Kiss Of Death: A Dark Mafia Romance

Una

My watch reads seven thirty. I said I’d meet Darren at eight. Tommy is sitting across the table from me playing solitaire while I pretend to be doing something constructive on my laptop. I’ve barely seen Nero for the last two days, and I get the impression he’s tied up in mafia shit. He’s permanently snappy, drinking like a fish and spending almost all of his time in the office. I don’t care. While he’s focused on other things, he’s leaving me alone, which is good.

Wordlessly, I get up and head to my room. When I arrived here there were already some clothes in the walk-in closet. All of them are brand new with the tags still on. I pick out a simple black dress. God knows what he thought I would possibly need this for, but it’s coming in handy now. I managed to order a pair of shoes online, and Tommy, of course, opened the package because I’m untrustworthy and likely to get bombs posted to the apartment or something. When he saw the shoes, he looked so confused. I explained that all girls like shoes and of course he just believed me, bless him. Slipping on the dress and the shoes, I check my face in the mirror, adding a layer of blood-red lipstick and dragging my fingers through my long white-blonde hair.

Tommy immediately looks up when he hears the click of heels on the kitchen floor. His eyebrows shoot up so far they’re practically touching his hairline. “Uh, wow. You…you look amazing, but why are you dressed like that?”

With a smile, I pull the gun from behind my back. His eyes pop wide and he barely has time to try and scramble from the barstool before I bring the butt down hard on this temple. His eyes roll back and he goes down hard. I feel bad, but this is necessary. Nero wants to dictate how this job goes down but that wasn’t part of this agreement. He hired me to do a job, and I’m going to get it done. For all of his bullshit saying we’re in this together, we’re not. As usual, it’s me against the world.

I put the 9mm pistol in my handbag and swipe the key card out of Tommy’s pocket before finding a pen and paper and scrawling a note to Nero. He’s going to be so angry. The thought makes me smile.

Darren is sitting at the bar when I get to the place he wanted to meet. It’s a new bar a few streets over from O’Malley’s. The décor is all brushed steel and slate floors, very industrial. I hop up on the stool next to him.

“Is the vodka any good here?”

He turns to face me and his eyes immediately sweep the length of my body appreciatively, a slow smile pulling at his lips. “You look stunning. And I wouldn’t know, I’m a whisky man.” He’s wearing fitted jeans and a grey shirt with no tie. Darren Derham – yes, I looked him up – is a good-looking guy. But he’s also pretty high in the Irish mob on this side of the city. He works closely with Brandon O’Kieffe who’s the capo equivalent in these parts. If I can get an in with Darren it’s unlikely it will be questioned, but his position also means he’s intelligent, cautious and anything but naïve. The benefit of being a woman is even the shrewdest of men never suspect anything, after all, how much harm could a girl possibly do? He orders me a vodka and the barman slides the drink in front of me. The ice clinks against the glass and he studies me as I lift it to my lips, taking a heavy swallow.

“So, Isabelle, what brings you to New York?”

I tilt my head to the side. It’s a simple enough question, and yet…

“How do you know I’m not from New York?” I ask, adding a seductive smile to make sure it doesn’t come off as defensive.

“The accent.” He lifts his chin and picks up his whisky glass. “You’re not American.” Shit, he’s good. I barely have any accent at all and you have to pay close attention to pick it up. All my instincts are telling me that I’m made, but I push them down. All I can think about is that I need to get this done. Nero makes me lose focus, but the fact is, I’m locked in that apartment, working for him in exchange for Anna, no other reason. And after his little pissing contest the other night, I don’t trust his motivations anymore. No, I have my in. I’m going to see it through. It’s a measured risk, for Anna.

So, I smile and feign an offended expression. “And there was me thinking that I’d mastered the New York accent.”

He laughs. “Almost.”

“Well, I’m just here for work,” I tell him.

He nods. “Where in Russia are you from?”

I can feel my expression tightening with strain but I fight it, playing my role perfectly. “Moscow. My father was a lawyer there,” I lie easily. “But I always wanted to come to America. Now, you can’t even pretend to be from here,” I tease.

He braces his elbows on the bar and smiles at me. “Dublin, born and bred. I came here for work, too.” He downs the rest of his drink. The irony is not lost on me, two people in a normal bar, looking normal, pretending to be normal and trying their utmost to convince the other that they are indeed normal, yet he’s in the mafia and I’m a hired killer.

We sit, both continuing our façade and exchanging pleasant conversation. We tell each other about the people we aren’t, the people we might have been, I suppose. Slowly, I shift closer to him and when I place my hand on his thigh, he barely acknowledges it, comfortable with my touch. His hand lands over mine on his thigh and he leans into me, his lips so close I’m sure he’s going to kiss me, but then his phone rings. He releases a frustrated breath and pulls away to pick it up. I quietly sip on my drink while he talks to whoever is on the other end. Now, Irish is English essentially, until two Irish people talk to each other and then it’s just noise. I can’t make out a word he’s saying. He eventually hangs up and when he turns to face me again, I flash him a wide smile.

