Chapter 9 Three Many Hitmen
THREE MANY HITMEN
CALISTA
Ishould have trusted the chill in my bones.
The wind shifts strangely tonight—faster, meaner. And the street feels…off. It’s too quiet. No sirens. No passing cabs. Just that gut-deep hum that says run.
He left me yesterday. I haven’t felt him since.
Was it because I looked for him? Because I waved? Waited.
I quicken my pace, heart picking up with every step. I could be wrong, and there is no one following me. But my instinct is riding me hard. The same instinct that has kept me alive.
Then I hear it. A sound. It’s soft.
Someone is behind me.
Not him. I know his presence now—the heavy silence, the protective weight of it.
This is different. Sharper. Predatory.
I duck into the alley behind a bakery. Not smart, I know. But it’s tight, and I know the exits. I can—
“Excuse me,” someone calls out.
The voice stops me cold. It’s a man. He’s close. Very close.
He steps into view—black coat, gloved hands, dead eyes. His blade flashes silver in the moonlight, smooth and deliberate. He steps toward me, and I can already feel my body preparing to….
Fight.
Flight.
Freeze.
No. I won’t go like this. I won’t die in an alleyway.
I slide my hand into my coat pocket, touch the Glock. He brought a knife to a gun fight. He should’ve been smarter.
It’s false bravado. I’m not that good a shot, and my hands are shaking. He’s a professional killer.
I can already see the headline: Woman killed in mugging gone wrong.
Yes, they’ll make it look like I was robbed. An accident. An unsolved case.
I’m about to pull out my gun when—
There’s a blur of black fabric and violence.
Something slams into the man from behind. His knife skitters across the ground.
A grunt. A thud. Then silence.
It’s him.
He stands between my attacker and me, breathing hard for the first time since I’ve met him.
The man on the ground isn’t moving.
He turns, slowly. “Are you hurt?”
I shake my head. My voice won’t work. My knees almost don’t, either.
He looks at my hand and sees the gun. He gently takes it away from me. I let him. I trust him.
Stupid, I know. But I do.
He tucks the gun away in his waistband.
“That wasn’t a mugger,” I say.
“No,” he agrees casually, like I just told him it’s going to snow later tonight.
“The other man…he was also not a mugger,” I state the obvious.
“No,” he repeats with the same insouciance as earlier. Then he adds, “He was sent to finish what someone else couldn’t.”
My stomach twists, hearing the words aloud. I knew, and yet….
“Who are you?” I ask. It’s time. I need answers.
“Not here.” He takes my hand, but I yank it away.
“Who are you?” I demand.
“Lucian Maddox.”
Lucian Maddox.
I don’t know that name, but it sounds like destiny.
Lucian.
“Now, we must go. You’re not safe here.”
I look at the man on the ground, his blood spreading around him on the snow like a flower in bloom.
“Is he dead?”
“Yes.”
“Why are you—”
He grabs my hand again, this time solid, this time I know he won’t let me pull away. “You’re not safe here anymore. Come with me.”
I stare at him. His eyes are storm-dark.
Run, Calista. Run!
I lick my lips, nod, and step forward. Get closer to him.
He has a car parked not too far away, a black Range Rover. He takes me to it.
It’s warm inside, and I remove my hat and gloves and wriggle out of my coat. I throw them at my feet. It’s not just the car. My adrenaline is spiking.
He drives with effortless ease.
“Why are you helping me?”
“Just say thank you,” he replies insolently.
“How do I know that you won’t hurt me?” I demand.
“Then I’d have already done it.”
True. I shut up for the rest of the way. I know I’m safe.
You think you’re safe with Lucian?
I say his name in my mind.
Lucian. It’s delicious, like dark chocolate, spicy, mysterious, and bitter.
The man could be a killer, Calista.
But he smells so good.
Get your mind out of your vagina.
My mind is on his dick, not my lady parts.
He takes me to Chelsea, past the glassy condos and the art galleries, down streets that gleam even under dirty snow.
We pull into an underground garage.
The gate lifts on a sensor, and Lucian eases the car into a shadowed space between two matte black SUVs. Every inch of this place screams power. It reminds me of the life I left behind in Italy.
The elevator requires a thumbprint. He presses his thumb to the reader, and the doors whoosh open with a quiet sigh. I step inside the elevator because I’m either brave or stupid or already too far gone to tell the difference.
I scan the inside of the gilt box, my gaze catching on the doors as they close. No numbers. No options. Only one destination.
He doesn’t talk. He doesn’t soothe.
I don’t know what to say, so I say nothing.
I can feel a stress migraine coming. I need to sleep. I need to get away from my reality.
The doors open straight into an apartment.
It’s cold, not in temperature but in atmosphere.
“Where are we?” I ask softly as I step into a space that is all clean lines, dark wood, black leather, and a wall of windows overlooking the Hudson, the city beyond, glittering like a seductive trap.
Everything is clean, sterile, and functional—except for the small collection of knives mounted on the far wall, displayed like art.
“My apartment,” he replies.
My heart kicks again, harder this time. I thought he’d take me…somewhere else, but he brought me to his home.
I turn slowly, taking it all in. There’s no mess. No softness. No space for anyone but him…and now, me.
I set my bag on the floor by the couch. He opens a closet hidden in the wall by the front door. He hangs my coat and his.
He turns to look at me as I gaze at him in confusion.
“You’re safe now,” he assures me.
I laugh. It’s a broken sound. “Am I?”
His eyes darken. “Yes. Come, let me show you around.”
There isn’t much to see. An open-plan living-dining-kitchen, a bedroom with a bathroom, a room that is a gym with another bathroom. That’s it. That’s his whole apartment.
There is only one bed, Calista, the witch who lives inside me says, a little gleeful, I think, to share a bed with Lucian.
There is a couch, I counter.
“Sit,” he instructs, and I do at the kitchen island.
“Lucian, do you have any painkillers?”
His eyes widen. “Are you hurt?”
It surprises me to see the concern on his face. He usually shows nothing, but it’s evident he cares about me.
The witch preens!
“I’m getting a migraine. I have a prescription, but it’s at home.”
He nods and then walks away. He comes back a few minutes later, a bottle of pills in hand. He sets it in front of me. The label says: Sumatriptan. It’s the prescription I use.
“How do you have this?” I ask, confused.
He sets a glass of water in front of me. “Take your medicine, Calista.”
A shiver runs through me. It’s the first time he’s said my name. I like the way it sounds in his voice—low, rough, like two packs of cigarettes and a few shots of whiskey ground into gravel.
I swallow two pills.
“Good girl,” he says.
I arch both eyebrows. “I’m twenty-seven. Haven’t been a girl in a long time.”
He chuckles, and his entire face lights up.
This is the most handsome man I have ever seen, and when he smiles? Apparently, I get wet between my legs.