Chapter Two, IOU
Like a little birdy made of murderous feathers, I perched on the Montana Heights building, fat ass dangling over the edge of the fire escape as I gave passersby a free show.
My gloved fingers gripped the cold metal railing as I studied the window in front of me—the window, showcasing a decently empty top-floor apartment.
One hopefully filled with treasures for my grubby paws to steal.
My hands were, in fact, clean. Dirt made me homicidal.
A lot of things made me homicidal, come to think of it.
But, though I’d been a teeny-weeny bit homeless and jobless for the last few weeks, I washed up almost daily at the local gym or in houses I broke into.
My palms were just stained in the Lady Macbeth way.
And that part of my flesh screamed out for me to get something precious between them.
Something that belonged to a newly crowned mafia don.
As time quickly passed, the night remained still, the noise of Cherry Hill muffled by the height of the building. A faint breeze stirred the air, carrying the scent of the recent summer storm and amusement. Mine, specifically, because breaking into Emilio De Luca’s apartment was laughably easy.
A blind and one-legged toddler could have managed it. Probably while holding a switchblade and a teddy bear. Or whatever the fuck it was kids played with these days. I didn’t know. Pet sperms were not something I fucked with.
The lock on the balcony doors was a joke—standard issue, flimsy, and entirely unworthy of a man who, if whispers were to be believed, was as tempestuous as he was large. And he was very, very, very large.
He was that kind of big—the type that made me want to fight him just so I could get off on the thrill of it. I reckoned he would look extra pretty being pinned down and made to beg for his life by a woman half his size.
I reckoned he’d look even prettier begging for other things, but those were not the kind of thoughts I entertained anymore.
I grinned, the tilt of my head readjusting the lockpick in my hand. This was supposed to be tough. Challenging, even. But no, this was mafia arrogance if anything: locking down the streets, guarding the perimeter, assuming nobody would ever slip through.
Idiots. This was two for two now on De Luca men I’d easily accessed.
Like a fun little mafia-themed Pokémon collection.
I had half a mind to get the whole set. But they’d bred so much I was sure I’d die before I made it through Emilio’s list of siblings, let alone further afield.
There was no chance I could catch ‘em all.
The women needed a hobby. The men needed their dicks chopping off. Either would do.
The lock clicked softly, and I slid the doors open with a minimum amount of noise.
With years of gymnastics coming easily to me, I slipped inside and stepped lightly on the hardwood floor.
My body was already attuned to the silence in the space.
My reflexes dictated holding my blade up in case there was a stray person I needed to deal with.
I paused, waiting. Listening.
Silence. Nothing but the whir of his air con and double-door refrigerator I was definitely going to raid.
The air inside was colder than outside, carrying a faint hint of whiskey and something else. Something clean. Soap, maybe? Detergent? Not the stale musk of smoke and leather I’d expected. I thought mafia men smelled of cigars and misogyny? Not bubbles and clean linen. It was odd. Very odd.
I crouched for a moment, my gaze sweeping the apartment.
The faint glow of a left on lamp showed me the sleek furniture, the sparse decor.
My lips twitched. This wasn’t a home—it was a showroom.
Everything about it was cold, efficient, and impersonal.
The wood-and-cream-linen couch in front of me was aligned just so with the oak coffee table, set on a cream rug.
There was even a fake plant on the table and a massive flatscreen opposite, with a TV that had absolutely no dust on it.
No dust. What the fuck kind of magic was that?
I stepped forwards, inspecting further. There was an oak sideboard pushed against the wall to my left, and the kitchen and island opposite. The concrete counters in the open-plan kitchen were spotless, the only clutter in sight a stray cat toy that lay abandoned near the couch.
A cat toy.
My eyebrows rose. Well, that was a surprise. Was there some kind of monster running around with murder mittens? A ball of fluff and attitude that might let me stroke it or try to slice me up with its claws. Was I meant to kill it if it was violent? Fuck. I couldn’t do that. I was a damn vegetarian.
Besides, I had taken an oath never to kill innocents again. At least, not for a week. Two weeks, tops. My streak was two days long, and I hated to ruin such a long-running thing over something so little.
