Kill Me: Kiss of Death 1 Read online

  He glances from me to his brother’s lifeless body on the floor. “I’m sorry. They were coming for you.”

  Well, fuck. No sooner has he said the words than I hear the fast approach of several men. The stairs groan under their weight, and I know if I stay here, I’m dead.

  I go to yank open the glass doors, but they’re locked. I pick up the heavy leather chair behind the desk with the intent of smashing the glass, but a single gunshot goes off before I can.

  “Go! Run!” Nero hisses, glancing down the corridor and clutching Lorenzo’s gun in his hand. He shot the glass out. Throwing myself through the narrow gap, my dress catching on the jagged glass that lines the doorframe. I’m on the second storey, and it’s not that high, but it’s no walk in the park either. I won’t die, but if I break an ankle, then I might as well have, because if I can’t run, I’m dead.

  Another gunshot rings out, this one coming so close to me that I hear the sharp crack as it breaks the air next to my ear. I’m all for making this look authentic, but I swear to god, if he shoots me… Springing up onto the balcony, I launch myself into the air. There’s a moment of complete weightlessness before I hit the grass, dropping into a roll of torn red satin. The logical thing would be to make for the treeline and hop the fence over the property line, but that’s exactly why I’m not doing that. Ducking against the building, I press myself into the brickwork directly beneath the balcony. The voices above me are shouting orders, baying for my blood. Nero is right there, instructing them to double the patrol on the fence line and not let anyone leave. Ripping off the wig and pulling the pins from my hair, I shake out my long strands. The dress is already ruined, but I grab the material of the bodice and pull it apart, shredding it down the middle until it pools at my waist, revealing a pale blue sleeveless dress beneath. I step out of the first dress and hook around the corner of the building. Balling up the red material and the wig, I make sure to hide them well at the base of a bush that sits against the house. As I make my way towards the gardens, I pull out a pair of sunglasses from my bag and slide them on. My step falters only for a second when six armed men in suits round the corner and start jogging straight towards me.

  “Ma’am, this area is off limits,” the first one says, his expression stern and unforgiving.

  I glance at the gun in his hand and swallow heavily, taking a shaky step to the side. All for show, of course.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I seem to have lost my boyfriend. “ I push a tremor into my voice.

  “Please go back to the party with the other guests.” He says dismissively.

  I smile sweetly, like the nice, dutiful girlfriend. They suspect nothing, because they’re looking for a sexy, murderous brunette in a red dress, and in this dress, well, I could almost pull off sweet.

  Rounding the sunroom at the back of the building, I slip back through the gap in the wall. Keeping my gaze fixed down as I pass the guard; although, this is a different guy from when I passed by earlier. When I step into the courtyard, the guests are visibly tense. The men are all looking on edge and murderous, not helped by the fact that none of them have any of their weapons to hand. For men like these, being without a gun is like being naked. The women huddle together nervously like the pathetic sheep they are, and I notice the strategic circle of men that surround them, as if they’re some grand treasure they must protect. Everyone’s attention seems to focus on me. That can’t be good. A throat clears behind me, and I realize that it’s not me they’re focusing on, it’s Nero. He stands behind me at the top of the steps that descend into the garden, the floral archway surrounding him and contrasting with the hard, dark lines of his face and body. I drop down a couple of steps, slipping out of sight of the gathered crowd.

  “Ladies and gentlemen.” His voice is a deep boom that I’m sure can be heard clearly by even those furthest away. “There is nothing to be concerned about, merely a small security issue.” He smiles and it’s so genuine, so confident, that even I find it soothing. “Please, let’s enjoy the party while the guards handle it.” He raises his full champagne glass, flashing a wide, perfect smile at the guests. There are a few murmurs, questions, confusion. He ignores it, necking the glass of golden bubbly liquid before descending the steps and wrapping a hand around my waist.

  “Don’t. People will ask questions,” I hiss.

  He smiles at someone over my shoulder. “No, they won’t. I want them to see. Now smile.” I smile at him.

  “I need to get out of here,” I say through clenched teeth.

