“What kind of job is this?” I ask as I sweep my hand back inside the empty mailbox slot to see where the paper with the job instruction is. “There’s no details here, only the cash. What kind of job is this?”
“Stolen goods delivery.”
“For this much money?”
“Are you complaining?” he asks.
“No, not at all,” I say quickly. “It must be pretty valuable.”
“The job is important, and it needs doing. Can I count on your discretion, or should I find another independent to do the work?” I can tell by his voice that he’s losing patience as well.
“My rules are steadfast,” I say to reassure him that the job will get done, as I stuff the envelope of cash into my jacket. I’ve taken the cash, and once I open the instructions, the job is mine and there’s nothing further to discuss. The whole thing runs on discretion—no refusing jobs once they’re read, and no refunds once the job is done. Black and white.
Within a second or two, I hear another paper being slid through the mailbox. I’m thrilled because with pay this over the top, I’m set for months. Whichevercapohired me to do this job must really want to ensure that his merchandise is well taken care of. I stand there and unfold the paper to see what kind of run-of-the-mill stolen goods delivery is garnishing me so much coin, and then I freeze when I read the instructions. “Uh, this isn’t a stolen goods run,” I say. “I think you gave me the wrong job.”
“Did you read the instructions?” the voice asks in an icy tone.
“Yeah, and this is definitely not a contraband run.”
“If you read the instructions then the job is yours,” he says. “Rules are rules.”
Fuck. I’ve been played. I don’t know why or by who, but I know that whatever’s coming next won’t be good. There’s another sound coming through the mailbox and there shouldn’t be. There are always only two things—instructions and payment. I bend down to peek inside the slot before reaching my hand in, and see a gun lying on its side with the hilt toward me. “What’s this?” I ask in a whisper.
“It’s a clean, untraceable gun. You’ll need it to do the job.”
I swallow hard as I try to think quickly on my feet. This is no mafia errand—I’m being hired to act as an assassin, something I’ve never done or even thought of doing before.
“If you’re thinking about backing out—don’t,” the man on the other side of the mailbox warns. He’s right. There’s literally nothing I can do to back out of this now. Refusing a job after the details of the hit have been divulged is certain death.
I stare down at the paper as I hear the man on the other side close the little metal door to his mailbox, then walk out of the store. The name “Gabriel Adami” is sprawled across the page. Leo’s older brother. And now also my assassination target.
2
GABRIEL
It’s the sloppiest hit I’ve ever seen in my many years as a mafia boss. In all of my 31 years of walking this earth, I’ve never seen anyone so fresh attempting to kill someone. Not only did my enemy send a woman to do the job, but a woman who can barely even aim a gun at me without her hand shaking uncontrollably.
“Put down the gun,” I say to her in a calm, commanding tone. The last thing I want to do is freak this girl out more, and have her accidentally fire off and kill us both with a ricocheting bullet that bounces off the concrete walls of my parking garage. To give credit where it’s due, it’s impressive that she was able to get in here. My security detail is either slacking or this woman isn’t half-bad at slinking around.
Her dark eyes stare out at me from the holes cut into her thin black mask. It’s definitely homemade, which tells me that whoever this is doesn’t have much money. Maybe that’s why she’s on this job to begin with. I might not be able to see who she is, but I can definitely see that she’s no assassin. If anything, someone’s made a grave mistake by trying to hire out a cheap hit to some girl in over her head.
She doesn’t say anything in response to me but just stands there, holding her shaking gun in two hands now as she tries to steady herself. If I had more time, I might make this more interesting and draw things out before killing her, just to send a message to whoever hired her when they find her dead. But I had just been heading up to my apartment to attend to an important matter of business, and I don’t have time to play around.
With one swift movement, I thrust my hand out toward the barrel of the gun, grab her wrist, and flip the gun out of her hand. I grab the piece before it falls and accidentally discharges, and stuff it into my pocket while wrapping my other arm tightly around the girl. Then, once I have her confined and pressed against my chest, I pull her mask off to see the face of the failed assassin I’m about to kill. But no sooner do I pull the mask over her head, letting the mass of dark hair cascade over her shoulders like an ebony waterfall, then I see who she is. For a moment, I’m stunned. “Camille?” I gasp. Camille Greco, my little brother Leo’s best friend since grade school. What the hell is she doing here?
While I take a second to try and think through my next move, Camille manages to wrestle away from me and takes to her feet. She runs like lightning from the parking garage, leaving her gun behind in my pocket and her job unfinished. This is entirely reckless, even for her. I’ve heard about her backstory a bit, even though I’ve never spent much time around her myself. I know she’s unprotected and unaffiliated with any of the city’s crime families. She stemmed from one of the most powerful but then she went rogue and is now a lone agent. And I also know that since she’s just failed to complete the hit she was probably paid handsomely to execute, she’s now in grave danger. There’ll be an immediate target on her back now.
Normally, I wouldn’t give a shit. I’d let her run off and let whoever hired her finish the job of taking her out, so that I wouldn’t need to waste any more of my time. But something isn’t sitting right with me as I watch her run off. I don’t know if it’s because she’s my brother’s best friend or that I was caught off-guard by how beautiful she is, even with the look of sheer terror in her eyes when I disarmed and unmasked her. She was unexpectedly frightened when I exposed her, and if I’m being honest with myself, that’s probably the weightier reason why I make the rash decision to run after her.
I catch up with her just as she’s about to dart down into a subway station and manage to grab the neck of her jacket before she descends the stairs. She’s light enough that I can easily pull her between the covered stairwell entrance and the side of the building before anyone sees. She’s also smart enough to know not to scream. She knows as well as I do that I’m not the only one after her now. In the cramped space between the wall and the subway tunnel canopy, Camille’s body presses against mine as I hold her tightly, without the chance for her to escape again. Her eyes are filled with uncertainty as she stares up at me with trembling pupils. I’ve heard all sorts of things about what a badass she is, both from my brother and from random rumors that circulate through the mafia families. Rumors of how she turned her back against her ownborgataafter her parents died. But right now, she doesn’t look all that tough to me at all, as she squeaks out in a panicked whisper, “Please.”
Something inside of me cracks open. I know this girl could very well get us both killed, especially if she was being trailed. And I know that I’m a thousand times more in control of things back on my own turf. The smartest thing for me to do would be to either kill her or toss her back out into the street for the dogs who hired her to descend on her like fresh meat. But instead of following my carefully calculated better judgement like I always do, I react almost as recklessly as she has.
The exact location of the temple is two to three inches behind and slightly above the eye, and the force you use to strike this point on the body means the difference between killing someone and simply knocking them out. It’s a sensitive spot where four different bones in the skull fuse together, and is one of the softest locations on the head. But with just the right amount of pressure, hit at just the right angle with an open palm, it’s possible to use that pressure point to knock someone unconscious without doing too much damage. If one manages to do it correctly, that is. Which of course I can. It is rather painful, though, although not as painful as the bullet she almost managed to put in my head, so I apologize to her in my head in advance. A quick strike, a second of acute disorientation, and Camille’s body falls limp in my arms. I lift her up and try to be as discrete as possible as I carry her back to the parking garage. It’s not a small task to carry an unconscious body through the city without being noticed, but again—gotta love New York.
“She okay?” a guy asks me as I cross the intersection right in front of my apartment building.
I look down to see Camille’s head resting against my chest. She looks like she’s sleeping. “Yeah, just a bit too much to drink,” I answer, flashing my usual charming smile. “At least she passes out instead of retching.” The man laughs and continues on his way.
