Kill Me: Kiss of Death 1 Page 3

  When I pull up to the house there are a line of cars waiting to get up the driveway. The parking is on one of the lawns outside the gates, and people are waiting on foot as Lorenzo’s soldiers pat down guests upon entry.

  I pull the car to a halt beside an SUV and a saloon immediately pulls in on the other side. Una smoothes a hand over her wig and throws the door open. Reaching out, I grab her arm to stop her, but before I can she rips away from my grasp and slams the same arm across my throat. My Adam’s apple hits the back of my throat and I choke for a second, my vision dotting. It takes me a couple of precious seconds without oxygen to move. My instinct is to grab the back of her head and smash it against the dash, but that wouldn’t do much for her face, and I need her intact for this job. Instead, I grip her wrist and squeeze, hard enough to shove her an inch away from me. She may be fast, but she’s tiny and I’m infinitely stronger. She pulls her arm away from me, tucking it back against her side. Her nostrils flaring and pupils dilated. Her fists clench and release repeatedly, her body shaking as she tries to gather control of herself.

  “I need you right now, but do that again and I’ll put a bullet in that pretty little head of yours,” I growl, trying to leash my temper. I don’t like surprises, and I certainly don’t like being bested. Cracking my neck from side to side in an attempt to dislodge the ache deep in my throat.

  She turns to face me, those indigo eyes locking with mine. Something shifts between us, the threat of violence pulsing like a living thing. “If you value your life, do not ever touch me when I’m unawares.”

  “What I was attempting to do was to warn you that they will frisk you. If they find even your handy blade there, it will fuck everything.” I point at the thick silver cuff around her wrist.

  She turns away, perching on the edge of the seat. “That information really wasn’t worth getting injured for,” she drawls, that hint of a Russian accent creeping in where she usually hides it so well.

  I laugh. “Duly noted.” She thinks she’s bulletproof because she incites fear. She has no power here because she relies on the most basic animal instinct. Survival. People will do whatever they have to in order to survive and so fear becomes a valuable ally. I learned a long time ago that surviving is not living, so I will either get what I want or die trying. I always get what I want.

  We approach the gate, waiting in line with the other guests. Nero slides his hand around my waist, resting it on my hip. I grit my teeth but make a concerted effort to keep my gaze forward and a smile on my lips. I’m a killer, but above all else, I’m an actress. I can be anyone, assume any role or identity given to me, because killing someone is the easy part. It’s getting close that’s the problem, and trust me, when you go after the kind of people I do, you want to be close before you take a shot at them. They have a habit of dodging bullets and shooting back. His fingers wrap around my hip, gripping me more firmly.

  “You’re brave,” I growl under my breath. His fingers twitch and the heat from his palm seeps through the material of my dress, branding my skin.

  He huffs a laugh. “Maybe I just have complete faith in your ability to be professional.”

  “Hmm.” I smile at one of the guards who glances my way as he’s patting down the woman in front of us. I trail my hand up my body until my fingers cover his, gently wrapping them around his hand. I squeeze and he lets out a low grunt. “How professional do you think you’ll be when I break your hand?” I hiss, smiling sweetly at him for the sake of our audience.

  He leans in, smirking as he brushes a finger over my cheek. “Now, now, Isabelle. You’ll make me hard before my pat-down.” He leans in close until his lips are at my ear. “I do so love a violent streak in a woman.”

  And I do so love making men bleed. On a job I’m focused, in control, and yet, something about him makes everything in me want to rise to the challenge he constantly throws down simply by existing. To anyone looking at us, we must look like a couple that is so in love they can’t keep their hands off each other. Perception is everything. I squeeze his hand harder and watch the strain flash across his face. He pulls back slightly, and I slowly release him, keeping my eyes fixed on him as his fingers trail over my hip, caressing the top of my ass.

  The couple in front of us move away and we step up to the guards.

  “Hold your arms out to the side,” one says robotically to me. I do as told and take a deep breath as his hands sweep over my body. He moves onto Nero while the other guy runs a bug scanner over me. Of course it never goes off. I have all the tools I need to kill Lorenzo on my person, but nothing that could possibly be so easily detected or even so much as suspected. When they’re done, Nero smiles and wishes them a good day in Italian before placing his hand at the small of my back.

