Touch (Devious Mafia Daddies #3)

Chapter 1

Pip

I sat on the edge of the rooftop watching as the men got out of the car. They were dressed the way these idiots always were. Fancy suits, slicked back hair, eyes that promised death and retribution.

None of it scared me.

I was a much bigger threat than they would ever be. After all, they were coming to meet me to handle their problems.

I was the person they wanted to see most.

Two weeks ago, I got a message on the burner phone I kept for odd jobs.

Unknown: 6996. Request.

It was the code I had people send when they were new and in need of services. It worked better for me than them typing “can you help me murder someone” over a line that could one day be compromised.

I waited a couple of days to reply. Didn't want to seem too eager. It had been quiet lately. I couldn't resist taking down the information and researching who was behind the text.

As I built my file on the client, I had another situation come up.

Goddamn pedophiles who wouldn’t stop hurting a little girl who lived next door to the place I’d set up shop for a bit. Her mother had passed away years ago and her father was a piece of shit who didn’t pay attention.

The night I heard her scream for help, I was up and out the door. I collected the men, then had the father contact his buddies.

One hour of poking at them turned into days. Time flew when you were having fun torturing people.

I made sure to get the girl into a safe place with a new family. My contacts were happy to do me a solid favor in return for discounted pricing. I was worth the effort for a judge to rush a ruling about child placement.

After the pedos were given their due, I sat amongst their lifeless bodies and dialed the man who had reached out.

"Hello?"

Bored now that I had no one to play with, I spat out, "You need my services?”

There was no introducing myself or any other kind of small talk. What was the point in that? The man wanted to hire me to commit murder. At least that's what I hoped he was doing. Protection jobs weren't really my bag. Not unless a kill could be guaranteed in the end.

There was nothing quite like blood on my hands. Or the scent of blood filling my sinuses. Ohhh, or coating my clothes. I wanted to be surrounded by the carnage. Needed to see the devastation of others and know that I had caused it.

That would come later, I promised myself. My focus needed to be on figuring out what this guy's angle was and if he was worth my time. My prices were high. I refused to settle for anything less than what I was worth.

"Yes, I am," he finally said after a stupid long pause. "I didn't think this was something we would discuss over the phone.”

I hummed. "Yeah, true, but meeting me in person is a bit of a task. Where are you?"

He immediately replied, "Las Vegas."

My intel had said the same. Good to know he wasn’t lying.

A delight tore through me at the mention of one of my favorite places to be. There was always trouble brewing in Vegas. Always someone needing my expertise. Always money to be made.

“I can be in Vegas in a week. I'll send you the address and time to meet. Don't be late, and you're only allowed to bring one person with you. If I think it’s a double cross or that you intend to kill me, I will murder you on sight. Understood?”

I gave my normal speech. He needed to understand that I didn't take well to betrayal. And I really fucking hated traveling for a job that didn't pull through.

“I understand. I will look for your message."

"Good," I told him. "And Pharrell, I expect you to bring money with you to the meeting. Consider it a good faith measure.”

He cleared his throat. It wasn’t a sound of fear or discomfort like it might have been for anyone else. I hung up the phone without another word. If he had something to say about my demand, he could mention it in person.

I went about planning the time and date that would work best for me.

Questions sped through my mind. Would he show up with money?

Would he have something worthy of building a connection?

Was he just going to be another in a long string of people wasting my precious time?

Could he become an enemy that I got to chase and taunt?

Based on the information I gleaned on his illegal businesses, I knew Pharrell Lyon was a powerful man. A man with access to money. Loads of the stuff.

And I wanted some.

Money kept me going. Killing kept me happy.

If he showed up with funds and I needed to kill him, at least I would get to experience both.

Exactly seven days later, it was time for our meeting.

I recognized Pharrell from the photos I’d seen of him.

He had someone with him. Some pencil pusher if I had to guess based on size alone.

His face was turned in a way I couldn’t make out any features.

Curiosity tugged at me to know who this person was and what kind of importance they held in Pharrell’s life.

