1
CLEO
There’s less trouble getting into my enemy’s castle than I expected. Ian Abernathy really should bother to set his alarms. The kingpin has plenty, but as I go to disarm them, I find they’re left casually off. It’s like he thinks the fourteen hours it took me to drive from London to his retreat in the Scottish Highlands will keep him safe.
It won’t. The most brutal and wealthy of the Scottish mafias is causing chaos for my father’s “business”. I’ve been sent up here to fix the problem. Permanently. The best assassin in London to take out the notorious mafia boss.
According to the profile my father gave me, Ian is five foot ten, green eyes, big black beard and obscenely wealthy as well as ruthless. Sinfully rich and rich in sin. It makes little sense that he’s bothering with the Whitlock mafia, small as it is.
Ian Abernathy is also basically already dead, so, I guess, never mind about the slack security and dubious motivation.
After I deal with the surveillance panel by the front door, said door is still bolted. I can pick the locks, but the deadbolt is more tricky. I sneak around the castle, silent and invisible in my black leggings and long black top, my hair back in a ponytail that’s constantly falling out, looking for other ways in.
Black is my look. So is breaking and entering. Where most girls at nineteen years old are interested in hair straighteners, music, boys, and social media, I’ve always been a bit different.
Alright. A downright loner. It was the books.
And probably the knives too. They tend to put people off being friends with me.
Which was why it was odd that when I looked earlier at the photo of my target—I try not to think about their names too much, it puts me in the wrong frame of mind—I felt a warm shiver of recognition, like I knew him well. Obviously that’s not the case. I’ve only had one friend in the last four years, for one night, and although he was also Scottish, he was clean-shaven and six foot three.
Finding an open window only one floor up is childishly easy. I always was good at climbing. So easy in fact, that my idle brain begins to think aboutthe man. The man from the masquerade ball for the London mafias. Anonymous. No names allowed. A glittering, deadly, glamorous, champagne and caviar event. Not really my scene, with my penchant for black jeans, no makeup, and a simple ponytail. Nervous as I was, I spent all evening yakking the ear off a man with ivy-green eyes.
I was supposed to be inconspicuous and not talk to anyone while I waited for my father to send a message that the target was in place. Strict orders to not speak, because I run my mouth. Whenever I’m worried, I chatter. Or happy. The only time I’m quiet is when I’m focussed on my job. When the danger is taking up every part of my attention. The rest of the time, I talk. Sometimes even to myself. It’s a problem when you’ve killed as many people as I have.
It’s rare that anyone wants to listen to me, but the man from the masquerade ball did. He appeared at my side and asked me to dance. Just offered his hand. As though tall, dark, handsome men were interested in me.
Like an orphaned baby bird imprinting onto a bear, I looked at his massive burly shoulders and hands the size of dinner plates and I didn’t want anyone else. And I thought he liked me too. He stayed by my side. He barely took his eyes off me, except to flicker to any ruckus and guide me away from it.
The inexperienced, awkward assassin who couldn’t stop babbling, pretending to be a mafia princess, and the big Scottish mafia man. I felt protected and cherished with him which—let me tell you—is unusual when you’re an assassin.
He had the most lyrical accent when he spoke. I wanted to get him alone and make him reveal all the things in that swoon-worthy gruff voice. And climb him like a tree.
It took most of the night until my father’s call came through and in that time, first he persuaded me to dance, then talk, then dance again. He listened when I spoke too much. It was like he enjoyed my company and wanted to be with me.
I guess he was too old for me. Closer to forty than my age. But those few silver hairs I saw as we danced—invisible from a distance—and the quiet confidence he held himself with just made me want him more.
I creep out into the blackness of the corridor, up the stairs and down the hallway to where I know from the schematic his bedroom is. I expect it to be locked, but the door handle turns noiselessly under my palm.
There’s a gap in the clouds. Moonlight spills from the massive windows, illuminating the room in silver and dark shadows, and I’m reminded of how that masquerade ended. With my phone buzzing the black level-ten alert indicating imminent danger of death to our whole team. I apologised as I ran. He tried to catch me and demanded my name as I melted into the crowd, my slight frame making it easy to slip between people while he was stuck in the crush… He followed, but, well. Some things just aren’t meant to be.
Like Ian Abernathy’s continued heartbeat.
The kingpin sleeps with absolute confidence. On his back, the covers at his waist, face obscured by the clouds as one floats past. His chest is toned, with strong, defined pectorals, and a six-pack that disappears under the duvet. It’s also crisscrossed and peppered with scars and partially hidden by dark hair.
An unexpected bolt of lust goes through me. I’ve never felt attracted to any of my marks. But then, they aren’t usually gorgeous. It was six months ago that the man at the masquerade lit up my dormant libido. Maybe that’s it? Like an anniversary that my body is celebrating with inappropriate responses.
I’m desperate to run my fingers through the hair on Ian’s chest. Would it feel soft, or coarse? If he awoke as I did so, would he give a rumbling purr like a petted lion, or bite my arm off?
I’ll never know.
Wait, I shouldn’t be thinking of him as Ian, as a person with a name rather than a target. Oh fuck.
I should shoot him from here. That’s the obvious solution, but it’s too dispassionate and clinical. I can tell when assassinations will haunt me, and this will be one of them. It was doomed from the moment I felt that warm shiver. A bullet is too easy, and I won’t be a coward. So I leave my gun in its holster around my chest and slip out my knife. If I’m going to murder Ian Abernathy, it has to be the old-fashioned way my father taught me: slitting his throat as he sleeps, his eyes flying open to stare accusingly into mine in his last seconds.
I move soundlessly across the room and stand at his bedside, over him. The bed is huge, but I can’t risk putting weight on the mattress, for fear of waking him. Because if there’s one thing that would be worse than how I’ll feel after this job is done, it’s being caught.
He wouldn’t have any more compassion for me than I have for him.