  He pulls me close, wrapping his arms tightly around my waist. “Touch me,” he demands when my arms remain rigid at my sides. Complying with his request, I slide one palm up his chest, and the other around the back of his neck. His mouth drops to my neck, but he never makes contact. “They won’t let guests leave until I say so.” And he can’t clear it too soon as he needs to avoid suspicion. “Dance with me. Act like you want me.” I can hear the smile in his voice and it has me wanting to kidney punch him.

  “I’d rather cut you,” I say, smiling sweetly.

  He releases me and takes my hand. A strange tingle buzzes up my arm, almost like electricity humming over my skin. I frown down at our intertwined fingers. He leads me to the small clearance in the middle of the patio where a string quartet are seated playing the kind of music that Nicholai listens to.

  He spins me into him and I pivot on my toe gracefully. I can dance. Dancing and fighting are one and the same, a pattern, the meeting of bodies, a liaison in which you must read your partner and either follow them or counter them. His hand presses into the small of my back, wrenching me against his hard body so abruptly that I lose my breath on a gasp. His full lips curve on one side and that shadow of a dimple sinks into his stubble-covered cheek. His eyes lock with mine, watching my reactions closely as he spins me. I go with him, following every movement he lays down. Our bodies move together like hot and cold water, fluid, different and yet exactly the same.

  “I’m impressed,” he rumbles against my ear.

  “I’m offended,” I reply. He huffs a low laugh and his warm breath blows against the skin of my throat. “Nero, I really need to get out of here.”

  He pulls back and looks in my eyes, his expression so hard, so resolved that he looks as though he would tear down entire countries in this moment. “I won’t let anything happen to you.” His hold on me tightens, and I suddenly realize that I don’t mind. Any touch is enough to make me want to kill, but…silence. The pounding need is just absent.

  “I’m a big girl.” Swallowing down the feeling of unease in my gut, I attempt to brush off his comment.

  “You are, Morte.” He spins me again, his grip firm and unrelenting as he moves me across the dance floor.

  The worrying thing is that I believe him. I trust him when he says he’ll protect me, even though I don’t need his protection. His touch doesn’t feel invasive or threatening to me, despite the fact that I’ve already registered exactly how dangerous he is. Nero Verdi is the most dangerous man I’ve ever encountered, and yet, there’s something about him. I can’t put my finger on it, but I’m certainly not as guarded as I should be around a man like him. He throws me off and it’s unsettling. After all, complacency will get you killed. I know that all too well.

  She relaxes in my arms and her fingers tighten, clinging to my bicep. When I walked into that room she was hovering over my brother like a beautiful avenger, a walking angel of death bearing down on her victim with the strangest expression, somewhere between blissful relief and anguish. The way she moves, the way she looks at me even now is that of a predator, a killer, a demon in a dress, and I’d be lying if I said she doesn’t make my blood heat.

  I glance over her head and see two guards jog up to a couple more on the gate, speaking into radios. I told them to handle it, whilst assuring them that I should go back to the party to give the illusion of normalcy. Of course, the guests will be told what actually happened, but right now, revealing the truth will not only i
ncite panic but also look weak. The fact that the Italian Mafia sustained a hit within their own walls at an engagement party…well, that’s just embarrassing, but Arnaldo planned for this. And really, if the truth comes out, Lorenzo will look like the weak one, killed because he was trying to fuck another woman at his own engagement party. I can’t help but smile. His father would be rolling in his grave. But it’s this very fact that will keep this entire thing quiet. People might whisper that it was my date who killed him, but no one will ever confirm it. Other than his direct security, I guarantee no one will ever know. Reputation means far more than justice in our world.

  “They’re searching the guests,” Una breathes against my throat, her voice strained. I spin her, switching our positions. Sure enough, the guards are looking at the guests, searching bags, and I’m sure looking for a mysterious brunette. I doubt they’ll look at Una, but they might. After all, she technically never came through the gate. If they check, we’re fucked.

  I spin her again and smile, hoping we look like the perfect couple. Keeping my eyes trained on the approaching guards, I watch them draw closer. The people around us start to slow, paying more attention to the guards as they fan out into the dancers. A flash of panic crosses Una’s eyes, and I worry that she’ll do something rash, like turn this party into a bloodbath.