“I have to go.” He sighs, and he doesn’t look too happy about it.

I paint a disappointed expression on my face. “Oh, okay.”

He stares at me for a long while and then pushes to his feet, pressing his body against my knees and running his knuckles over my jaw. The touch makes me uncomfortable. “I wish I could bring you with me, but unless you like a bar full of pervy Irishmen, I can’t imagine it’s your scene.”

I shrug. “I happen to like pervy Irishmen.”

He laughs. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” He drags his eyes over my body again. “Fine. But you asked for it.”

Well, that was easier than I anticipated. Now, the next bit is considerably harder.

O’Malley’s is packed tonight. Guys are hanging over the bar, drinking and laughing. Music blares from the jukebox and if I didn’t know what this place is, the nature of these people, then it could be any local bar on a Friday night. Everyone smiles at Darren and some clap him on the back. Curious glances are thrown my way, but they last only a few seconds. There are a few women in here; most of them sprawled across one lap or another. Clutching my handbag close to me, I wish that I could have my gun in hand, ready. These are not the kinds of situations I put myself in. I plan and avoid unnecessary risks. Someone taps me on the shoulder, and I turn around. In the next second someone grabs my wrist, their grip too tight to be friendly. I tamper down my more volatile instincts and my eyes dart around, looking for Darren. He’s gone.

“You’re new,” a voice says, quietly from behind me.

I glance over my shoulder at the dark-haired guy who is only inches away from me before looking at the guy to my left, the one with his hand clamped around my wrist. “You’re hurting me,” I whimper pathetically.

The guy behind me laughs. “If you’ll kindly follow me.” He passes me, yanking my bag from my grasp, before I’m pushed to follow him. This right here is why you don’t go off half-cocked. Damn it.

I’m handcuffed to a chair and the dark-haired guy is pacing in front of me. Finnegan O’Hara. He must be in his forties, the salt and pepper of his beard and crow’s-feet at his eyes the only sign of aging. He’s a big guy, broad-shouldered and thick-set with an air about him that suggests he’s capable of far more than just handling shipments. Two of his guys are on the door, the only exit, and there aren’t even any windows in here. The floor beneath my feet is rough stone and the walls are concrete, reminding me of the facility I trained in, the Russian fortress buried in the snow. Both walls are lined with barrels and it smells like old beer; the cellar of the bar. I still don’t know why they’ve brought me down here, so I’ll play the frightened woman until they play their hand. A steady stream of tears flow down my face and my chest shudders with each breath. Men, even the hardest of them, don’t like having to deal with emotional women and they will subtly focus their attention elsewhere to avoid having to deal with it. So, while his men stare straight ahead and he glances at the floor, I manage to drop the small silver blade from the cuff at my wrist into my hand. This bracelet may well be the most valuable thing I own. It’s not an easy job, but I manage to get the end of the fine blade into the lock, wiggling it until I feel a small pop.

“Do you know who I am?” Finnegan asks, his expression serious.

“No.” I shake my head. “Please let me go,” I sob.

He huffs a laugh before turning on me and leaning over, gripping my forearms. I grind my teeth together, trying not to show my discomfort. “I know exactly who you are, Una Ivanov.” My face goes blank and the tears cut off, my breathing returning to normal. There’s only so much acting I can do. I’ve been made.

“How do you know my name?”

His lips twitch, and I hate that I’m on the back foot. I’m never vulnerable, but right now he has me on the ropes. “Nero Verdi has a reputation, but I have the contacts in this city,” he drawls, his Irish accent more prevalent than Darren’s. I narrow my eyes and say nothing. This is a leak on Nero’s side. Fuck. “And my contacts are loyal to me. They trust me to protect them.”

“If you know who I am, then you know what the cost of killing me is.” I cock a brow, and I don’t have to say a damn thing. When I said I was immune, I wasn’t kidding. Am I an assassin? Yes. Am I technically fair game? Of course. But, and this is a very big but, I am like a daughter to Nicholai Ivanov. The mafias, for the most part, try and remain amicable and maintain peace where they can but the Russians…well, we’re hot-headed by nature. No one wants a war with Nicholai. I’ve seen what he’s capable of and he can make Nero look like Santa Claus.

He pushes away and takes a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket, pulling one loose and placing it between his lips. He lights it and stands a few feet away from me, blowing a long stream of smoke through his nose. “I have no fight with you or that mad Russian fuck.” He spits on the ground. “But I have a fight with Nero Verdi and apparently, he’s hired your services, so I have a job for you, Miss Ivanov. I want you to kill Nero Verdi for me. He won’t even see it coming.”

Oh, how the tables turn.