Kiss Of Death: A Dark Mafia Romance

Prologue

My heart slams against my ribs as I stand in the living room of the London apartment, shaking with adrenaline. My fingers ache from gripping the knife so tightly. Something touches my bare foot and I glance down at the pool of blood spreading across the hardwood floor. It creeps around my foot like a river parting around a rock. The blood spreads, spewing from the severed artery of the stranger only a few feet away. I’m an island in a sea of death and chaos. Crimson splatters the walls, spraying over the cheap furniture and staining everything in a way that will never truly wash out. Closing my eyes, I inhale the metallic scent mixing with the lingering hint of gunpowder. That smell is like crack to me. It reminds me that I am death itself.

Five bodies. Five men sent here for the sole purpose of killing me. I’ve been running for six weeks and in that time, I’ve been hunted mercilessly. Though, I’d expect nothing less. Five million dollars is an inspirational amount of money, and it’s currently the price on my head. I have but one friend left in this world. One person I can trust. Sasha. He helps me stay one step ahead, calling on his contacts so he can warn me when they’re coming. But that job is getting harder and harder because I have enemies coming at me from all directions. Sasha confirmed in the last two weeks that it is indeed Arnaldo Boticelli who put the hit on me, just as Nero suspected. So now I have the Italian underboss out for my blood. Nicholai is also looking for me because I defied his order to return to Moscow, and then, of course, there’s Nero. I should have known he wouldn’t just let me walk away, that he wouldn’t be content with my simple promise to return to him. Two weeks ago he turned up here, but it’s the apartment on the floor below that I registered under one of my known aliases. This one, I rent cash in hand. No name.

Why rent another apartment under a name I know they’ll find? Why bring them here? Because I’m Una Ivanov, and though I may be running for now, I don’t hide. If they want me, they can come. I will slaughter every last one of Arnaldo’s men if I have to. But a week ago, it wasn’t Arnaldo’s men that turned up.

The downstairs apartment is rigged with alarms and sensors. The second someone sets foot inside that place, I know about it. The alarm tripped, so I left and went to my spot across the street: a fire escape sheltered in the shadow of a dark alleyway. From there I had a clear vantage point into the apartment, and it’s there that I saw Nero. Through my rifle sights I could see the hard set of his jaw, the strain behind his eyes. Of all the people hunting me, Nero Verdi may well be the one I fear the most. You can kill enemies. You can even fight yourself, but you can’t fight fate. You can’t kill the only person you feel anything for, because as ruthless and violent as Nero is, we’re two halves of the whole, hopelessly drawn to one another’s darkness. I long for the rush only his brand of fear can possibly ignite. He once told me that I can run, that I can put half the world between us, but I will always be his. I am his, and he is the father of my child. He came here, to London, which makes this more dangerous than ever. He couldn’t know about the pregnancy. He’s an unpredictable creature at the best of times, but this…I can’t even imagine how he’d react. I need time. Six more months to be exact. And then I’ll return to him like I said I would.

He has my sister after all.

I blink and glance down at my not quite flat stomach. I have to leave. They took me by surprise this time, snuck in here in the middle of the night. The alarms downstairs never went off. They found me here, in my actual apartment. I can’t get rid of these bodies without calling in help, and help will lead my enemies to me like sharks to a fresh kill. I pick up the burner phone I’ve been using and send a text to Sasha. Need a clean-up at the apartment for five. Going dark.

I take a quick shower. The water runs crimson as I scrub the layers of blood from my skin. Wiping the condensation off the mirror, I stare at the reflection. I barely recognize myself and that’s good. My once white-blonde hair is now chocolate brown, though the dye is fading in places. I find a Band-Aid and place it over the bleeding split on my cheek. My jaw is marred with an angry red mark and my throat is already turning purple from the belt one of them tried to choke me with. This is England. Gun fights are conspicuous. Luckily for me. It’s far easier to take out five guys when they can’t shoot you. I throw on a pair of jeans and a loose-fitting hoody, and then I’m leaving with only one bag. I have cash, my knife, several fake passports and a laptop. That’s it. I walk the dark streets to the nearby London Underground and head for Victoria Station. From there I’ll buy a ticket with cash and get the hell out of here. Maybe I’ll go to Ireland, or even Paris, who knows? And the less I know, the harder it is for anyone to follow me. The key to running is to not have a plan, to be spontaneous, and most importantly, to be inconspicuous.

Even I don’t know what I’m going to do next, and neither does Arnaldo.