With a silent sigh, I hunched down low beside the corner of the couch covered with neat orange cushions and tucked a voice recorder beneath the frame. My hands moved in a practiced set of motions—I knew where to put the device so it wouldn’t be found. Not by even a mafia man.
My little brother had taught me all he knew about surveillance before he’d abandoned me for a sister he actually loved.
Not that I was bitter or anything. I was fucking great.
Straightening up, I shook my head and tugged off my combat boots—no point in leaving scuff marks or risking any streaks on the spotless floor a maid definitely cleaned. My black socks made no sound as I moved farther inside, my steps light, as I explored my current target’s lair.
First, I went to the kitchen. The concrete counters were empty but for a cluster of whiskey bottles shoved into one corner.
I frowned, stepping closer to examine them.
Some were half-emptied, others unopened, and one clean glass sat beside them, as if a companion waiting patiently for its next pour.
Too many more lay empty in the trash can near the oven.
Right beside another fake plant with dust-free leaves.
I titled my head, my lips curling into a faint smirk. “Let me guess,” I whispered to myself in my native Russian, “this is your way of coping with the big bad world, isn’t it?”
As I crept around the kitchen, searching drawers for fun, my gaze wandered over to the corner far too often, the bottles sitting like a tease.
They weren’t out for display like trophies, but rather out of sight, almost haphazardly shoved aside.
There was no pride in them, just a quiet, resigned acceptance of a dark vice that had taken root.
Ignoring the flicker of interest in those bottles, I squatted, fishing another tiny voice recorder from my pocket. It was no bigger than a coin, sleek and black, just what would never raise suspicion. My fingers flew as I secured it to the underside of the counter, pressing it firmly in place.
I straightened, letting my gaze sweep the room again. Whiskey bottles ought to have been easily ignored, but there was just something about them, tugging my mind back, like unwanted memories scratching at the edges of my thoughts.
Bottles buried under the sink.
Dinner nowhere to be found again, because the drink was far more important.
A slurred voice promising, “Just one more, Danika. Mommy will only have one more then she’s done.”
I booted those thoughts out. This wasn’t about me, and it definitely wasn’t about Emilio De Luca’s potential alcoholism. There was something a lot more valuable than a man that brought me here.
Well, technically, I was here for a man. But to murder one. Not sit there stroking a mafia dons shaved head, as I promised he didn’t need a shot of golden courage to conquer the world. He could do it with those giant, inked up hands that no doubt melted panties everywhere in a ten-mile radius.
Something small and bright caught my eye as I moved on—another cat toy, its red feathers frayed at the edges. I picked it up between two fingers, turning it over.
Emilio De Luca: cotton candy heart mafia boss, loving cat dad, minor alcoholic. The absurdity of the image made me chuckle under my breath, but the amusement was short-lived.
Death didn’t wait for anything. Even a cute creature with murder mittens.
I dropped the toy back where I found it and stood up, brushing my hands against my jean-clad thighs as I moved to the next spot, down a small corridor.
I wasn’t Emilio’s therapist. I had more important things to be doing than diagnosing his shit and couldn’t afford to get distracted.
The bedroom was as cold and impersonal as the rest of the apartment. The bed was superbly made, the cream sheets tightly stretched, the pillows perfectly fluffed. A wooden nightstand sat either side of it, empty save for one whiskey bottle that sat on its surface and another fake plant.
Clearly his fingers were the opposite of green.
With a yawn, I crouched beside the closest nightstand, sliding the third recorder beneath its edge. My fingers brushed against the cool wood, and for a moment I paused, letting the silence settle as I listened out for any dangers again.
It was almost too easy. No alarms, no creaks, no guards bursting in to drag me out by my hair. Just me and the quiet, methodical rhythm of my work.
Even the cat wasn’t interested in me, and I was a little hurt by that.
I wasn’t that dead, was I? Surely a bit of life was left inside of me that drew some attention?
Surely, the cat thought I was good for a whiff or a spit, whichever it was?
The last recorder went in the study, so that’s the direction I pouted my way. Still no Whiskers. Fluffy. Beelzebub. Whatever some mafia prick felt constituted a decent name for the little tiger that I could not see.