Serial Bangers!

Chapter 1

KIARA

Okay, call me crazy, but I am willing to bet everything I have, even my pet cactus, Spikezilla, that there’s no single view more stunning than the coastline off the South of France.

Nice, in particular. Especially standing at the top of the mountainside in a private estate, overlooking the breathtaking alcove beach below.

Alcove? Is that what they call it? Horseshoe, perhaps? A beach U-turn? I don’t know, either way, it’s the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, until the view is stolen with the impact of a heavy, black boot kicking right between my legs, slamming smack-dab against my precious vagina.

“Ahhh shit,” I screech, jumping back from the man I thought was dead on the patio of his beautiful estate. I clutch my bits and gape at the asshole, my sweet cookie silently screaming in agony. Good God, that hurt. “What the fuck, dude? That was a low blow.”

His only response is to gurgle around the blood he’s currently choking on.

Though that may or may not have something to do with my favorite polished steel, curved double-edged blade that’s currently protruding from his throat.

How it got there is a mystery to me. At least that’s what I’d say if I got caught.

Not that I ever get caught. I’m just that good.

Though apparently not good enough because my vagina was power-rammed by steel-toed boots, but I guess that’s what the South of France will do to a girl.

It’s nothing more than a picturesque distraction.

It leaves the vagina wide open for a railing—and not the good kind.

Letting out a sigh, I crouch down and grab the black ornate handle of the intricate blade and yank it free from its sheath, otherwise known as this corrupt politician’s esophagus, only for the floodgates to let loose and send blood spurting across the courtyard, and more importantly, all over me.

“Damn it. I’m gonna have to get this dry cleaned,” I grumble, pulling away from the dying politician as he quickly finishes bleeding out on the terracotta pavers.

I have a great relationship with my dry cleaner.

He doesn’t ask questions, but he’s definitely curious as to the constant blood stains on my clothes, and this little black corset top has seen way too many incidents like this. But what can I say? It’s my favorite.

After wiping the blade against my thigh, I go to leave when I turn and glance up at the massive home. It truly is beautiful. The epitome of French countryside living, and while I know I shouldn’t, I find myself itching to go inside.

I shouldn’t. I really shouldn’t. And yet . . . I really want to.

You miss all of the opportunities you don’t take, right?

What could it hurt anyway? It’s just a peek.

I won’t get caught. From the research I did, this magnificent property was bought by the family as a holiday home.

The wife visits every few months with their daughter, whereas this scumbag is here every other week, using it as a meeting place for all his shady business deals and women he runs through—women young enough to be his daughter.

No wonder the contract came my way. It was only a matter of time.

It was too easy to lure him here, and now that all is said and done, I don’t see why I shouldn’t take just a quick peek at how the upper class truly lives.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m in no way on struggle street. I’m at the top of my game. One of the best contract killers across the globe, and I get paid handsomely for what I do, but I’m not flashy.

I live in a small apartment, just outside the city limits of LA, where it’s still busy enough to blend in.

I can go out for a run every morning without people asking questions, can stop by my local barista, and have a decent conversation while I wait, and can be my edgy little self without drawing the wrong attention. It’s exactly what I need.

While I can more than afford to purchase a luxury estate in the South of France, all in cash, it’s not my style.

So, what do I spend my money on, you ask?

Black-market weapons. Nothing gets me more excited than a sleek, intricately designed blade with a matching set of brass knuckles and throwing stars.

Fuck, I’m getting hot just thinking about it.

It’s like that feeling as a kid when you’ve been begging your parents forever to go to Disney World, and they finally agree.

Shit. There’s truly nothing better.

Scanning over the massive estate, I take in the location of the cameras, though I don’t need to.

I already have every last one of them committed to memory, but old habits die hard.

I will never stop covering myself in these situations.

No job is worth my life. The second my cover is blown, I’m as good as dead.

But this property . . . fuck.

I’ll keep it quick.

Sticking to the blind spots in this poorly designed security system, I make my way toward the patio doors and slip inside the house, and it’s exactly as I expected, utterly breathtaking.