  “Sir,” someone says behind me.

  Shit. I grab the back of Una’s neck and wrench her to me, slamming my lips over hers. She freezes, her nails digging into my shoulder. Trailing my hand down her back, I brush her ass as I caress my tongue over her bottom lip. This needs to look good, good enough to make people uncomfortable. She stiffens and tries to shove away from me, putting up a fight. Damn it. Right now, our fates are intertwined. If she gets caught then so do I.

  Taking control, I thrust my hand into her hair and grab a handful of it, pulling the strands roughly. The second I do, she releases a sharp breath, her lips parting and breath dancing over my tongue. She softens, the ice cracking inch by inch until she’s soft and pliant in my arms. Her fingers trail from my shoulder to the back of my neck, her nails raking over my skin in a burning trail that has me hissing against her lips. In response, I pull her tighter against my body and drag my teeth over her bottom lip. Her tongue lashes against mine and I moan into her mouth. She tastes of champagne and danger, and everything about her has my heart pounding, adrenaline slamming through my veins like a drug. The kiss becomes a battleground, the rougher I am, the more bruising my grip, the deeper into the kiss she falls. There’s nothing sweet or gentle in it, just brutal passion. She bites my lip hard enough to draw blood, and then swipes her tongue over the wound, making me groan. My cock is plastered against my zipper like road kill and heat rips over my skin in a wave. Finally releasing my grip on her hair, she staggers away from me, gasping for breath. Her wide eyes meet mine, those lilac-tinged irises swirling with confusion and lust. She looks horrified.

  We stand in a sea of people, but all I feel is her. My skin prickles and I grit my jaw as need and desire pulse through my veins. Una is a tool, an assassin, the enemy. Anything. She is anything but what I’m seeing her as right now – someone I want to sink balls deep inside. The personal and the professional must always be kept separate in this business, especially when you’re dealing with the kiss of death. Squeezing my eyes shut for a few seconds, I take a deep breath before turning and walking away from her. That kiss saved us, for now. I need to get us out of here.

  I approach Romero, Lorenzo’s second. He folds his arms over his chest and squares his shoulders, glaring at me in a way that promises retribution. To the outside world, Lorenzo and I were brothers. Only Lorenzo and I, along with our closest friends, knew the truth. We were bitter enemies, and I just won.

  “We need to start moving guests out of here.”

  Jet-black eyebrows drop over equally dark eyes as he assesses me. “I’m going to kill you,” he growls. I smile, noticing the vein at his temple throb.

  I huff a laugh. “Would that you could. Your fearless leader is dead, Romero. Who do you think will take his place?”

  He snarls, getting in my face. “You’re a bastard. The family will never back you.”

  I laugh. “You’re right, I am a bastard.”

  I bask in the knowledge that Lorenzo – my father’s first born, his heir, his son, his greatest accomplishment – was fucking weak. And I, the unwanted bastard son, the result of my mother’s infidelity, have won. I’d truly hate him if I weren’t actually grateful. You see, Lorenzo had his love, and it did him no favours. No, Matteo Santos made me. His hatred made me strong. His constant reminders of what I am made me smart. His physical blows made me a fighter. I learned from him that respect and power are not a birthright. He had the power of his name, but no matter how many times he beat me, I never felt an ounce of respect towards him. My sole purpose is to destroy his empire, piece by piece. I killed him, and now his son is gone. Sometimes, I wish I’d stayed my hand, so he could have been here to watch his son fall, so he could have died knowing that I would take over. I’m a bastard, but it means nothing because I will take everything and more.

  “Move the fucking guests out. Now,” I growl.

  Romero clenches his jaw, the muscles in his shoulders tightening dangerously. I want him to, I really do. Instead, he turns and walks away. A few minutes later the guests start to leave, and I don’t see Una again. She disappeared like an apparition, a ghost on the wind.

