Kiss Of Death: A Dark Mafia Romance

3

Una

Paris. The city has an atmosphere unlike any other. The streets are a bustle of activity yet somehow everything always feels so leisurely. I move along the sidewalk, clinging to the shadows of the buildings until I reach the wooden door that leads into the townhouse I’m renting. I was wandering the city a couple of days ago, trying to lay low when I spotted a sign in the window advertising this apartment. My plan was to just stay in Paris for a couple of days before taking a Ferry back to England. A brief trip to throw anyone who might be following me off my trail. But the second Annaliese, the landlady, showed me inside the apartment, I felt a sense of peace I haven’t felt in years. It’s completely unsuitable. There’s only one stairwell, and because it used to be a house there’s not even a fire escape from the first floor, but I took it anyway. I guess I just wanted to stop running for a second, hole up and take a breath. Paris is as good a city as any to hide in.

I open the door and drop the small bag of groceries on the kitchen side. The apartment is small; just one bedroom. The windows stretch from the floor to the ceiling and, in a way, it reminds me of Nero’s New York penthouse. Afternoon sun spills through the gauzy curtains, casting shadows across the wooden floorboards.

I like it here. I could stay here until this baby is born, and he or she can grow up in Paris, safe from all the dangers of my world. I take the medical supplies from the grocery bag, dumping them on the coffee table before taking a seat. My pocket buzzes and I take out my burner phone, seeing a blank text from Sasha. It’s request for a check in. I send him a quick message.

I’m going off grid. I’ll be in touch when I can.

I need to remove myself from everything and everyone because even friends can be enemies. I do not doubt that when it comes down to it, Sasha will side with Nicholai. And I’m glad. His loyalty to me is dangerous for him. I shove my jeans down and pull away the dressing that’s stuck to my thigh. My haphazard stitching wouldn’t be amiss in a Frankenstein film. It was the best I could do with what I had at the time: a pocket sewing kit bought at the local corner shop. It’s for sewing on buttons, not closing a bullet hole. The flesh around the stitches is swollen and red, and it hurts like a bitch. I think it’s infected, but I can’t get any help with it. Any hospital will report a dodgy-looking bullet wound, and all the doctors I’d usually call for this sort of thing are affiliated either to Nicholai or someone else. Granted, the five-million-dollar price tag should have disappeared with Arnaldo—seeing as he’s the one who put it there—but I’m worth something to someone. I unscrew the lid from the bottle of vodka and grit my teeth as I pour it over the wound. It stings like a bitch, but it could be worse. A few weeks ago I put a bullet in Nero’s shoulder, then laced the wound with gun powder and set light to it. I wish I could do the same now, but that shit is hard enough to do to someone else, let alone yourself. My mind drifts to him and I wonder what he’s doing right now. Is he still looking for me? Will he kill me now that I killed his boss? Mafia is supposed to be about family and loyalty, but Nero had his own brother killed. No, something tells me he won’t feel an ounce of remorse for Arnaldo’s death. But he is a power player, and sometimes in order to gain power, loyalties must be feigned. After all, his power comes from the mafia and it can be taken away just as easily. I promised him I would go back to him, but now I don’t know that I can keep that promise. In our world sentiments are cheap, emotions pointless, and loyalties so very easily bought. One act, one moment, one death, and all the pieces on the board have moved. Have they moved so much that Nero and I are no longer side by side, but across the board from each other?

The moment I wake every one of my senses are on high alert. Someone is in the apartment. I sit up and grab the gun from beneath my pillow, flicking the safety off. Darkness swallows me as I creep out of bed, but I freeze at the creak of a floorboard right outside my bedroom door. Fuck. I cross the room on tiptoes, ducking behind the door.

My hand tightens around the gun, finger hovering over the trigger. Ready. Waiting. The wall presses into my shoulder blades and my mind hones in, ears picking up on every tiny sound. It must be the Italians. Or worse, Nicholai. If he gets me back, he’ll never let me out of that facility, and this baby…I’d rather die. If it were Nicholai though, he’d know that kicking in the door was enough to sign their death warrant. My gaze finds the bedside table where I left my car keys.

The loose floorboard outside my bedroom door squeaks again and I hold my breath. Every muscle in my body coils tight as adrenaline floods my veins. There was a time, not so long ago, when I would simply have walked out there and killed everyone, but that was back when I was the hunter, nowadays, I’m the hunted. There’s another step. The door creaks open, hinges squealing in protest. The streetlight outside the window casts a dim haze through the room, silhouetting the arm holding out a gun pointed at my empty bed.