  “Before you threaten to dislocate my shoulder, remember we’re a couple, Morte. And trust me, the more I look like I want you, the more my brother will want you.” His voice drops and though nothing this man says should affect me, it strangely does, just enough to draw my attention to the fact.

  “Well, you Italian boys do like to keep it in the family.”

  He ignores me as we pass through the high stone walls that surround the garden courtyard at the back of the house. The property reminds me of a traditional Tuscany villa, with the terracotta tiled roof and the flowers growing up the side of the enormous house. As soon as we walk into the courtyard, people greet Nero. Again, his name doesn’t hold much weight, and I can see that in the way people approach him, and yet that effortless power of his seems to win out. They quickly drop their gaze when he speaks, even older, made men who owe him no such respect. It’s not respect though, it’s impulse, an instinctual reaction they can’t help. Nicholai would love him. He’d rise in the bratva fast with that kind of ability. The Italians are stupid though. Ability means nothing against bloodlines. The last I checked, the fact that your father fucked your mother wasn’t a reason to garner respect, but that is the Italian way. Who am I to judge?

  As per the file, he introduces me as Isabelle Jacobs, an all-American girl he’s ‘dating’, just until the family finds a well-bred Italian girl and demand he marry her of course. Traditions again. I’m treated as all women are treated in the mafia, like a pretty ornament whose sole worth is in my ability to spread my legs and cook. Neither are in my skill set. In my line of work, I have found that the underestimation and quick dismissal of women works in my favour.

  We’ve been here twenty minutes when I spot Lorenzo, and when I do, I find him already watching me. His fiancée is on his arm and she looks terrified. She can be no more than twenty, with wide green eyes and brunette hair that falls down her back in waves. Well, I’m about to save her from an arranged marriage. I hold Lorenzo’s stare for a beat, and when he doesn’t look away, I flash him a small smirk before dropping my gaze as if I’m shy. When I look back up, his attention has shifted slightly to Nero on my left. The look in his eye is pure animosity. Nero has three older guys eating out of the palm of his hand, laughing and talking in Italian, another move to exclude me from the conversation. Of course, I understand every word they’re saying. I pull away from Nero’s side and he offers me a brief glance, a frown marring his features. I make a show of seeming pissed off and storm away. I approach the small open bar, pushing past the cluster of wives that are standing by it, delicately clasping their champagne glasses.

  The waiter behind the bar smiles politely, resembling a little penguin in his tuxedo. “Vodka on ice,” I tell him. He pours the clear liquid into the glass, the ice cracking under the alcohol as he slides it across to me.

  “A woman who likes the hard stuff.”

  A slow smile pulls at my lips as I turn to face the owner of the subtly accented voice. Lorenzo isn’t quite as tall as his brother and he certainly doesn’t carry the air of power, despite the fact that he’s capo. He has the same dark hair and deep brown eyes, the same chiselled cheekbones and jaw line, coupled with a set of lips that I’m sure make most women fall all over themselve
s. And yet, Nero is somehow just more in every way, speaking from a completely objective standpoint, of course.

  “Always.” I lift the glass to my lips and take a sip, locking eyes with him over the rim of the glass.

  He turns, bracing his back against the bar and allowing his eyes to roam over the guests gathered in the garden. “How do you know my brother?”

  I shrug one shoulder. “I fuck him.” I hear titters from some of the women behind me, and I smile. Of course he catches it. He was supposed to. I eye his fiancée across the room. “I see you’re more the settling type. Congratulations.” I cock a brow and his eyes slowly drop to my lips. “I do love a wedding.” I lower my voice and allow my eyes to roam over his body, biting my bottom lip on a sexy smile. The look in his eyes is one I recognize all too well. The pulse point at his neck beats faster and his pupils dilate. His breathing picks up ever so slightly and he shifts on his feet, probably because his pants are becoming a bit uncomfortable. “Although, you don’t look thrilled at the prospect.” I rest my elbow on the bar and pop my hip, accentuating the curve of my body.