Polished parquet floors stretch throughout the foyer with soft limestone walls leading up to the high ceilings.

This home is like a fine wine, meant to impress.

It’s luxury that’s endured the test of time, and reserved only for those with the kind of wealth that the rest of us could only ever dream of.

Passing through the kitchen, I take in the Quartzite counters before striding through the array of interconnected living spaces, each one of them effortlessly opening into the next. I’m in awe. It’s absolutely beautiful.

Moving into another massive foyer, I look up to find a breathtaking set of twin staircases that curve up either side of the massive room, their dark wrought-iron balustrades curling and twisting with eloquent designs right to the top, and I can’t help but wonder how much effort had gone into creating this masterpiece, because designs like this simply aren’t made by machine.

These have been custom-made with nothing less than sweat, blood, and tears.

Stepping onto the first stair, I begin the climb to the second floor, making sure not to touch a thing.

This whole property will be swept for evidence the moment old vagina kicker is discovered out on the terrace, and when he is, there won’t be a scrap left to find.

At least, not from me. Perhaps eyes will point toward the three men who were here earlier in the day for what I can only assume was a business meeting, probably working out how to best defraud the system and line their already deep pockets.

Finding the main bedroom, I’m immediately in awe of the views that look out over the mountainside and down to the sprawling ocean below. It’s everything. But it doesn’t hold my attention the way the entrance to the wife’s massive walk-in closet does.

Now, I might not be someone who splurges on cars and homes, but shit, I’m one helluva sucker for designer bags.

It’s like every collector’s wet dream in here. Coats and gowns fill the cupboards, surrounded by every brand of heel under the sun. Boots, strappy heels, pumps, and flats, each sorted by brand and then by color.

Her jewelry is next, and I’m speechless. Who could possibly need this much jewelry? But also, if there’s this much here, I can’t even begin to fathom just what her collection at her main residence looks like.

I go out of my way to stop and steal a new top that isn’t covered in her husband’s blood, before also grabbing a bikini, because why shouldn’t I enjoy a few hours on that gorgeous beach before I leave?

Then, having what I need, I convince myself it’s time to go. But the bags. Fuck me, the bags! They’re stunning.

I find myself pausing when I come past a limited-edition Hermès, my fingers already reaching out, but I stop myself.

I couldn’t, but damn it, I want it. I took this woman’s husband, and sure, that’s going to be rough, but to take her limited-edition Hermès?

Now that’s just crossing the line. Besides, what would I even do with it?

Chuck it in my closet with the rest of my crap?

No, it belongs here in this climate-controlled walk-in where it can be displayed like the shining star that it is.

I can’t take such a beauty away from its home like that, not when I won’t give it the life it deserves.

But I can sure as hell give it a quick sniff.

Besides, with my career, there have been times when I have had to escape at a moment’s notice and leave my life behind, which is part of the reason why I don’t allow myself such luxuries.

I couldn’t bear to leave them behind, but I’d have no choice.

The only thing I’ve ever risked going back for is the absolute love of my life, Spikezilla.

Fuck, I love that cactus.

Leaning into the beautiful Hermès bag, I sink to my lowest of lows and take a deep breath, breathing in the rich leather and desperately wishing that I could run my fingers across it if only for a moment. My knees go weak, and my thighs clench as a heavy pulse thrums deep in my core.

Wait. Am I about to come?

What the fuck is wrong with me?

Pulling back from the bag, I try to remember who the fuck I am. I shouldn’t be in this woman’s closet. I’m a goddamn assassin, for fuck’s sake. I should already be on a jet getting as far away from the crime scene as I can, yet here I am sniffing her bags and spontaneously combusting.

Get a fucking grip, Kiara! You’re better than this.

Shaking off the designer fog, I make my way out of the best walk-in closet I’ve ever dared to set foot in before pausing at the door and glancing back, my gaze lingering on the stunning limited edition.

Letting out a sigh, I share my deepest, most soul-wrenching goodbye. And with that, I turn away and slip out of the room.