I lower my gun, slip the small blade loose from the cuff at my wrist and pinch it between my thumb and finger like a giant needle. This is the problem with hiding in a city, gun fights draw attention. I creep up behind him, silent as a ghost. My hand slams over his mouth at the same time as I jam the blade into his throat. This little blade has gotten me out of more situations than any gun. It’s not big enough to stab someone in the gut or chest, but it’s lethally sharp and perfect for opening a jugular. He takes me by surprise and grabs my leg as he goes down, taking me to the floor hard. The gun slips from my grip, sliding a couple of feet away from me. I crawl across the carpet, reaching for my weapon while waiting for the bang signaling my end to echo in my ears. But It never comes. All I hear are the choked last breaths of the man before he hits the floor with a thud. Muffled voices come from down the hall. Shit.

I pick up the gun and car keys and bolt for the window. The wood screeches against the frame and the glass shudders as I yank it up. I expect half the neighborhood heard that, including my intruders. Footsteps pound down the hall and I can only hope that the darkness will give me the precious seconds I need to escape. Hoisting my leg over the window, I stare down at the ground two floors below. A few months back, I would have jumped without a second thought, but now—the light flicks on and I panic, throwing my other leg through the gap and balancing precariously on the window ledge.

“Morte.” I freeze, hesitating at the sound of that deep voice. “Don’t do it,” he commands. That trace of an accent makes the softly spoken words sound harsh. I shouldn’t look at him, I should just jump. But I do. Glancing over my shoulder, my hands brace against the frame. Nero stands there in his expensive suit with his hair styled in that sexy way of his. Those dark eyes lock with mine and it’s like time stands still. I see the threat dancing in his eyes, the promise of violence and wrath, but also want and desire, swirling and mixing into something potent and intoxicating. That power he emits seems to wrap around me, addictive and oh so dangerous, so alluring. I consider for the briefest of moments going to him because I want him to be my savior in a world of enemies, my monster to end all others. But he may be my enemy, I don’t know anymore. I can trust no one but myself, and that’s hard, especially with him.

The air charges and crackles, his sheer strength of will coming up against my determination to survive at any cost. We are two sides of the same coin, feeding off each other. One singular, chaotic, unstoppable force. His lips pull up at one corner, the smile threatening yet enticing. My heart flutters in my chest as it responds to the thread of fear he instils, now more than ever. He always looks so perfectly put together, as though he isn’t capable of killing men in cold blood for nothing more than power. Doesn’t he always say that I look so innocent? Both wolves in sheep’s clothing.

He takes a step towards me, eyes never leaving mine.

“Don’t come any closer.” He ignores me and takes another step. I point the gun at his head.

“What are you going to do, Morte? Shoot me?”

“If that’s what it takes.” I am walking out of here, one way or the other.

His eyes narrow. “You are mine,” he says, but words mean nothing when life and death are on the line, and I can’t trust him. Another step. “Why are you running? Arnaldo is dead. You said you’d come back to me. Here I am, and here you are about to jump out a window.” If only Arnaldo were our only problem.

“Forgive me if I don’t trust you.” I see one of his men move in my periphery, trying to outflank me. “Remind your men that I have no problem putting a bullet between their eyes.”

He holds up a hand and they instantly fall back. “You don’t trust me? I’m not the one who ran.” He takes another step. He’s only a few feet away from me now. I shift my weight forward slightly on the window ledge.

“This has been great and all, but I don’t fancy getting caught by your guys down there.” I point to the alley.

The ground seems too far away, though in reality I know I can make the drop easily if I just fall into a roll. I glance at him one last time, committing every inch of his perfect face to memory. In a beat, he lunges for me and I push off the window ledge. The ground rushes up to meet me, and my feet hit the street hard. Pain fires up my leg and the stitches in my thigh tear open as I fall into a roll. Rising on one knee, I lift the gun in my hand, pointing it at the window. My other hand instinctively goes to my stomach. I meet his gaze, but its locked on my stomach, on the small but distinctive bump that’s protruding between my hips.

I clench my teeth against the pain in my leg. “If you ever felt anything for me, let me run, Nero,” I beg. “I will come back to you.” And then I’m on my feet and running, every step sending white-hot pain lancing up my leg.

I’m so close to the car I can see the hood peeking out from the shadow of the alleyway. I limp forward, clutching my gun when something collides with the side of my head and my vision swirls. I stagger sideways and feel myself falling. Strong arms catch me as my body buckles uselessly. I’m barely able to make out the blurred profile of Gio’s face before everything goes black.