  This is not how I planned this. I’m pinned behind the upturned dining room table, taking fire from three bodyguards. Joseph Leng is currently being ushered into one of the emergency elevators and no doubt taken to the chopper on the roof. A loud crack rings out, and when I glance to my left there’s a splintered hole in the thick mahogany, approximately two inches from my face. I was frisked before I came in here, so I don’t have a gun. The only weapon I have is the small blade stowed in my wrist cuff. It’ll do. Dropping it into my hand, I roll to the side, throwing it at the neck of the nearest shooter before rolling back behind the table. Another round of gunfire hits the wood like hailstones. Now I have to wait them out.

  I remain quiet, tucking myself into a tight ball and waiting patiently for them to come and see if I’m alive. When the barrel of the gun just grazes over the top of the table, I leap up, grabbing hold of it and forcing it out to the side, even as it fires into the window. I use the heel of my hand to smash his nose upward. He staggers for a second and I spin him, allowing his body to take the next round of fire that comes from his friend. A bullet manages to tear through his shoulder and graze my arm. Well, fuck. Swinging the gun under the guy’s arm, I pull the trigger, downing the second guy. I shove the dying man away from me and step over his body on my way to the door. Picking up the second gun, I swing the strap over my shoulder. I leave my shoes in the hotel room and I break into a jog, forcing open the fire exit door and taking the stairs up to the roof two at a time.

  When I push open the emergency exit that opens onto the roof, the wind from the chopper blades hits me, blowing my hair back until it whips around my face. Leng is four feet from the helicopter, covered by four guards. It’s now or never. Dropping to one knee to lend more support to my body, I pull the gun up in front of me. I close one eye and stare down the sights. One of the guards bobs in front of Leng before giving me a small gap. If I don’t make this shot then I’ll have to take them all out. That’s messy, and I don’t do messy. I take a steady breath in then out, waiting for the gap. When I have it, I squeeze the trigger. It’s not the cleanest of shots, but it hits him in the neck, a kill shot. Hurriedly, I push to my feet and step back through the door, using the spare gun to jam the release bar in place. I take off running down the stairs, exiting on the floor below the blood-bathed hotel room I walked out of. I have to get to another stairwell fast. A woman in a blood-stained dress, toting a semi-automatic is going to raise the alarm. My phone rings just as I slip into the stairwell on the opposite corner of the building. I touch my earpiece.
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  “Not a good time,” I growl.

  “I’ve been trying to get a hold of you for the last week. So tell me, when is a good time?”

  Nero.

  “I’ve been off the grid.”

  “No shit.”

  There’s something about him that manages to elicit a certain level of irritation, dare I say, anger. It’s a skill; really it is, because I don’t do angry. Anger is a useless emotion and only serves to blind reason.

  “Look, is there a reason for this call?” I pant, running down flight after flight of stairs.

  “Of course. I have a job for you.”

  “Have Arnie contact me.”

  He huffs a laugh. “Oh, Una. I think we’re past that.”

  Really? “I don’t,” I say bluntly. The door at the top of the stairs crashes open, the sound echoing around the empty concrete stairwell. “Shit!” I have a good lead but I’d still rather get out clean. Someone fires a couple of rounds and they ping off the metal bannister next to me.

  “You sound busy.” I can hear the amusement in his voice.

  “No shit,” I growl. “Text me a location. I’ll be there tomorrow.” I hang up and pick up the pace, throwing myself through a door that I know should lead to the parking deck. Sprinting up the ramp to the next level, I check over my shoulder for any possible contact. I jump in the Porsche parked under a broken light and slam my hand over the start button. The engine purrs to life and I ram my foot on the accelerator, making it spit and snarl as the tires shriek against the tarmac.

  I pull out of the parking garage, leaving smoking rubber behind me. Leng’s men burst onto the street on foot, only to watch me drive away. That was close. Too close.

  Pressing speed dial, I listen to the earpiece ring out with a dial tone. “Una.” Olov answers on the first ring.

  “I’m twenty minutes away. Be ready to leave immediately,” I tell him, speaking in quick-fire Russian. He hangs up and I speed towards the private airfield on the outskirts of the city of Singapore.