Kiss Of Death: A Dark Mafia Romance

Una

I normally love Miami, but I think I’m coming down with something and the heat and humidity aren’t helping the nausea that’s settled into the pit of my stomach since I left Nero yesterday. The car rolls to a stop on a quiet street beneath the shade of a palm tree and I step out.

Elaina Matthews’ apartment is in a small building near South beach. It’s non-descript, with a set of iron stairs and a walkway that runs along the first floor. Knocking on her door, I wait, hearing the shuffle of footsteps on the other side.

She opens the door in a tracksuit, a pile of blonde hair scooped up on top of her head.

“Yeah?” Her eyebrows pinch together in a frown.

I could probably think of a hundred reasons to have her invite me in, but my head is pounding, and I can’t be bothered with the niceties. Instead, I ram my shoulder into her, pushing her back into the apartment.

“Hey!” Slamming the door behind me, I thrust the needle of the small syringe into her neck, depressing the plunger. She reaches for her neck before her eyelids start to droop. The mixture of Ketamine and Rohypnol works quickly and will knock her out for at least eight hours. When she wakes up, she won’t remember a thing.

That takes her out of the equation.

Tugging at the hem of my tiny dress, I take the short walk down Ocean Drive to the Beacon Hotel. The street is packed, and it feels like a carnival. There are people everywhere, street performers, girls in bikinis walking up and down holding up signs for various bars. The sidewalk is littered with tables and chairs as the bars sprawl out into the street. People sit drinking cocktails from glasses the size of my head, the liquid smoking and bubbling like a witch’s cauldron. Cars crawl along the beach front, chromed out Cadillacs and supped-up sports cars revving their engines and blasting hip-hop music. It’s like a street party, and actually, I don’t look even slightly out of place in my slutty dress. The number of people coupled with all the music blasting out of each bar has my senses in overload. I can’t help but want to listen and probe the area around me for possible threats. I swear I can feel eyes on me, but I can’t sense anything past all the noise. Glancing over my shoulder, I attempt to check for followers. The crowd is so dense, I couldn’t tell you even if an attacker were right behind me.

I quicken my pace until I reach the hotel. It’s an art deco building, slap bang in the middle of the bars and clubs, and honestly, if I were a wanted weapons dealer, it’s a location I would pick. If he needs to escape quickly, he could disappear into the swelling crowd in seconds, slip into any one of ten bars that I can see from here. It’s a smart move, but I’m not the FBI, I’m not here to cuff him. He won’t be running from me.

Stepping inside, I inhale a breath of the cool, conditioned air. Tiled flooring clicks beneath my heels and I glance up to the curved viewing gallery above. A bar opens up to my right, and I instantly spot Diego. The picture Sasha sent me was a blurred surveillance image, but it’s enough. Approaching him, I hop up on the stool beside him and order a vodka without sparing him a glance. The barman moves away to make my drink and I twist my face towards him.

He has that typical Miami look with the linen pants and a white shirt, top three buttons undone. Black chest hair peeks through the gap in his shirt and a heavy gold chain hangs around his neck. His hair is shaved almost to his head. He’s just an average-looking guy, I suppose.

“Julian?”

He glances in my direction, holding his glass in one hand and a cigarette in the other. As soon as I inhale the smell, it reminds me of Nero, the scent of smoke and expensive cologne. Diego brings the cigarette to his lips, smiling around the filter tip and making it seem like the dirty habit it really is. Whereas Nero can make the simple act of smoking a cigarette look like a work of art.

“Who are you?” His accent is a strange mix of American, Cuban and Spanish.

“My name is Isabelle. The agency sent me.” I hold my hand out to him and flash him a blinding smile.

“Where is Elaina?” he asks, suspicion lacing his voice. Shit.

“She couldn’t make it. The agency thought you might like me instead.” I push as much seduction into my voice as possible and his expression softens.

