Kiss Of Death: A Dark Mafia Romance

Una

It’s been a week since Nero killed O’Hara and now here we are, ready to take out the rest of his list. He called a truce and of course they agreed to it, because they’re mafia and they believe there’s honor among thieves, but they don’t know Nero, or they just aren’t paying attention, because I had him pegged in one look. For Nero, boundaries don’t exist and ethics are laughable. I think that’s what makes me want him. I haven’t felt truly safe in a very long time, but Nero manages to make me feel protected in a world where I’m the predator, because sometimes, in order to fight the monsters under the bed, you need a monster of your own.

Nero stands in the doorway of the dining room, his arms folded over his chest as he watches me strip down my rifle. My baby, my pride and joy. Actually, that’s a lie, because I have twelve exact replicas of the same gun stored in various places around the globe. It’s a custom .25 calibre assault rifle. I clean and oil the pieces, going through it methodically, like a ritual. I need this; the calm before the storm. This…being here with Nero; it’s throwing me off. Now more than ever I need to cling to my cool indifference, the training that’s so ingrained.

I don’t look up at Nero, but I hear him move closer. “Nice gun.”

I spare him a brief glance. “Thanks.” He’s wearing a black suit with a white shirt. The jacket is draped casually over his shoulder. His hair is tidier than usual and the confidence he wears so easily looks strained, even masked behind the intimidating stance that he can’t turn off. If I’m a chameleon then Nero is a big cat, roaring and baring his teeth, unapologetic about exactly what he is. The irony is, he doesn’t even need the teeth. His power is growing, even in the short time I’ve been here. Sasha has his ear to the ground for me. I’ve told him I’m working a job for the Italians. Nothing else. But he keeps me informed, tells me about the whisperings of the New York capo so ruthless the rest of the mafia fear him. Marco Fiore has been heard to call Nero a rabid dog, and talk like that will get him killed.

“Nervous?” I smirk.

He tilts his head and whatever lack of confidence I saw a second ago disappears. He circles around behind me, and I fight the urge to turn and keep him in my eye line. I steel my spine and focus on taking a bullet from the ammo box, placing it on the table in front of me. A tremor works over my skin, an awareness of the dangerous presence so close, lingering right behind me. I may fuck him, and to a certain degree trust him, but not completely. Dealing with Nero is like walking on a knife’s edge, feeling the cold bite of the blade on the soles of my feet and finding a sick satisfaction in it. He’s a dangerous and twisted adrenaline rush, not unlike the same thrill I get when I kill. His fingers brush my neck and my breath hitches as he scoops my hair up in one hand. He yanks my head to the side so hard my scalp burns, but the pain is lost as hot breath blows over my skin, followed by the scrape of his teeth. “Don’t miss.”

I click a bullet into the chamber. “I never miss.”

“Good.” He steps away.

Calm. Focus. The icy anticipation of the kill. That’s what I need. The images running through my mind at this second are anything but…