Chapter Ten
“Fuck!” I explode, hurling the ceramic plate across the kitchen. It shatters as it hits the black tile backsplash and I suck in a deep breath, my hands flying to my face. Why does she make me feel shit? Why does she touch me?
I leave the broken plate where the pieces land, and surge out of the kitchen, passing through the living room and to the stairs that set off to the left of the main entryway. This house isn’t all that big, and I told myself I’d stay on the first floor while I had Emma here.
But I need to get away from her.
It’s nearly dark out now. Thirty-five days turn to thirty-four. She’s been here less than forty-eight hours, and she’s already wrecked my head. What is it about her that bothers me so much? It’s not just that she’s attractive. I know that. I’ve been with women. I’ve killed women who would be considered some of the most beautiful in the world, but Emma has wormed her way into my brain.
And now she’s all I can fucking see.
I charge into my bedroom and slam the door, running my fingers through my hair. She fucking touched my face, and I liked it. I don’t let women touch me when they feel like it. No, sex isn’t like that for me. I take what I want, and I leave. I know I’m a dick, but I don’t pretend to be anything other than just that.
Maybe I do need to get laid.
But the thought of another woman wrapped around my cock has it going soft.
“She’s breaking me,” I mutter as I strip down and start the shower. “The woman is trying to break me.” I turn the lever to hot, the reasoning making my stomach sick. The way she reacted to me down there wasn’t a plot for getting under my skin—and if it was, maybe she’s truly more dangerous than I give her credit for.
I hear a scratch on the bedroom door, and groan, slipping out and swinging it open. “Sorry, bud,” I say to Major. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me today.”
He huffs, glaring at me as he heads for my bed, hauling himself up onto the bed. I shake my head at him, and then return to the bathroom, stepping into the shower.
I wince as the water scalds my shoulders, but I’m desperate to scrub myself free of her. Her fingertips grazing my skin was enough to make me feel as though I handed her my fucking soul down there. Not to mention, now that I know her grandmother’s name, I can start digging into who kidnapped her.
Emma doesn’t know that I don’t know who wants her dead. I have no idea who calls the shots, and the only way I’ve ever been able to find out is through blood, warring my way through hitmen until I find answers. However, there has to be another way, because in order for me to do it that way, I have to fail this job—and I don’t do that.
Washing myself, I rack my brain. I can’t go to Manny to dig. It won’t work. If he finds out that I’m curious, he’ll kill Emma himself…
But that would solve the problem.
However, I know at this point, I want the answers. I want to know why the woman in my basement has to die, and that’s the first time I’ve ever felt that way. I’ve never fucking cared. I press my hand against the tile, leaning my head against my arm.
Never show mercy, Luca, Victor’s voice echoes in my head. You kill them, and you move on. The moment you get attached, you’re setting yourself up for failure.
“You’d be so fucking pissed at me,” I groan, shaking my head as water droplets run down my face. “I’ve already messed this one up.” But I don’t want to fix it. Not yet. Not right now. I still have thirty-four days before I have to end her life.
And I’ll do it.
But my devotion feels weaker than ever. Do I just want to get my dick wet? Or is it the fact that she’s the first person to ever slip out of my grip once I had them? I don’t have the answer, but I intend to figure it out.
I push myself off the wall as dirty, fucking filthy thoughts of Emma slip into my mind. I wanted so badly to bring her lips to mine, to taste her mouth and every inch of her body. I wanted her to writhe against my face while I devoured her pussy in the dark, making her come over and over. Sure, I’d have to kill her, but at least she’d feel so fucking good beforehand.
I shut the water off, ignoring my throbbing cock beckoning me to get off to the fantasy of Emma Nightingale. As much as I know it would feel good, it would only feed my desire for her, and I have more self-control than that.
For now, anyway.
Sliding on a pair of boxer briefs and black joggers, I head for the bed, plopping down beside my brute of a dog. If I didn’t have him, I’d be alone, too.
Maybe that’s why Emma’s getting to me. Maybe it’s the fact that I relate to her loneliness, living in some mansion that might as well be a prison—one that you choose to stay in rather than merge with the outside world.
I reach for the remote and flip on the TV, scrolling to the news. Since taking Emma, I haven’t bothered to check for updates. A woman like her–wealthy, white, and beautiful–should be blasted everywhere. The whole world is going to wonder where she went. However, no news station mentions it.
