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It’s not rocket science to understand the business I’m in.
You don’t need a PhD to comprehend I’m an independent contractor.
I do the dirty work that people want to ignore.
I receive a message.
I check the offer and time frame.
Research comes next.
And then I kill.
Freelance contractor is the technical name.
But in layman’s terms, I’m a hitman.
My Slavic-Italian father is a winemaker in Napoli. His father was a farmer in the same fields my father now owns for his grapes. He’s a good man who hasn’t done anything wrong in his life.
You can justifiably question where the fuck I got the thought or the inclination to become a hire to kill man, but it’s quite simple really.
I was in the right place at the wrong time, or in my case, the right time.
Things happened. People I knew needed a dirty job done without their M.O. left all over it.
Intending to be one job. One turned into two. My reputation preceded me and word of mouth spread like wildfire that I was the man to hire.
I have very little scruples, hardly any morality and I like money.
I enjoy being rich. You could say it’s my second biggest love of my life.
No one likes eating ramen for dinner every day.
Well someone I know does…but I do not.
Everything I do in my life is in excess.
I enjoy being gluttonous and having things that please me.
I won’t apologize for who I am and I don’t deny myself the things I want if it’s in my power to own it.
Nevertheless, there’s specific rules and I live by them to the letter.
These are my own rules and they are:
I never target kids of any kind.
I won’t go after someone’s kid to teach an asshole a lesson.
I’ll target the asshole for free.
I won’t kill Donata because she won the Tiramisu contest last year and Silvia can’t get over it. Bitch, take care of that yourself by poisoning her macadamia cookies. Or fuck Donata’s husband as payback.
Everything else is fair game if the price is right.
Just like a supermodel, I don’t get my arsenal out for less than fifty grand and that’s rock bottom price to retain my time, the real price comes if I accept. I flew to Dubai to deal with a little fraudulent issue an oil tycoon was having. He deposited a cool five million into my account for my ass to get on a plane.
It’s not a bad life.
I might end up in the blazing pits of Lucifer’s fortress, but I’ll do it in good threads and a Cuban cigar in my hand.
Of course I have a day job.
All good hitmen need a front, but that’s my business and only a few people in the whole world know my true self. Sure, people whisper about me. There’s always rumors surrounding who I am and what I can do. But no one truly knows unless I want them to know.
I rarely accept a job in person unless I know and trust them already. Everything I take is over the phone or through messages. There is never a paper trail leading back to my name.
Keep your enemies close and your real enemies closer like you want to bone them.
Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, I adjust the tie before folding down the collar to my crisp white shirt. My own image looking back at me.
I see what everyone else sees.
My Italian roots staining my hair ink black, brushed off my face. Navy blue eyes against my natural tan.
I work out consistently every morning. Have you ever seen an overweight hitman who can clamber up the side of a building because his mark lives on the twenty-ninth floor?
Burgers are nice to eat. Money is better in my bank, so I exercise.
Plus, I like seeing my dick when I look down and not a beer gut. My dick is not happy as I zip up the black pants. It’s the reason we’re getting gussied up in a Dolce and Gabbana tuxedo today.
Business as usual.
Only, today is a little different and it has my rib cage expanding with the amount of breaths I’m taking.
This hit is not the same, in that the mark has proven elusive for far too long.
While I accepted other assignments, this task was dormant in the file and that shit did not sit well with me.
Quitting isn’t in my blood.
It’s the reason I required the big guns to get involved and my fucking gut is on fire for what will happen today.
I haven’t been able to get close enough to the guy.
He’s surrounded by more protection than the Pope.
You would think a crime boss wouldn’t be scared all the time.
But I’ve finally gotten around it.
I hope anyway, or the rest of my goddamn life is going to be miserable.
An hour later I’m sliding into the low slung Maserati GranTurismo in Magma Red. Chosen especially today to arrive at the church across Manhattan. It’s a lavish affair. Already the press are outside. Barriers of security checking invites and wristbands to the guests allowed inside the church.
The prick covered all his security bases.
I tried earlier that week to get a birds-eye view from the roof opposite to keep as plan B. I do my hits with less flare and not with a high-powered rifle that will land my ass on America’s most wanted.
No, this has to be up close and personal.
Choosing my seat at the back of the church, my eyes are razor sharp. The hush comes over the vast crowd of crime families and celebrities alike.
I know my gaze should be with the aging man at the front, standing with his eldest son. The groom is pushing seventy if he’s a day and looks like he’s lived a hard fucking life. Any decent person would feel guilty knowing they’re looking at a breathing dead man. Knowing within a day he’ll be on a mortuary slab, cut open to find out the mysterious reason for his sudden death.
I don’t have guilt and my eyes are trained to the back of the church.
A whirlwind relationship the press claimed to be the romance of the decade.
Former club dancer who met the love of her life only weeks ago is going to become queen to Manhattan’s Vitali boss. The headlines were splashed over the gossip columns this week.
The Vitali family came from Naples decades ago and set up camp in lower Manhattan and the surrounding boroughs. They’re one step down from the actual Cosa Nostra, but it hasn’t stopped them warring with most every crime faction and making deadly enemies.
That’s where I come in.
It was never an ordinary hit that any street soldier could take on. It’s taken careful, methodical planning for far too long and here we are at the end.
Only this job is personal more than most. I feel it in every slow swallow and precipitous heartbeat as the bride enters from outside.
Being orphaned, she’s not escorted by a father. She’s walked down the aisle by Vitali’s consigliere. The raven-haired brat sends a sweet smile to the groom as she sways her hips encased in the Vegas showgirl type white dress, barely hiding her pussy, it’s that short.
The dress looks ridiculous on her, thank god.
My fingers flex. I already know my teeth will ache later because I’m holding my jaw together with sheer willpower to keep myself in my seat and not charge forward.
The church is surrounded with guards wearing designer black.
Even the priest is looking worried.
Why am I so antsy when I’ve done this a thousand times and not broken out in a sweat?
“I love you,” I whisper under my breath as the love of my life walks down the aisle to the man I’m paid to assassinate.
Yeah, that’s why.
My woman marrying this piece of shit crime boss in front of a thousand witnesses and my heart is in a vise within my rib cage.
The ceremony starts.