Eyes skate over my body, locking onto the point where the miniscule dress clings to my upper thighs. Lifting his drink towards his lips, he nods. Jesus, how to make a girl feel good about herself. The barman places my drink on the bar and I take a large gulp of the shit vodka.

“Are you from Miami?” I ask.

He downs his drink and slams the glass on the bar a little too hard. “I didn’t come here to talk to you.”

I smirk because I’m going to enjoy killing this one. “Of course.” I neck the remainder of the vodka. “Shall we?”

Standing up, he surprises me by offering his hand. I take it, my fingers brushing over the thick callouses of his palm, which is good, because then he won’t notice how equally calloused my hands are. I can pull on a mask and become anyone I need to be, but once a fighter always a fighter and the evidence simply can’t be hidden. My knuckles are thick with scar tissue, the silvery white skin marked from splitting open and healing time and time again. It’s given me away once or twice.

I allow him to glide his hand around my waist, fighting my less civilized instincts as he leads me out of the bar. Soon, I tell the angry little demon inside my head. The second he gets me in the elevator, I’m pressed against the mirrored wall with his lips on my neck and his hands on my exposed thighs. The doors open, he drags me out, and I play along, allowing him to force me backwards along the corridor. Jeez, when was the last time the guy got laid? My back hits a door and his hand is practically in my underwear as he fumbles with the key card. This usually wouldn’t bother me, my cold detachment allowing me to see it as just part of the job. But today I have to grit my teeth and bite back the bile that’s rising in my throat. Just a few more seconds. His lips slam over mine and he shoves me into the room.

The door clicks shut, and the second I’m thrown into darkness, a fissure of unease crawls through me. Something’s wrong. “You make a shit whore.” No sooner have the words sunk in than his hand slams around my throat, almost taking me off my feet as he throws me into a bedside table. I groan, blinking as my eyes adjust to the faint light drifting through the window. A lamp has fallen to the floor beside me and I reach for it, unclicking the light bulb as he closes in on me again. I get to my feet just in time to ram the bulb into his face. It smashes, embedding jagged shards into his skin. He shouts out something in Spanish as the blood pours down his cheek. I nail him in the kidney and he hits me in the face so hard, I almost go down again. Jesus, who is this guy?

Spitting out a mouthful of blood, I crack my neck to the side before going for him again. For every blow I dish out, he gives me one twice as hard. The last time I fought like this I was in training. This is a fight to the death and we both know it. Launching me onto the bed, he lands on top of me, hands clamping around my throat. He doesn’t bother with a gentle easing in. No, the grip is hard enough to break my neck, never mind choke me. I crack him in the side of the temple, but it does nothing. Pulling my mind together, I force myself to think and not panic. Embrace death. My right hand is pressed between our bodies, if I can just…I manage to move my wrist enough to drop the silver blade from my cuff, and then I jab him in the crotch with it twice. He roars and leaps back off me. Precious air filters into my lungs, dragging a cough from me as I roll onto my front. He grabs me by the back of my neck and tosses me across the room before following and pinning me against the wall with his forearm across my throat.

“Va a ser un buen premio, ángel de la muerte,” he hisses in my face. You will make a fine prize, angel of death. Only the Mexicans call me that. What the hell did I do to piss them off? He pushes his whole weight against my throat and my nails rake over his face. I press my thumbs into his eyes and he snarls…BANG! Pain slices across my forearm and then he drops to the floor, dead. I whirl to face a shadowy figure rising from the chair in the corner of the room.

“You’re losing your touch, morte.”

Nero. What the hell? I hold up my finger and bend over, bracing my hands on my knees as I try and breathe through my battered larynx. Glancing at my forearm I note the bright red line, a bullet burn. Motherfucker. “I had that. And what the hell are you doing here?”

I straighten as he approaches me, dragging his eyes slowly over my exposed body. “Working are we?” Glaring, I tug at the hem of my dress which has ridden up, exposing my underwear.

“Why. Are. You. Here?”