  “Hmm, well, this world is full of so much temptation,” he says each word carefully. “And you deserve a better offer than my brother.” He almost hisses the words, as if the very notion offends him. The more he talks, the more the differences between Nero and he become painfully clear. Admittedly, Nero had the advantage of knowing what I was from the moment he met me. But Lorenzo’s naïvety, his assumption that I am exactly what I appear to be…well, it’s disappointing. Or perhaps I’m just that good. After all, I was crafted for this very purpose, to be a chameleon, to blend in and become whatever it is my prey wants me to be. Right now, he wants me to be the hot chick that his brother is sleeping with. He wants to fuck me and stick it to Nero; I can see it in the way he looks at me before glancing over his shoulder towards his brother once more. He turns to face me again, and I step forward, closing the gap between us. Stroking my hand down the lapel of his jacket, I grip it, using it to pull him forwards.

  “So make me a better offer.” I raise an eyebrow and focus on his lips, which slowly curl into a satisfied grin.

  That’s all it takes for him to pick up my glass off the bar and down the remaining vodka before turning and walking away. Glancing across the courtyard garden to where Nero is talking in a small group, I know his attention has been firmly on me this entire time. His eyes lock with mine, narrowing, as his jaw tenses. Ignoring him, I follow Lorenzo out of the courtyard. He slips through a side gate, whispering something to the guard standing there as he passes. The guard nods, and when I approach him with a sensual smile gracing my lips, he steps to the side without a word. I leave some distance between us as I trace Lorenzo’s path up the stone steps that lead to a sunroom attached to the back of the house. Inside, various plants creep over the glass and the scents of different flowers assault me. The sound of running water trickles over my senses. Most people would probably find it soothing, but for me it triggers a short burst of images to flash through my mind. Hands holding me down, panic, choking, drowning, catching a breath only to drown all over again. Snapping my focus back to the task at hand, I crack my neck from side to side and take a deep breath to centre myself again.

  Lorenzo hooks left, under a small archway that leads into what I assume is the main house. Inside, it’s much the same, with terracotta tile floors and dark walls. Not my taste at all. He walks up the stairs and along a long corridor before he turns and stops at a door. He glances over his shoulder, flashing me a small smile as he pulls a key from his pocket and places it in the keyhole. This is perfect. Away from the party with no one to hear him die. The heavy oak door opens with a groan and the hinges creak slightly. I brush past his body, where he stands holding the door open for me.

  The room is small with a couple of leather sofas in the middle and a desk at the back. I’m registering every possible threat, anything I can use as a weapon in the event that something goes wrong, and most importantly, an escape plan. There’s the door I came in through of course, but that leads back into the house, which may be heavily guarded. At the back of the office are two narrow glass doors that lead out onto a stone balcony. That’s my most likely escape route at this point.

  The latch of the door clicks shut with a heavy finality and the silence it leaves behind is deafening, as though all the air has been vacuumed out of this room, as though the world itself is suddenly holding its breath, waiting for death to strike.

  Hands brush over the side of my neck, but I don’t flinch this time, because I’m ready. I’m in the place in my mind where the kill, the lust for blood, goes beyond any uncomfortable feelings he may elicit. It’s a side of myself that I hide, that I’m ashamed of, but not because of some misplaced guilt. Do not give me credit that is not due. I’m ashamed because I’m better than that. I was trained to be impassive, the elite, silent warrior. Death is a job, a necessity, we neither like nor dislike it, it just is. But for me, in a world where everything is a map of grey existence, this is my only spike of colour. It’s when I take the ultimate prize from someone else that I am given a gift, a moment of relief, a moment of bliss. And the possibility of that moment excites me.

  His lips brush over my skin so lightly that the hairs on the back of my neck prickle to attention. “Would you like a drink?” he murmurs.

