Chapter 2: : Chapter 2

But it will be a deadly game, blah, blah, blah.

Men like him make me sick, make me want to vomit all over his pompous, freshly-polished shoes.

I hate men like him the most.

Born into wealth.

Fed on power.

I bet they wouldn’t know a day of hard living even if it hit them in the face. And I take slight satisfaction in being the sledgehammer hitting him in the face right now.

“You know you just have to ask, right?” my roommate, Jenny, says as she takes the heels out of my hand.

“I planned to, but you weren’t here,” I reply with a nonchalant shrug.

“I have a phone, you know.” Fair point. “Next time, please just ask.”

“I’ll do my best,” I lie, and I can feel her gaze on my back as I head toward my room.

This apartment and my relationship with her are conveniences. Nothing more, nothing less. Jenny and I have lived together for a year now. And I made it my mission to be exactly what she was gossiping about over the phone with her friend when I first moved in—scary and imposing. She’d only met me that day, but her assessment wasn’t far from the truth.

She works some admin job I couldn’t care less about. And she thinks I only work at a restaurant; she doesn’t know about my “contract” work. I’m very good at what I do, actually. I have very specific and unorthodox ways of making an income… and making people disappear.

In truth, I’m not much of a team player. And I don’t need to be.

I throw my phone on the bed and then peel the orange dress off as I mimic the tone of Mr. Asshole. I thought I’d throw in the “You don’t remember me, do you?” just to fuck with him.

There’s a startling truth to the beautifully unhinged man.

I will certainly be his demise.

Especially when I put a bullet between those ethereal eyes, just like my father taught me. Well, if he were alive now to realize the types of hit jobs I take, he might not be so comfortable with the powerful men I target. But, hey, a girl has to find her own way in life.

I slip into the shower, the scorching heat a comfort as I think about my father. Killing people was the only thing he really left me with the knowledge to do.

He was the one to teach me how to shoot, and when he died when I was fifteen, I never stopped. I took more than a liking to sniper rifles in particular, although I’m well-rounded in close combat, including knives and hand-to-hand. But my biggest thrill is through the scope of a sniper rifle because it challenges my accuracy, even though I never miss the mark.

My mother, who walked out on us when I was six and barely made reappearances in my life, hated my love for weapons. But at least when my father died, she gave me all of his guns. And to be honest, if she hadn’t, I would’ve stolen them anyway. I haven’t seen her since his funeral. She has what she once openly told me was her “normal family.” Some fluffy white-picket-fence bullshit that I don’t entirely understand or care for. I’m good as long as I have my guns.

I lather the shampoo through my hair as I get ready for my day job waitressing because every multi-millionaire with blood money needs a cover story, right? Okay, so this definitely wasn’t the direction my father intended for me.

He was one of the best snipers for the Air Force—so a good guy. It was when he told me I was better than him that I knew I wanted to do some type of work around guns—just not the same as what he did. Discipline, rules, and restrictions in the armed forces would be too much for me, considering how much havoc I wreaked for my father, even under his strict guidance.

What can I say? I like to rebel.

The only person who keeps me in check, and I use the phrase “in check” loosely because no one has control over what I do, is my father’s friend, Craig. He’s a retired contract killer who got me into this game in the first place after someone was looking for the perfect shot. He offered me an opportunity to make the type of money I wasn’t familiar with. Turns out I like money—a lot.

I killed my first target at the age of eighteen from two miles away. After that, offers came in from everywhere, and Craig guided me down the bloody path of being one of the best.

When I step out of the shower, I dry my body, my gaze landing on the bright neon bear tattoo with sharp claws and fangs gracing my hip. I roll my eyes every time I look at it, remembering how stupid I’d been when I had some guy ink it on me when I was sixteen.

I stare at myself in the mirror, hating the same light-brown, amber-colored eyes that look just like my mother’s. My hair’s a tangled mess, and I sigh, exhausted from the recent turn of events surrounding my current target.

I don’t often toy with my targets.

Not until I landed in New York City because of another job.

The first hit was easy money. After that, I stayed because I liked New York.