So, I retrieve my phone from the bathroom and start digging, searching for any signs of her disappearance. Nothing comes up. Not one freaking article. Not one mention on social media. For some reason, it causes me to pause. Out of all the people I’ve killed, every single one of them have shown up on the news within a day.
But the most challenging one of them all, isn’t missed.
The thought is puzzling, considering the financial obligation it is for a man like me to take a life. It’s a costly venture, and usually high profile. I figured Emma was just that. I mean, sure, she never gets out… But I assumed it was the heartbreak from the estranged husband or something.
How long have you been a recluse, Emma?
I want to just hop up, walk downstairs, and ask her. However, I know the more I give into my urge to see her, the more storms I’ll face when it’s time to kill her. Killing wasn’t always easy for me. I wasn’t a born cold-blooded killer, I was made.
“Suck it up, boy!” I hear Victor’s voice screaming in my head. “This is what we do, and you’re gonna do it, too. We aren’t biased. We kill whoever they send.”
I shake it off, confliction burning in my chest. I know I’m a bad man, and I’ve been inclined toward violence my entire life… But I wasn’t okay with killing women—moms, daughters, sisters. Not until he made me. Now, people are just… people.
I don’t discriminate. As the TV plays, my phone begins to vibrate, and I glance down at the pocket screen in my hand. Fuck.
“What’s up?” I grumble into the phone.
“It’s almost nine, and you’re not out with us,” Manny burst into a drunk fit of laughter. “I’ve been going for days, bro. You gotta get out here.”
“Someone has to stay sober,” I say flatly, muting the TV. “You still at The Den?”
“Yeah, and Dezzie is in the mood…”
“Who’s Dezzie?” I ask, as if I actually give a shit, my eyes still focused on the sitcom playing in front of me. I wonder if Emma watches this shit.
“You know, the girl that I’ve been seeing. She’s all pissed off ‘cause I’m out and dude, this coke—”
“Have fun,” I stop him. “I’m not coming out tonight. I don’t feel like it. Besides, I’m a solid two hours out of town.”
“Yeah, so by the time you get here, the party will have just started,” Manny cackles unevenly. “I convinced Jude to come out tonight, too. There’s some bitch here, he’s trying to get with.”
I pause, struck funny by the thought of Jude being concerned with any woman. “Is he seeing someone who works there?”
“Come ask him yourself.”
My shoulders drop. I don’t care that much. “Yeah, just make sure you don’t drive blitzed out of your mind. Call an Uber—but with your burner.”
“Yeah, okay. Have fun with your ginger whore.”
As he hangs up, I bristle. It’s okay if I call her names, but it’s not okay if he does for some reason. Besides, now I’m starting to feel guilty for doing anything uncomfortable to the woman—and I don’t like that at all.
I use the moment as a distraction though, and type Eleanor Nightingale into my browser search bar. Sure enough, a kidnapping comes up. It’s an old article, one that’s been republished for entertainment value. I skim the information, coming up with a foreign name.
Ronaldo Vitalia.
I shrug, copying and pasting the name into the search bar. The only thing that comes up is the same article. It’s fucking useless. I need someone with more insight to look it up. Someone with better tech skills than me.
Fuck.
Navigating my contacts, I scroll to Jude’s contact information and hit the call button. I let it ring a few times, and right when I think about hanging up, the line connects.
“Luca,” Jude answers, the background quiet behind him. “What can I do for you?”
“Where are you?”
“Uh, home…”
“Manny said you were at The Den.”
“Well, I was, but only because my fucking sister has shown up to town and picked up work.”
Uh, okay. Manny is confused.
“Anyway,” I clear my throat. “I need you to look into something for me.”
“You have Manny for that,” Jude sighs. “I don’t—”
“It’s personal,” I lie, sort of, anyway. “It’s just something real quick. I don’t want Manny digging into my personal shit. You know, not with Ivan…”
“Fine. I get it. What’s up?”
I breathe a sigh of relief. “I need you to look into a guy named Ronaldo Vitalia, and just tell me what you can find.”
“Okay. This have something to do with Victor?”
I hesitate, unsure of how much I want to feed that theory. “It might,” I decide to say. “I don’t know. I don’t know what you’ll find, but just let me know when you get a basic rundown. I’ll pay.”
“Huh, okay. You’ve never offered to pay me before for favors.”
“I need you to expedite this. I need it as soon as you can get it to me. I’m working with limited time.”
“I feel like I should ask questions, but I’m going to let this go. I’ll see what I can find for you.”
“Oh,” I stop him before he hangs up. “One more thing.”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t tell Henry.”