  I turn to face him, deliberately placing myself barely an inch away from him. I’m careful not to lean in, not to incite anything. Yet. I need him to get that drink first. “I’ll have whatever you’re having.” His eyes flash with lust, and yet he holds his composure as he steps into the corner and starts pouring from the crystal decanter. Keeping my eyes fixed on him, I slide the diamond ring off my right index finger and use my thumbnail to dislodge the stone. Sliding the ring into my clutch bag, I keep the small stone in my hand. When he turns around with the drinks, I’m sitting on the edge of his desk with my legs crossed. His eyes move over my body as he hands me the glass. I place it to my lips and take a swig of the well-aged amber liquor. The sharp, smoky taste dances across my tongue, and I narrow my eyes at him, daring him closer. The second I put the glass down on the desk beside me, he makes a move, stepping towards me and wrapping a hand around the back of my neck.

  “You’re a beautiful woman, Isabelle.”

  I smile. “So you know my name.”

  He smirks. “Of course.” His lips slam over mine so hard it takes me by surprise for a second, but just a split second. His glass is still clutched in his hand between us, and he’s really making this too easy. I reach across the gap between us, brushing the edge of the glass and dropping the stone in his drink. It makes a small fizzing sound, but I grab the back of his neck and moan into his mouth, covering it easily. His tongue probes against my lips, seeking entrance, but instead I push him away. His eyebrows pull together in confusion.

  “I think I need to finish my drink for what you’re offering,” I tease, scraping my teeth over my bottom lip and picking up my glass.

  He huffs a low chuckle and lifts his own glass to his lips, taking a heavy gulp. I need him to finish it. Tipping mine back, I down the entire thing. He cocks a brow and takes another heavy gulp that leaves the glass almost empty. Good enough. And the effect is almost instant. He frowns and a soft cough works its way up his throat. I place my hands behind me on the desk and lean back. He coughs again, clutching at his throat.

  “What…?” His gaze lifts to mine, and I see the exact moment when he realizes his error. He opens his mouth to shout, probably for a guard, but all that comes out is a choked sound. His chest heaves and a thin sheen of sweat coats his skin. I watch him sway on his feet and can almost count down the seconds until he hits the floor. His knees buckle, slamming into the hard tile floor with an unforgiving crack. And there he stays, a powerful man brought to his knees, left gasping and mumbling incoherently. I push off the desk and circle his prone form.

  “Cyanide. Nasty stuff. It turns your own body against you, prevents your cells f
rom absorbing oxygen.” I tilt my head to the side, looking down at him. His eyes fix me in a glare that holds absolutely no weight given his current position. Dropping to a crouch in front of him, I grab his jaw, forcing him to look at me. “So while you’re there, gasping for air, your body is suffocating from the inside.” I smile and he stares at me as if he’s going to survive this and hunt me to the ends of the earth. He wouldn’t be the first to think so. The human mind is a strange animal and even at the last minute, when it knows it’s lost, that the body it holds so dear is failing, it still hopes. The truth is, when pushed to the very edge of our survival, human beings are dreamers and fantasists by nature. No matter how much of a realist we are in life, death reveals all, taunting us with our own naïve brand of hope.

  “Do you know who I am?” I ask, standing and moving around him slowly, leisurely. He doesn’t answer, of course, what with the effort to breathe. “They call me bacio della morte.” His eyes briefly flick to me before squeezing shut. “Arnaldo sends his regards.” His teeth grit, and I know any minute his heart is going to give out. He pitches backwards and lands, sprawled awkwardly on the carpet. He’s still breathing, but barely. His lungs are nothing more than a desperate quivering reflex of a failing body. Taking my lipstick and compact mirror from my clutch bag I apply a new coat, ensuring his messy kisses haven’t smudged the last layer all over my face. The frantic beat of his lungs slows until only a few gasps remain, like a fish left out in the sun to die. And then it stops. His breath ceases and he slips into cardiac arrest. Dropping to my knees beside his body, I lean over him and wait for the telltale hiss of air leaving his lips.

  “Prosti menya.” As always, I press my lips against his waxy forehead. Just then the door opens and I leap to my feet, widening my stance and crouching like a cat ready to strike. I release a breath when I realize it’s Nero. “Fucking knock!” I snap.