Like a snake, he strikes, fingers squeezing my chin to the point of pain. Anger swirls in his irises like an impending storm and the muscles in his jaw contract irritably.

“Were you going to fuck him?” His voice is a low growl.

“What?!”

“Were you going to fuck the sicario?” he repeats, his tone measured and quiet, which is always worrying. The tension rolling off him is thick and turbulent, a pre-cursor to something much more violent.

“I was going to kill him. Or did that little show down look romantic to you? In fact, don’t answer that.” That’s Nero’s idea of perfect foreplay.

“If he hadn’t tried to kill you?” Hot breath washes over my face, and I can’t help the frantic rush of my heart as his potent brand of lust and fear caresses my senses.

“I really think you’re missing the important point, which is that he tried to fucking kill me!”

He tilts my head back with a violent shove, bringing his lips close to my ear. “Listen very carefully, Morte. You can run, you can put half the world between us if you like, I don’t care. But you are mine. That pussy is mine. These lips are fucking mine.” He pulls back and swipes his thumb roughly over my bottom lip. “Kiss another man again, and you won’t like what happens next.” My stomach tightens along with his grip. So, that’s why he let me take a beating, because he’s butt hurt that the Mexican kissed me. It’s a job! I’ll never understand jealousy.

“Were you following me?” He doesn’t answer and I shake my head. “You’re crazy.” I dig my nails into his wrist, and his forehead touches mine on a deep breath.

“This was a set-up. Someone wants you dead. He’s one of the best sicarios the Los Zetas has to offer.”

“Someone always wants me dead, Nero.” Although I’ve never had any run-ins with the Los Zetas. At least I can feel better about nearly having my ass handed to me though. Those guys are badass.

His grip on my jaw softens, fingers stroking over my cheek. “Enough to pay five million for the hit?”

My eyes go wide, and I glance at the body. Five million. Jesus. “How did you know?”

“I have contacts.” Every time I think I know the extent of Nero’s power, he surprises me. “Nicholai put you on this job?”

My mind starts spinning through the web of potential betrayal. “Nicholai would never betray me.”

“You’re an asset to him. And an asset that is now compromised. If he doesn’t want you dead then someone else does, and he’s selling you upriver.” He steps back and drags both hands through his hair. The beat of music from the street below cuts through the silence that lingers as I try and process the possibility of it all.

“No.” I shake my head, scraping my teeth over my bleeding bottom lip. He wouldn’t, I know he wouldn’t. “He cares about me. He treats me like a daughter.”

Nero’s burning gaze meets mine, barely restrained anger shining through. “Because it suits him. Do not be naïve. You can’t trust him.”

No, Nicholai is the only one who has ever cared about me besides Alex. Alex…the boy I shot, the boy he made me shoot. I press my balled-up fist to my forehead and squeeze my eyes shut. If I doubt Nicholai then I doubt everything, every single moment that has led me to this exact point in my life.

“He’s using you.”

I glare at him, feeling cornered and vulnerable. “Like you did, you mean? And why should I trust you?” My world is crumbling around me. What if it’s all just a farce, even Nero?

He tilts his head, his expression cool and impassive. “Because you’re mine.”

That’s it, three words that mean nothing and everything.

“You used me, Nero.”

“Yes, and you would do exactly the same, Morte.” He’s right, I remember thinking the same thing that first night when he mentioned Anna’s name. The first rule of negotiation, find something your opponent wants and use it. We’re both without morals. We’re both born of bloodshed and battle. His knuckles stroke over the side of my neck and my pulse picks up. “You and I are the same, and we would both use everything at our disposal to win. So, let them come. We’ll destroy them all.” A twisted smile pulls at his lips, and for a moment I feel whole, protected, like I could rely on him. Worse; that I want to. I grab a handful of his thick hair, pulling his face to mine. He kisses me like he owns a piece of me, and he does, because I’m his queen and he’s my bloodied king.