Rosie’s conversation catches my ear.

  “Big bad Italian, huh? No offense, but your friend there doesn’t exactly look like he’s come right out of Tuscany,” Rosie teases, and Diego laughs.

  “No, you’re right, my client tonight is a proud American. We Italians are branching out more and more these days, you know. The way things are going, I’ll likely be working with the Russians like some of my colleagues are, before too long.”

  My eyes widen, even as I hear the scrape of Morrison’s chair over the earpiece. Italians working side by side with Russians? I hadn’t heard anything about that, and I was already given some of the details of recent ongoings by my new subordinates in the past few days. The two mafias were usually at odds on the best of days, but for there to be hints of members openly working together…?

  If there’s collaboration going on under my nose, it could be the missing link that’s had Andrei and I vexed over this whole sex slave operation.

  But I have no time to reflect further on the development as I watch Morrison come out of the bar and stride down the hall. He makes his way further along, and I put my hand on my pistol as I brace for him to step into the bathroom…

  And he passes it by.

  My heart catches in my throat. Where would he be going without his bodyguard? Swearing to myself, I stand up and exit the stall, watching him go on my phone. Before I leave the bathroom, I see him go to one of the rooms on the first floor, knocking on the door. Quickly, I exit the bathroom and follow him as though strolling idly down the hallway.

  Morrison comes into sight just as the door in front of him opens. As I pass him, I hear him say to the man who opens the door, “Change of plans. Meet me in my room in ten.”

  The man nods, and the door closes. Morrison now behind me, we’re walking in the same direction: to the elevator and stairwell at the end of the hall. With no other choice, I know what I have to do, and I veer off to take the stairs as Morrison enters the elevator.

  The moment the elevator doors close, I nearly break into a sprint up the stairs. Morrison is staying on the seventh floor, and I have to beat him there.

  If Morrison makes it to his room, the operation is a bust. Andrei should be making the pickup at this very instant, and this cannot look like a smash-and-grab robbery if we’re to make it out unscathed. What’s worse, I know that if Morrison is heading up the elevator, he’ll be contacting his bodyguard to get his flirtatious ass up there with him to make the handoff in his room. This hit has to happen now.

  My legs carry me faster than I’d have ever hoped, and within a matter of seconds, even as I hear the elevator keeping up with me, I reach the final stairs leading to the seventh floor landing. Glancing up at the cameras on the ceiling, I step into the doorframe of one of the maintenance rooms, into a blind spot, and I take my gun out.

  The elevator doors slide open, and I make eye contact with Morrison for a split second, watching his beady eyes widen before his brains splatter against the wall behind him after I pull the trigger of my gun.

  Without missing a beat, I stow the weapon and head back down the stairs, pulling up my text messages to Rosie.

  “Done. Car. Now.”

  12

  Rosie

  The night we arrived back home after the hotel heist, I was too pumped up on adrenaline to sleep, and luckily Konstantin dutifully obliged my enthusiastic chattering. We stayed up until the wee hours of morning, the Bull patiently listening to my ranting re-cap of the night’s action while I paced back and forth across the kitchen floor. Even in my state of post-danger high, I couldn’t help but pick up on his quiet amusement as he watched me, those gray eyes following my every movement with a twinge of warm fondness. I was still dumbstruck at the fact that we both just participated in an actual jewel heist of
cinematic proportions, but Konstantin seemed much more interested in me.

  It’s strange; as intimidating and dangerous a man as he is, I rarely feel even a hint of fear around him. I am a very intuitive person. I have learned how to read people’s moods and body language so well, I’m very nearly psychic at this point. I can sense trouble brewing a mile away, and my instincts have very rarely steered me wrong. I am pragmatic, sensible, and realistic about the world and what it has to offer me — which, in my experience, has not been a whole lot of good. And despite his enormous stature, his gun, his nickname, his vocation, and the dark circumstances under which we met, I find myself oddly at ease with him.

  This is especially bizarre when I take into account how very rarely I am ever at ease, period. My life has been one long, serpentine path through hardship after hardship, and after everything I’ve been through, I don’t really ever… relax. I don’t allow myself the luxury. Living with the volatile whirlwind of capricious destruction that is my father, I have learned to sleep with one eye open, to constantly look over my shoulder. If not for my own sake, then to better protect Daisy and Sunny.

  But with Konstantin, I don’t hear that usual alarm bell ringing in the back of my mind. I don’t clench my jaw and tense my shoulders. I don’t feel like I have to cushion my words and guard my true emotions to the same extent I usually do. I mean, I don’t think I will ever be able to fully relax around anyone, or even by myself. The things I have seen and suffered through for the past eight years, especially, have probably scarred me for the rest of my life. However, it does shock me just how quickly I am adjusting to being around the Bull. By all rights, I should fear him. I should despise him. After all, it is partially his fault that I’m stuck here instead of back at home taking care of my sisters. (Though, to be fair, most of the blame is firmly situated on the shoulders of Frank Barnes.)