They could be an asset to dangle over the man if he fucked up.

The other detail I could make out from my perch was the briefcase tucked into Mr. Mysterious’s side. It was the perfect size to hold just enough money to not offend me.

Trust me, I’d seen enough cases of money to be a good judge of things.

Unless they brought bearer bonds. Which, in that case, I’d probably have even more questions. No one did that shit anymore. It was more trouble than I wanted.

I watched the car, making sure there was no one else behind the tinted windows. When I felt that it was secure enough, I rolled back off the ledge and took the stairs down to the main part of the warehouse.

This was one of those abandoned places that I kept tabs on for special meetups. It wasn't in my name, yet I kinda sorta owned it. It was buried underneath a ton of business entities and legalese. I'd had a friend of a friend—if I could even call my murder buddy a friend—set it up for me.

Memphis Braxton was good at hiding things in plain sight. The fucking computer nerd had shown me a thing or two whenever he helped me get this place in order. I didn’t have his level of skill, but I could definitely hold my own and fuck shit up when necessary.

I couldn't really complain about the space either. It was bare and basic, and in no way linked to my government name.

It also had a drain in the floor. There was nothing I loved quite as much as an easy cleanup space. You know how women loved pockets? Yeah, that was me the second I saw the wide opening dead center of the building. Signing the deed was quick work from there.

What more could a professional hitman ask for?

I whistled as I strolled toward the front. It was a tactic I sometimes put in place to get people anxious. The sound was creepy as fuck when you factored in how messed up the building was. Plus, it told me a lot about a person. Did they cower at the noise or were they curious?

Pharrell Lyon was neither when he came into view.

The man wore a half-smirk. His hands were tucked into his pockets.

I had no doubt that there was at least one weapon on him, possibly more.

While he might have been the head of his faction of the mafia, he was not one to be fucked with.

With his ties to the Russian Bratva through his wife, well, the man knew a thing or two about going head-to-head with powerful people.

“Pharrell,” I greeted him, dipping my head as I dropped onto the sole stool in the room. I would have folded myself on the floor if it wouldn’t have come off badly. Standing was too fucking exhausting right now.

Cleaning up the mess of pedos had taken a while. I didn’t really care about getting caught. I just didn’t want anyone to get to bury the assholes—not that there was much left of them.

The pair stared at me as I got comfortable in my spot.

I could feel them taking in my appearance.

My baggy t-shirt, ripped-up jeans, and scuffed boots were probably not what they were expecting.

Neither was the half-shaved head I had with long hair on one side that had been woven into intricate braids.

It was a new look, okay? I was trying it out.

And it was fun because people immediately looked at me and had questions.

I was the kind of person people would often double glance at but then forget later.

“Just some college punk-looking kid who was roaming around, no threat to anyone.” I'd seen it on more than one police report after I had taken down a target.

“Nice to meet you," Pharrell started, then paused.

I was sure he had no clue what my name was considering I didn't give it out freely. But something about him had me dropping my guard.

Maybe it was the way he stood boldly as if there was nothing to fear. Or it could have been the person with him. Because as I was thinking about whether or not to share my identity, that person stepped further into the dimly lit space. I caught a glimpse of their face, and… fuck me.

If there were ever a perfect collection of features, it would be this guy.

I tilted my head as I stared at him. Screw telling anyone what my name was, or even the pleasantries of what this conversation would be. I needed to know who this man was, and I needed to know now.

I’ve had a weakness for pretty things since I was a child. I also had a weakness for violence, but that wouldn't come until later. Those pretty things of mine would be collected, whether it was rocks or pictures or people.

I learned pretty quickly that the people part was not well accepted by others. Adults were not fans of it. They called it kidnapping, while I just considered it a playdate. An extended one.

After a lengthy pause, the man I couldn't stop staring at hummed. "Your name," he said, in a voice that was meant to intimidate.

I didn't usually let people get to me. They could try to force my hand any which way they wanted, but that wasn't a guarantee. This person, however, was like fuel to the fire inside me.

I wanted to answer him.