I liked the clothes, the city, and the acceptance to be whoever I wanted to be or pretend to be.

My most recent target: Eli Monti.

Son to the reputedly cruel Crue Monti, who runs the Italian mafia within the city, and Rya Monti, an infamous criminal lawyer. The soon-to-be twenty-six-year-old is intent on taking over the family business. The caveat is, in Monti family tradition, he has to marry before taking ownership of the business. His father was thirty-four when he married and took over, so Eli is certainly an ambitious little prick. Too bad he isn’t going to make it to his wedding day.

I’m probably saving him from misery. Marriage only leads to shackles, confinement, and, statistically, divorce. I smirk as I blow dry my hair, thinking of the excessive amount I was once paid to end a powerful businessman so his wife didn’t have to go through the motions of a divorce. Instead, she became a widow with a very nice inheritance. That’s the only type of divorce I approve of, and at least she kept to her vows of “until death do us part.”

Men undermine women far too much, which it gives me great satisfaction being the Grim Reaper.

Had I half a heart, I might feel bad for Eli with the expectation of having to be married before he can take over the business. That’s old school, but I guess some traditions don’t die. Fuck that. I’m the opposite; happy being single, fucking whoever I want when I want. Commitment is overrated.

I dive onto my bed, the towel loosely wrapped around me as I grab my phone and kick my legs back and forth as I begin whistling a tune. I open up the surveillance app where I can check the cameras and bugs I planted in Eli’s penthouse and private home.

I smirk when he comes into view in his mansion. He often switches between the two properties for reasons I don’t yet understand. I had my friend Rory help me set up the surveillance equipment. I’m good at sneaking around and killing, but I’m not tech-savvy, and it definitely helps to have eyes and ears on this asshole when I’m playing the long game with him.

Merrily whistling my tune, I take a moment to appreciate the way he looks.

Eli has style, that much is clear, but it’s more of a clean-cut, all-black style. And it’s obvious his suits are worth a pretty penny. His jaw is covered in short stubble, and he always wears expensive watches. But it’s his eyes that look so light they’re almost silver, and they are most striking against his rich, tanned Italian skin.

I’ve noted several other things about the mafia prince since I started keeping tabs on him.

One: He never brings a woman back to his place. No matter who the flavor of the month is, he only ever goes to their place, and he never stays the night.

Two: He is particular in the sense that if I were to move a picture frame a quarter of an inch from where he placed it, he’d probably quite literally kill me for it. Everything has an orderly place and purpose.

Three: He’s as lethal about his dealings in business as the rumors say. I’ve watched him murder so many people for far less than adjusting his figuratively perfectly placed picture frame.

He removes his black suit jacket, the bulges and indents of his muscles flexing under his crisp, clean white shirt. He’s also covered in tattoos. Tattoos you don’t ordinarily see with the long-sleeved shirts covering them unless he rolls up the sleeves or unbuttons his shirt. He has none on his neck or hands, unlike his weird-ass friend Hawke.

If I didn’t have to kill him, I would find him very attractive. But I know better than to take an interest in my targets.

Play with him. And when I give the order… end him. That was the request by my anonymous client.

So that’s what I’ve been doing. It’s not how I usually do things, but I couldn’t say no to the money offered. I get paid a lot to kill people, but to play with Eli Monti, I get triple my standard price.

The money for this job is fair, considering the risk I take by not having the element of surprise. But it’s what makes it thrilling as well.

My screen lights up with a new text message—another directive from my client.

It’s not uncommon for hits to be made anonymously, and I don’t have enough ethics or morals to care about who I’m killing, why, or who hired me when the money is deposited in my account.

I huff, irritated at the short notice and the fact that I’ll have to cancel my shift tonight at the restaurant. Not that I really give a fuck about that job.

More importantly, what am I going to wear? I ponder that as I pull out my pretty gold credit card. I mean, I suppose a beautiful dress is considered a work expense, right?

I smile and throw off the towel.

So, playing with Eli Monti is what I will do.

Until the time comes for me to kill him